SleepyHollow2BookBundle (38 page)

Some said that the full moon roused the inhabitants of the spirit world, and the harvest moon even more so. The headless horseman had already proven that he didn’t need a lunar invitation to appear and cause mayhem, but the reddish orb hanging low in the sky caused a shiver to race down John’s spine anyway. In this light, he’d be able to see the horseman easily, to watch Hell bearing down on him in perfect clarity. He would have preferred a moonless night and the embrace of darkness.

Torben snorted loudly when they approached the edge of the woods, but that was all right; they’d left Brom’s property behind, and no one would hear them here. He breathed a sigh as they entered the wood, where the shadows blocked out most of the moonlight. His heart beat in double-time, and Torben quickened his pace, trying to break into a canter. John held him back – wasting Torben’s energy would be a terrible mistake. So they trotted on, and John scanned his surroundings for any sign of a ghostly rider.
 

The mottled moonlight that filtered through the thinning canopy made it difficult, playing tricks on his eyes that made his heart leap into his throat more than once. When the horseman finally appeared, John felt foolish for having jumped at mere shadows – there was no denying the identity of the being before him, and certainly no mistaking it for an illusion made of moonlight and darkness.

Perhaps the harvest moon really did lend spirits strength, for the horseman appeared as solid as flesh and bone. But the fact that his horse’s hooves hovered several inches above the ground evidenced his otherworldliness, along with the empty space where his head should have been and the feeling of stark, cold terror that struck John as he stared for several long moments. He could feel the horseman’s non-existent eyes on him, just as he had before. The fiend’s stare cut to the core of his being, making him feel as if he’d been doused in icy water. Then Torben neighed shrilly and reared, hooves lashing out at the night air. John squeezed the saddle tightly between his thighs and let the reins hang loose, giving Torben his head so that he was free to turn and bolt back in the direction they’d come from.

Torben’s hooves thundered against the earth, and a sheen of sweat appeared on his dark coat, gleaming in the moonlight despite the coldness of the early October night. John let him run and listened intently for the sound of racing hooves behind him. It was there, and he dared to look over his shoulder, where the horseman was in hot pursuit. It had worked – God, he was really galloping for his life with the headless horseman on his tail. It felt almost surreal, even though he’d planned for this and had felt the horseman’s touch once before.

The horseman bore down on John, his unearthly mount’s legs flying faster than Torben’s. When John felt the first breath of deathly cold on his neck, he pulled one rein with all his might, laying his right leg hard into Torben’s side. The horse turned in a spray of earth and sweat, and then they were riding for the edge of the woods, toward the bridge, just as John had planned. Hooves thundered behind them, and John thought a desperate prayer as he struck Torben across the hindquarters, urging him to give the run all he had:
please, God, let this plan succeed, even if it costs me my soul
.

Torben surged ahead and the cold kiss of death was gone from the back of John’s neck; the night air, which had seemed cool before, was warm in comparison. He began to perspire as he leaned forward, asking Torben for even more speed.
 

John’s heart leapt when the bridge came into view. The coldness was touching his neck again, and a cloud of frigid fog was swirling from behind, its tendrils curling around him, practically freezing his legs to the saddle. But the water was running beneath the bridge, silver in the moonlight. The horseman wouldn’t be able to cross it – hopefully.
 

John didn’t dare risk turning to look back, but he felt the deathly swipe of fingertips against his collar and leaned forward, pressing himself against Torben’s neck. He didn’t have to urge Torben forward; the horse was running for all he was worth, and if they’d been competing in any sort of earthly race, they would have won first prize. He breathed in the homely smells of horse, sweat and hay, savoring their ordinariness and the way they reminded him of Brom. He would probably die with those scents in his nostrils, and he found that he didn’t mind. With one last deep breath, he pulled in the reins, leaning backward and putting every last bit of his strength into the dual tasks of stopping his charging mount and managing to remain seated as Torben tossed his head and stumbled, screaming a horse’s high-pitched scream.

The fact that he’d surprised Torben probably had more to do with his success than his strength, but the stallion skidded to an awkward halt, stopping at the edge of the bridge. With his heart in his throat and his stomach keeping his toes company in the stirrups, John managed to get Torben to turn halfway around. He twisted in the saddle, facing the headless horseman.

Though he’d made every effort to steel himself mentally for the sight of the headless specter, there was no denying the sudden wave of terror that threatened to choke him, or the stiffness of his limbs. He forced himself to move, fumbling at his waistcoat, awkwardly reaching beneath it as the horseman reached for him with one large, gloved hand. It was just like last time; fingers that were as cold and hard as steel wrapped around his neck, cutting him off from precious, life-sustaining air. He tried not to think about the painful pressure around his throat or the burning in his lungs as he withdrew a small object from his waistcoat, fumbling and nearly dropping it as he fought to conceal it in his fist for just one more second. A moment was all he needed – that and a pinch of luck, or perhaps the hand of God… Random or divine, he’d take any help he could get.

The object was hot against his sweaty palm, a stunning contrast to the cold that surrounded him, which was severe enough that it probably would have choked him even if the headless horseman hadn’t been doing so already. His teeth tried to chatter, but the viselike hand around his neck prevented his jaw from moving much. As he thrust his fist out, toward the horseman, the bones in his neck creaked and pressure mounted behind his eyes. His old bruise twinged in protest of being covered with a new one. Fog billowed around the horseman, so thick it weighed down John’s limbs, making his task more difficult. Still, he could succeed – he had to, even if he used his last fleeting moments of life to do it. That hope fueled him as his lungs burned, the pain so intense he thought they might burst. How long could he last with busted, useless lungs – how long did he need to last? Only a moment, until—

No! Though he was beyond any hope of speaking, the word rang in his mind as the horseman jerked him out of the saddle, holding him aloft by the neck like a ragdoll. The precious object slipped from between his fingers and was lost to him as he hung, his bones groaning under the intense pressure, his lungs on fire.
 

Oh, God… This was it. The last thing he’d ever see would be the horseman’s broad shoulders and the space above, that terrible emptiness where a head should have been. Would the horseman take John’s head for his own after his death, which was surely only moments away? No, he shouldn’t think about that. If he only had a moment left to live, he should spend it thinking of those he loved, not fearing the inevitable. He tried to close his eyes, to devote his thoughts to Brom and Katrina, but it was impossible; his eyes were bulging too severely to close. He was forced to spend his dying moments staring back at the headless horseman, his eyes fixed on the place where the fiend’s should have been.

At the last possible moment before John’s bones crumbled and his eyes burst, the horseman relinquished his hold, and John fell, unable to brace himself as he hit the ground with a teeth-rattling impact. His lungs burned worse than ever as he drew his first desperate breath, holding on to life as the horseman swung out of the saddle, his boots sending up a cloud of dust as they touched the ground.

Perhaps nothing should have shocked John at this point, but the sight of the horseman dismounted and standing on solid ground did. After a moment of staring with aching, watering eyes, he regained his senses and forced himself onto his hands and knees, scrambling frantically, his fingers combing the earth. There was still a chance, however small – there was still hope, and it made his heart pound so fiercely that its beating was all he could hear…until the horseman laughed.

The laughter was deep and guttural, with a rasping edge, like the scrape of long-dead leaves against dry earth. It came from all directions, rushing through the trees and radiating from the edges of the forest on each side of the trail, so sonorous that John felt the vibrations in his breastbone. There was no doubt that it belonged to the horseman – the devil’s chest rose and fell with it as he strode forward, taking a deliberate step toward John.

John doubled his efforts, groping desperately for his lost treasure, his only hope.

“Fool,” an unearthly voice rumbled, causing what leaves were left on the trees to tremble and fall in a rain of decay. “Only a fool would deliver himself into the hands of death.”

It struck John that the horseman considered himself death, that he did indeed intend to reap John’s soul, to separate it from his body and end his earthly existence. Just as John had suspected – no, just as he’d known. He’d bridged the gap between suspicion and surety when he’d felt the cross burning warm around Katrina’s neck, when its touch had soothed her trembling, keeping the sickness that threatened to take her at bay. As leaves swirled around him in a blinding array, his fingers touched something other than dirt and small pebbles. At last.

He seized the leather strap of the crucifix and wound it tightly around his fingers, determined not to drop it again, no matter what. No sooner had he done so than something collided sharply with his shoulder, sending him flying onto his back.

His head bounced off the packed-dirt trail and spun as the last of the fallen leaves fluttered to the ground, affording John a clear view of the horseman towering over him, one boot planted firmly in the center of John’s chest. The pressure was so great that he could hardly breathe, let alone escape, but that didn’t matter. The crucifix was unnaturally warm inside his tight fist, and that was the only important thing.

“Suicide,” the unearthly voice rumbled, causing the bare branches to shake and the ground to tremble beneath John’s back. “That’s what this is. Just like the first time.” The horseman bent at the waist, pinning John to the ground with even more pressure as he leaned down and wrapped a hand around John’s neck, inciting a familiar pain. Just when it seemed John’s sternum would snap beneath the heel of the horseman’s boot, it was gone, and John was in the air again, hanging from the horseman’s hand, hurting, choking…

“I prefer suicides.” The very air seemed to shake with this proclamation, and the tiny reverberations intensified John’s pain. “There’s something…gratifying about watching souls deliver themselves to me like gifts, decorated with their lifeblood by their own hands.” The pressure around John’s neck tightened impossibly, and it took every last bit of his willpower and scrap of his energy to slowly raise his arm, still clutching the crucifix as if it were the last thing in the world that mattered – because at that moment, it was. “It’s almost a shame when I must deliver them to Hell.”

 
As the horseman’s morbid words rang in his ears, John managed to seize the horseman’s extended arm with one hand, and worked as quickly as he could, eager to be done with his task before the frighteningly solid specter realized that John was doing more than just trying futilely to fight him off. The crucifix’s leather strap was long enough to fit around a man’s neck – or forearm. John wrapped the leather around the horseman’s arm and brought the cross through the loop, pulling it tight.

 
For a moment nothing happened, and he began to despair as black motes danced in front of his eyes, threatening to blind him. The horseman continued his monologue, his terrible voice enveloping John with mocking words. “But that’s what you want, isn’t it? To flee this place, this life – to escape to Hell, where the flames and screams of torment will be so much sweeter than your earthly woes?” He laughed, so loud that John’s entire body vibrated with the sound, and he thought he might be deafened. “Far be it from me to deny you your dying wish.”

 
John was more aware than ever that his lungs were burning with the need for air and his vertebrae were surely about to crumble. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the snap of bone. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Why wasn’t the crucifix affecting the horseman as it had last time? It had burnt hot in his hand; now it hung uselessly from the horseman’s arm, as if it were a testament to the strength of the fiend’s evil. There would be no escape for John. Of course, he’d realized that death was a strong possibility when he’d set out and had been willing to make the sacrifice, but… He had hoped. Hoped to return from this nightmarish venture, to see Brom and Katrina again.
 

A scream shattered his thoughts, startlingly loud and terribly tortured, and just like that, the pressure was gone from around his neck. He gasped for air and opened his eyes as he crashed onto the ground, unable to look away from the sight before him.
 

The horseman trembled, one hand spasming as his other arm – the one with the crucifix looped around it – hung limply at his side. The fog that surrounded him was rapidly fading, revealing everything. As John gaped, he was frozen against the ground, whether from the cold or sheer terror, it was impossible to know. He remained perfectly still as the horseman convulsed, emitting the terrible scream that rushed from all angles, filling the night. The crucifix swung wildly from his arm, and he dropped to his knees and began to grope frantically with his opposite hand, trying clumsily to loosen the strap. But he failed, his shaking too violent, his gloves too thick. As the scream continued, climbing higher and becoming more unearthly, John’s sense of reason returned, and he scrambled to his feet.