Crane (6 page)

7

Ireland

Ireland sniffled and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. There was a killer on the loose—dire matters at hand—yet here she was, standing in a cemetery openly weeping. No, not weeping; that sounds calm and reserved. What she was doing was a hiccupping mess of snot and tears.

“Because this is how normal people respond to a work of art
.” Ireland punctuated her self-chastising with an exaggerated eye roll.

It had started simple
enough, a walk through town to enjoy the beautiful colors of the autumn trees that were hard to find in the concrete jungle of Manhattan. She’d followed a trail, enjoying the crunch of leaves under her feet. The path weaved through town, allowing her to bask in its peace as it led across the back grounds of the Old Dutch Church cemetery.

Th
en she saw her. The Lady in White—according to the plaque at her feet—was another Sleepy Hollow legend. This one being of a woman who died tragically the night before her wedding. After frequent post-mortem sightings of the forever grieving bride-to-be, she was then memorialized in statue form. The stone work was a thing of disturbingly tragic beauty. The long, flowing gown she never got the chance to wear had been carved in stone as her permanent garb. A chapel length veil was draped over her head, its blusher parted in the middle to reveal only the center of her face. The remainder of her seemed to be concealed by a shroud of despair.

Tentatively, Ireland stretched out her arm and let the tips of her fingers trace over the cold, rough stone of the woman’s face. There was something so familiar about
the peaks and plateaus of her features. Although it didn’t make a lick of sense, Ireland half expected the nameless girl’s given name to roll from her tongue.

“Maybe she rem
inds you of
another
stone person that you formed an unnatural attachment to.” Ireland laughed through her tears, causing an incredibly unattractive snort she was thankful she was alone for.

Physically shaking herself out of this onslaught of lameness, Ireland shoved her hands into her pockets and crossed the grounds back toward the sidewalk at a steady gait.
“Don’t look back, Ire. You might see a cherub angel tombstone and lose your shit … again.”

Mother Nature waved her hand, adding
a touch of dusk’s violet haze to the sleepy town. Already the residents of Tarrytown were settling in for the night. The low hum of traffic and the occasional chirp of early rising crickets provided a serene soundtrack for her stroll home. Why, then, was this peaceful hush causing Ireland’s heart to pound in her chest like a caged animal desperate to escape?

Suddenly,
Ireland jerked ramrod straight, her head snapping one way then the other, scouring the landscape for … something. Her brow creased, sweat dampening her palms. Was that her heart beat? Had it escalated to the point of audible? No. That incessant thump, drumming its way closer by the second, was coming from … everywhere.

“
Holy hell, those are hoof beats,” she murmured to herself.

They echoed
all around her, bouncing off each tombstone to tease and taunt her. Ireland considered herself a skeptical person. If she didn’t see it with her own eyes, she had a hard time believing it. Yet, phantom hoof beats in the wake of the discovery of a headless corpse was enough to make a believer out of her. She jogged the remaining distance to the exit, feeling the burning need to be
anywhere
but the cemetery immediately, if not sooner. As the ornate cast-iron gate squealed open under her grasp, Ireland crouched behind it and peeked around the side.

“
Jinkies, Daphne, there doesn’t seem to be anything there,” Ireland joked at her own expense, then exhaled a shaky breath and forced herself to step out onto the sidewalk.

From behind her came
the sharp crack of hooves finding pavement. Bothersome bangs fell into her eyes as Ireland whipped around, a gasp frozen on her lips. Around the bend came a snow white horse pulling a carriage. The couple in the back were lost in each other’s arms, while a rather uncomfortable looking driver pretended he couldn’t hear the noisy smacks and slurps of their kisses. The horse peered Ireland’s way as it trotted past, its ears perking with interest.

Ireland let out
a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding; her glib commentary effectively silenced. Turning on shaky legs, she started her trek home, forcing herself to maintain a slow, calm pace despite her deep desire to sprint home like a dog with its tail on fire. With each calm, measured step she whispered to herself that everything was okay.

It was just the carriage … just the carriage.

She was doing a good job convincing herself, too. Her heart rate slowed out of the red zone and she
had been able to resume regular respiratory function. A small voice in the back of her mind picked that moment to inject a bothersome piece of trivia she’d purposely chose to overlook.

T
he carriage horse rounded the corner in a steady flat-foot walk. What you heard was a thundering gallop.  

“You know you’re being nutso, yet you continue to walk.” Ireland indulged herself in a douse of self-belittling as she stomped down the rickety basement stairs. She had every right to be annoyed. She’d been home for two hours and had spent that time nervously pacing from the endorphin remnants of her adrenaline rush.

The key pad was down there somewhere and her
latest crazed notion—the pot of chamomile tea had been a complete bust—was to chase away her lingering chills with a little peace of mind. Maybe by resetting the code, clicking the deadbolt into place, and possibly hiding under her bed, she could finally get some sleep and
not
go to work tomorrow looking like a zombie.

The
old basement had that standard damp and musty odor. Ireland yanked the cord over her head, causing the bare lightbulb to swing and cast long shadows through the darkness. Her gaze scoured the floorboards overhead for another light, but didn’t spot one. Thankfully, she’d had the forethought to bring a flashlight. Clicking it on, she shined a blue-tinted circle on to the dank walls as she turned in a slow circle at the base of the stairs. No need to venture any farther into creep-dom than absolutely mandatory. To her left, next to the water heater and an old set of shelves holding dusty paint cans, she spotted the control panel.

“One, two, one
, five. One, two, one, five,” Ireland chanted the reminder as she scurried over on tiptoes. She mimicked Noah’s deep tremor while acting on his instructions. “Code, reset, code again, then zero, four, two, two and …”

“System armed
,” a robotic female voice assured her.

“Thank you
, Security-bot. When the rise of the machines comes, you will be the last I termin—” Ireland’s sentence trailed off. A soft, glowing diamond of light appearing on the floor by her foot. She turned, following the flickering beam to the crevice in the wall it appeared to be cast from. Without thinking, or hesitating in the slightest, Ireland squatted down to investigate. Maybe it was coming from outside? A crack in the foundation allowing light from an outside street lamp to seep in? That theory quickly disproved itself when she peeked inside. It was a separate room with stone walls just like those around her. It couldn’t be a utility room, the furnace sat behind her, humming and occasionally clanging like a flatulent old man.

Ireland rose to her feet
, brushing off the grime from the walls on her hands, and peered down the length of the wall. She expected to find a door to a fruit cellar she’d overlooked. There was nothing to see except stone and dirt. Her slim shoulders rose and fell in a casual shrug, her interest in this mystery quickly fading. As one final gesture of defeat, she raised her foot to block out the light with her toe before giving up and retreating upstairs. That light touch was all it took to set off a chain reaction. The point of impact deteriorated, causing a few rocks around it to do the same. Ireland jumped back, covering her nose and mouth with the crook of her arm as a small cloud of dust and debris mushroomed out from the wall. The mess settled quickly, pulling back its thick curtain of unbreathable air to unveil a gaping hole about a two foot by two foot diameter.

Ireland
pursed her lips and cast a longing gaze up the stairs. Oh, how she wanted to run up there, call Noah the Handy Man, and make this
his
problem. Unfortunately, she already knew she wouldn’t. Stupid, blind inquisitiveness would insist she investigate.

“You know what this same type of curiosity did to the cat,” she grumbled to herself as she
squatted and shone her flashlight into the room, no bigger than the fruit cellar she thought it to be. “It got it trapped forever in a dank, dark room never to be heard from again.”

Ireland paused, contemplating her own war
ning, then curled into a ball and shimmied through the cramped opening. “I seriously need to work on my decision making skills.”

A fit of coughs
hit the moment she sucked in her first breath of stale, stagnate air. The strong fruity odor gave weight to her theory of what this space had been used for. Gradually she turned, illuminating each wall with her flashlight until …

All the air was forced from her lungs
, leaving her gasping. On a ledge notched out of the wall, a candle burned, its wax just beginning to melt and streak down the sides. Someone had very recently lit that, which meant …
she wasn’t alone
.

Fear rooted her where she stood. One turn, or glance in the wrong direction
, and she ran the risk of see something move behind her that would make her bladder fail and every horror movie she’d ever watched come to life.

“Hello?” Ireland called out in a breathless squeak. If anyone actually answered
, there was a high likelihood her heart would leap from her chest, give her a quick nod, and scurry off to save itself.

To her great relief,
silence was her only answer.

She forced her
lead feet forward, closer to the flickering candle. Melted wax puddled at the top of it then trickled down the sides, cutting through dust nearly an inch thick. Mason jars lined the shelf beside it; some empty, some holding canned fruits and jams. A few were even labeled moonshine. Regardless, all of them were covered with a dense layer of grime. Whoever had been here hadn’t stayed long enough to disturb anything. Slightly more reassured, Ireland exhaled and allowed herself to poke around and investigate.

Her lip curled as she stepped over the ugliest garden statue she’d ever seen in her life. “Because who doesn’t want to highlight their landscaping with a
concrete, sleeping hobo? There’s a reason they hid your ugly ass in the basement, dude.”

Shaking her head,
she moved on to an old trunk in the corner. It creaked beneath her hands as she forced the lid open. Inside were the kind of old clothes museums would pant over: long, flowing dresses with intricate bodices, hooded capes fastened with buttons formed into family crests, thick wool dress uniforms that Ireland guessed dated back to the Revolutionary War. All antiques, all in pristine condition. Yet, they filled her with the same sorrow that the statue had—only minus the unexplainable rush of water works. Feeling as though she was scavenging graves, she shut the lid and laid a hand against it in silent apology.