I didn’t care if it was watching. I didn’t care if Brom found out I’d acted like a coward. I ran, because I wanted to live another day and I was absolutely sure that if I stayed there another moment that I wouldn’t.
The sheep did not scatter as I approached, as they normally would have. They stayed pressed against the fence in one great flock.
They know, too. They know it’s still out there. They’re afraid that if they move they will draw its attention, that the thing hiding in the copse of trees will return for them.
I clambered over the fence, heedless of my dress, and fell gracelessly into the dirt on the other side. Somehow I managed to stand again and run toward the house.
It was darker than I’d realized now, the shadows blue and long. The kitchen door opened and warm yellow light spilled out, followed by a slender, small silhouette. Katrina. I’d never been so happy to see her.
I ran toward her, unable to respond, my voice snagged on the fear choking me.
She saw me then, and I didn’t need to see her face to know she was annoyed. “Where have you been? You need to practice piano before supper . . .”
She trailed off as I came into the light and she saw the tears in my dress, the dirt on my hands and face.
“For the love of . . . You only just took a bath, Bente! Look at the state of you!”
“There was—”
“What’s the point of dressing you at all?” she raged. “I ought to make you go about naked so I won’t have to go to the trouble of having new clothes made. And nobody’s going to drag hot water up the stairs for you again today. You’ll have to wash in cold.”
“But there’s—”
“I told you before that you need to stop acting like a wild animal, and you turn around and do the exact thing I asked you to stop doing,” Katrina said.
She reached for my ear, ready to grab and twist and drag me into the house past all the kitchen staff so that I would be humiliated. I was already much taller than her, and it only worked because I’d always allowed her to do it. She was my grandmother and she’d raised me, and I’d always thought it best not to push my rebelliousness too far.
But now I was frightened and, yes, a little angry, because she never let me speak when I wanted to, because she was always chastising me for being myself, because any fool could have seen that I was upset and she didn’t care—she only cared about my torn hem and the dirt on my hands.
So when she reached for my ear I pulled away so she couldn’t touch me, and her eyes widened in shock and fury.
“You little—” she began.
I cut her off. “There’s a dead sheep out in the paddock and Opa needs to come right away.”
“That’s no excuse for—”
“Right now,” I said. “I’m not going in until he comes out. Something’s happened.”
Some quality in my face or voice finally broke through her rage. She narrowed her eyes at me for a moment, then said, “Eliza, go and fetch the master.”
Brom would no doubt be at work in his study, his jacket removed and his sleeves rolled up, hunched over sheets of parchment that detailed the various concerns of farm life. Katrina and I didn’t speak while we waited for Brom. She was gazing at me speculatively, as if she’d never seen me properly before. I stared back, unwilling to be the one who broke and looked away.
I heard Brom before I saw him, heard the low rumble of his voice and the heavy tread of his steps. Everything about Brom—not just his laugh—was like an approaching thunderstorm. You heard the noise in the distance and then suddenly he was upon you.
He put his hands on Katrina’s shoulders and looked curiously over her head at me. “What’s the matter, my Ben?”
I felt the terror then, the terror I’d been swallowing ever since I saw the shadow bending over the dead sheep. But the servants were peering avidly at us through the door, not bothering to disguise their curiosity, and I wasn’t about to show fear in front of all of them. And not in front of Katrina, either.
“Can I speak with you a moment outside? You should bring a lamp,” I said, and I was very proud of the way my voice didn’t tremble.
It was so important that I show Brom that I was brave, the way he was. It was so important that he didn’t see me as a foolish little child.
Brom cocked his head to one side, giving me his puzzled dog look.
“The sheep are upset,” I began.
Katrina broke in. “Did you get your grandfather out of the study for this nonsense? Now is not the time to be worried about the sheep’s moods.”
I knew she loved me, she really did—and maybe I loved her, too, somewhere deep down, squashed underneath my resentment. But sometimes she made me so angry.
Brom read my face before I said something I’d regret later. “Now, my love, let’s give Ben a chance to explain.”
“Opa, can you just come with me? There’s something I want to show you.”
Brom seemed to decide it was best for me to get clear of Katrina before a war began between us, so he said, “I’ll get a lamp,” and disappeared into the kitchen.
Katrina and I waited, glaring at one another, each of us ready to snap at the least provocation. I decided I wasn’t going to be the one who did the provoking. I, at least, would take the high ground.
Brom returned, gave Katrina a polite, “Excuse me, my love,” and slipped past her, holding the lit lamp aloft. As soon as Brom joined me, I forgot about Katrina. The only thing that mattered now was what lay in the sheep paddock beyond.
It was almost full dark now, the sky the deep blue-black of early evening. Once we were out of Katrina’s earshot I explained to Brom about the strange behavior of the sheep, and the corpse I’d discovered in the field that was missing its head and hooves.
He gave me a sharp look when he heard that, a look that became sharper when I thoughtlessly said, “It’s just like Cristoffel, isn’t it?”
“What do you know about that?” he asked, in a tone much sterner than he usually used with me.
Before I answered, he shook his head and said, “Never mind. Katrina said you’d been playing in the woods. You weren’t by any chance with that Smit boy, were you?”
“Him? Of course not.” I tried to inject as much scorn as possible into my voice when I said this, but I was a little breathless. Brom took long strides, and I had to jog to keep up.
“Good. His father is a foolish bigot and he’s training his son to act in his image.”
For a moment I thought I’d get away without being told off. Then he added, “We’ll talk about Cristoffel and just what you were doing in the woods later.”
I grimaced. Katrina was sure to find out, and then I’d be in for it. He caught my expression in the lamp’s glow.
“You’re not in trouble, Ben,” he said, and laughed. “Whatever you did, I’d be a liar if I said I wouldn’t have done the same at your age. Or worse, probably. But there’s, well, there’s something else afoot, and I don’t like to talk about it out here where anyth—I mean, anyone can hear.”
We’d reached the sheep paddock by then, and I gave Brom a curious look. I was certain he’d been about to say “anything,” not “anyone.”
But that’s ridiculous. Brom doesn’t believe in spirits and ghosts like everyone else in the Hollow.
Brom raised the lamp high and took in the huddled flock.
“Whatever is the matter, my babies?” he cooed. “Did something frighten you?”
Normally the sheep bleated happily and crowded around Brom the moment he appeared, but that didn’t happen this time. One or two let out low, nervous sounds, but they didn’t shift or break out of their huddle.
“Where did you say you saw the dead one, Ben?”
I pointed. “On the far side of the paddock, close to the trees.”
Brom swung his legs over the fence, one and then the other. I climbed on, ready to follow, but he shook his head.
“No, you stay here, Ben.”
My face flushed. I was sure he wanted me to stay because he thought I was scared, and I was annoyed because Brom didn’t usually act like that.
“I’m not afraid,” I said.
“I know you aren’t,” he said. “But whoever hurt that sheep might still be out there. I don’t want any harm to come to you. I lost your father. I don’t want to lose you, too.”
Brom almost never talked about Bendix this way. He told happy stories, funny stories, like he was trying to implant a memory of the father I’d never known. It gave me a little pang to hear him so melancholy.
“I’ll be all right,” I said. I couldn’t stand the idea of being left behind to wring my hands, no matter what Brom’s reasoning. “Anyway, why should you go out there alone if it’s dangerous? You ought to have me to look out for you. Besides, I don’t think whatever killed the sheep is out there any longer.”
Brom narrowed his eyes, but I couldn’t read his expression.
“Why would you think that?”
“Before, when I was standing out there, I felt someone watching me. I don’t feel that now.”
I didn’t think it necessary to mention the strange figure I’d seen, or the voice I’d heard. Brom would only say it was my imagination, or worse—he might think I was frightened. And I wasn’t. I was definitely not frightened.
Brom gave me a long look. When he looked at me like that, I always had the strange feeling that he was trying to peer behind my eyes and ferret out my secret thoughts. Maybe it was only that Brom could sense when I was holding something back.
“Very well. Let’s hurry then. Your oma will skin us both if supper is ruined because they waited for us.”
I clambered over the fence, heard my dress tear again and winced. Katrina was going to have such a time later enumerating all of my faults—and making me fix the dress.
Brom hurried through the field and I stayed beside him. The night pressed close outside the circle of lamplight. I heard the wind in the trees and the far-off cry of a fox. I shivered. Fox calls were disturbingly human-like, and it was easy to imagine I’d actually heard the cry of a person in distress.
Maybe I had. Maybe whatever had taken Cristoffel’s head, had taken the sheep’s head, was still out there. Maybe it was mauling another victim as Brom and I moved through the silence, soundless ourselves except for the rasp of our breathing.
It felt slightly shameful to admit to myself that I did feel safer next to Brom. He was so strong and so fearless it was difficult not to feel that way.
As before, I smelled the dead sheep before I saw it. Brom’s steps slowed and he wrinkled his nose.
“God almighty,” Brom said. “That reeks. No wonder the sheep are keeping away.”
“I don’t think the smell is the reason,” I said, remembering the strange eyes on the figure in the field, but Brom didn’t seem to hear me.
He sucked in a hard breath, and I followed his gaze to the dead sheep revealed by the lamp.
“Oh!” I cried, and took a few steps backward.
The sheep was decomposed beyond all reason. The flesh and skin appeared to have melted away, leaving behind the skeleton and organs. The organs were moving, pulsing almost as if they were still alive. I stepped closer and then jerked my head back as I realized they were full of tiny, wriggling worms.
“How can this be?” Brom murmured.
“It wasn’t like this when I found it,” I said. “I found it less than half an hour ago. This couldn’t have happened in that time.”
“No.”
I glanced at him. He stared into the trees beyond, his brows knit together.
“Opa,” I said, feeling unusually tentative. I wasn’t certain I wanted to say what had just occurred to me, because it was too awful to contemplate.
“Mm?” Brom said, but I could tell his attention wasn’t completely on me.
“You don’t think . . .” I started, gulped, tried again. “You don’t think this could have happened to Cristoffel’s body, do you? His, erm, skin disappearing?”
That started Brom enough to tear his attention from the trees.
“Why would you think that, Ben?”
“Well, whoever hurt Cristoffel did this, too, didn’t they?”
“Don’t make assumptions,” Brom said. “This might be a prank. In fact, I’m almost sure it is. Which means that whoever did it is still nearby, watching to see how we respond.”
“A prank?” When I saw the sheep at first I’d thought someone might be playing a trick. But now that it was this melted mess in the grass, that was harder to believe. Someone had—what? Killed the first sheep so I would see a fresh kill, and then swapped it out for a rotting one while I went to fetch Brom? That was more ridiculous than the strange being with glowing eyes I’d seen. I thought that if Brom had seen that figure he wouldn’t be talking about a prank.
“Opa, I don’t think—”
“Shh,” he said in a low voice, and handed the lamp to me. “I hear someone out there, rustling in the trees. I bet I can catch them.”
“Opa, no,” I said, but he was already gone.
I stood still for a moment, wondering what I should do. Should I go after him? If I did, should I bring the lamp? Brom was obviously trying to sneak up on someone, someone I was not convinced was actually present.
If there was an intruder though, if all this really was a prank, then Brom wouldn’t thank me for getting in his way. I waited, holding the lamp, tapping my foot nervously in the damp grass. The only sound I heard was my own heart.
Th-thump th-thump th-thump
I peered into the shadows ahead, searching for any sign of Brom, waiting for his enormous silhouette to loom out of the darkness, waiting to see his sheepish grin as he confessed that the noise in the woods must have been his imagination.
Th-thump th-thump th-thump
Why was my heartbeat so loud? I couldn’t possibly be that scared. Brom had only left me for a moment, and I was far too old to be scared of the dark.
Th-thump th-thump th-thump
This was ridiculous. I was Brom Bones’ grandchild, and I was just as brave as any boy.
Th-thump th-thump th-thump
That’s not my heart. Those are hoofbeats.
A rider, approaching fast.
Something rolled over me, a cold wind rippling through the field.
Who would be so foolish to ride so fast in the dark? You could lame a horse that way.
Th-thump th-thump th-thump
A scent drifted in that cold wind, something stronger than the scent of the decomposing sheep. It was something like the smell of the night drifting through my open window when I was half asleep, or the smell of freshly turned earth. It was something like the first whip of autumn air cutting through a perfect summer day. It was something like the cold lump in the back of my throat when I woke from a dream and didn’t know where I was. It was something like the dark closing around me, squeezing too hard and too tight.
Then I saw him.
But he wasn’t before me. He was in my eyes and in my ears and in my heart, making my blood run, making it gallop like he was galloping, making me long to be where he was—free and fierce under the stars.
Then the spell was gone, as fast as it had come, and I was alone in the middle of the field, trembling.
“Brom,” I whispered.
Brom didn’t know what was out there. Brom didn’t know he was coming.
“Opa!” I shouted. “Opa, come back!”
I knew Brom would hurry back to me, because I didn’t sound like myself. My voice was high and thin and I was not Ben the brave, Ben the one and only heir of Abraham Van Brunt. I was little Ben, scared beyond all reason.
Why didn’t Brom come? My opa had to know by now that there was nobody lurking in the woods, but he was coming. The hoofbeats were getting louder and louder and I didn’t feel them in my heart anymore.
Th-thump th-thump th-thump
Closer and closer.
Th-thump th-thump th-thump
“Opa! Opa!” I screamed.
I started to run toward the copse of trees. What was he doing? Why was he taking so long?
“Opa! Opa!” I heard the rush of boots in the grass and suddenly Brom was there, looming. He grabbed my shoulders to hold me in place.
“Ben, what is it? Was there somebody here? Are you hurt?”
“It’s him,” I choked out, then grabbed Brom’s arm and tugged. “We have to leave. We have to get back to the house.”
“Who, Ben? Who’s here? Was it Diederick Smit?”
I pulled his sleeve but he wouldn’t budge. He was looking all around now for some sign of his enemy, some sign of the man he was convinced was behind everything. I wasn’t nearly strong enough to force him to move if he didn’t want to move.
“Opa,” I said, nearly crying in frustration. “Please, please, we need to go back to the house now. Can’t you hear him?”
“Hear who? I can’t hear anything, Ben, except you.”
He was looking for someone to punch, someone to lay low with his enormous fists. That was how Brom Bones had always settled things when people refused to be charmed by him. But there was nobody to take a swing at, no Diederick Smit waiting for a confrontation. There was only him, and even Brom couldn’t manage him with his fists.
“Listen,” I said. “Listen.”
Brom cocked his head to one side. The hoofbeats were closer. He was nearly upon us.
“I don’t hear anything, Ben. This isn’t like you. What on earth is the matter? Are you spooked?”
I was so desperate to get Brom back to the house that I barely noticed the slight. I wasn’t the kind to get spooked, and I’d never—under normal circumstances—want Brom to think that I was. But that didn’t matter now.
Brom couldn’t hear the hoofbeats, but I could. There was no time to stop to wonder why. We needed to get back inside the house. I needed for Brom to be safe. I pulled on his sleeve again, and this time my fingers slipped and I stumbled, falling on my back in the grass.
The stars wheeled above me and then Brom’s face was there. Brom’s arms curled under me and scooped me up like I was a little child again, like I was his tiny Ben the way I used to be, before I grew into a gangly almost-adult.
As soon as Brom had me in his arms I started to shake. He pulled me close and said, “Come now, it’s all right. I’m sorry I left you alone.”
That made me shake even harder, because I never showed weakness like this in front of Brom.
The hoofbeats were fading now, disappearing into the distance. He was going hunting somewhere else. I felt something odd then, a strange mixture of relief and disappointment.
I want to see him.
(No, you don’t. Only a fool would want to see him. The Horseman takes people’s heads. At least that’s what they say.)
And for the third time that day I felt that there was something I knew that I’d forgotten, only this thing was different from the feeling I had before. This wasn’t anything to do with Cristoffel. This was about the Horseman.
(you’ve already seen him)
(seen him long long ago)
But I couldn’t grab the memory, and it slipped away in the face of my terror.
Brom carried me all the way back to the house, and when Katrina tried to ask questions, he told her not to fuss and that I should go straight to bed.
Katrina sent one of the maids up with me, to wash my face and braid my hair and help me into my nightdress. I submitted with unusual docility. I didn’t have the energy to fight, and my brain was hardly present in any case.
The maid watched me climb into bed and pull the coverlet up to my chin. I shivered and she placed an extra blanket over me before leaving.
I stared out the window. There was a large tree that grew close to the glass, large enough that I could climb onto one of the branches and shimmy down to the ground if I wanted. The smaller, thinner branches sometimes brushed against the panes, and I normally found it comforting. But now it sounded like a haunt trying to break into my room, something with long fingernails scraping for entry.
I rolled over and put my back to the window, shutting my eyes tight, wrapping the pillow around my head to block out the noise. I tried not to think about the night and the branches and the window and the possibility of things that belonged outside coming inside.
The events of the day soon rolled in to replace the sounds at the window. There were two things I now knew for certain that nobody else did, and I didn’t know what to do about it.
First, whoever—or whatever—had killed the sheep in the field (and likely also Cristoffel) was not the Horseman. The feeling I had when I saw the silhouette by the sheep was not the same as I’d had when Brom left me alone and I heard the hoofbeats.
For a moment I thought I heard them again—th-thump th-thump th-thump— but it wasn’t hoofbeats. It was only the pounding of my heart, speeding up as I remembered.
The hoofbeats. Brom had always insisted the Horseman was nonsense, a product of the deeply rooted superstition of Sleepy Hollow’s citizens. Now I knew he was wrong. I’d always believed Brom was right about everything, but he wasn’t right about this.
The Horseman was real.