Page 48 of Hollow
“We saw a horseman,” I fill in. “A headless horseman.”
“The Hessian,” Famke’s voice rings out, and we turn to see her standing in the doorway to the house, wringing her hands together. “It’s the Hessian.”
“Who is the Hessian?” I ask.
My mother holds Famke’s gaze for a moment, something unreadable passing between them. Then she looks back to me, her forehead wrinkled. “The Galloping Hessian of the Hollow. He’s a ghost, a spirit of a man who died during the Revolutionary War. Was decapitated by a cannon. He’s the legend of Sleepy Hollow.”
“I’ve never heard of him before now,” I say. I glance at Crane briefly. “Neither has he. Doesn’t sound like much of a legend.”
“He hasn’t been seen in fifty years,” my mother says. “There were stories about him aplenty when I was growing up.” An odd look comes over her face. Her eyes seem brighter, like this whole thing excites her. “I’ll have to tell the Sisters.”
Strange that she calls them the sisters and not her sisters.
“Why?” Crane asks. “Because the horseman came from the direction of the school?”
“Yes,” she says, pressing her hands together. “Perhaps you opened a window with your ritual. The Sisters should know. If the Hessian starts to kill again, they may be the only hope to put him back where he belongs.”
“Excuse me?” Crane says incredulously, his brows shooting up. “Kill again?”
I look to my mom with an equally bewildered expression. “What do you mean kill again? He’s killed before?”
“Ja,” Famke says, still hanging by the door and looking around nervously. “They say he cuts the heads off people he meets in the night.”
“They say, or he actually does?” Crane asks. “Because fact over speculation is of the utmost importance here.”
“And he didn’t chop off our heads.” I push at mine as if to demonstrate it’s still on my neck.
“Speculation,” my mother says patiently, giving Famke a warning look. “Don’t listen to her.”
“No, but it’s true,” Famke refutes. “I was a child when it happened. You wouldn’t remember, Sarah. You were too young.” She looks to me and Crane. “It happened when my family arrived from Holland. I remember that one of the clergy at the church had gone missing. No one knew what happened to him. And then the killings started. Two of the other clergymen were discovered with their heads missing, one in Wiley’s Swamp, the other in Hollow Creek beneath the bridge.”
Crane makes a face. “Charming little town you have here. You left that out of the brochure.”
“So then he’s back,” I say. “What does that mean?”
“It means the both of you will stay here tonight. Crane”—she nods at him—“you can have the guest bedroom. Katrina, you’re sharing my bed tonight.”
“Whatever for?” I say as she puts her hand on my shoulder and ushers me toward the house. I would have been a baby the last time I slept with my parents.
“This whole thing has me frightened,” she whispers. “And I am feeling weak. I don’t wish to be alone.”
Oh. Well, I can’t refute that. I look at Crane over my shoulder, but he’s staying behind with Snowdrop, stroking her neck.
“I’ll put her away in the stable for you,” he says and starts leading her along the side of the house, and I mouth my thanks.
“You could have been nicer to the professor,” I whisper to my mother as we step into the warmth of the house. It smells like honey, woodsmoke, and spices.
“Why should I? He’s the one who broke the rules. Be glad I’m not making him sleep in the barn.”
“What happened to all the things you said last week about being intimate with him? You were encouraging it.”
She gives me a sharp look. “Do you need the tea?”
“No,” I hiss at her as I start taking off my coat. “I haven’t…we haven’t…there’s no need.”
She leans in and peers at me closely, then grabs my chin and moves my face around. “Are you certain? Because there’s certainly a change in you, Katrina.”
“I’m certain.”