Group Writing Project #2
Sleepy Hollow: The Legend Continues…
by Dragonquirk
Jim Frayne slumped in a corner booth at Wimpy’s diner, absently stirring his root beer. He scowled briefly at the group of people gathered excitedly a few booths over. The pinball machines were ignored, and even the coveted pool table was devoid of players, as the usual crowd was grouped around this stranger, hanging on his every word. Jim’s eye roved to a stray cue leaning against the table. He would just love to take that stick and...
Stop it, Frayne, you’re just being childish. After all, the poor guy has been stuck in Sleepyside for the last few days, ever since his SAAB broke down near the Glen Road Inn, which was where the young man at the center of attention was now staying.
And it was not like the man was very good-looking. He was tall, but extremely thin, with long arms and legs that looked like they had been tacked loosely to his body. He gangled as he walked. And the head perched on top of the stork-like body was no thing of beauty, with a pair of watery blue eyes that stared quite placidly at the world around them with an air of indifference, and a prominent beak perching over a pair of thin lips. No, it wasn’t the face that attracted the crowd of people; it was the stories that emanated from those thin lips and weak chin. Yes, Irving Crane certainly had the group of young people enraptured.
Jim wouldn’t have minded a bit, had not one certain young lady been particularly keen on hearing all that this stranded stranger had to tell. He shifted grumpily again, glancing at the jukebox. She had not even batted an eyelash away from this new fellow, even when Jim had played her latest favorite tune, Slide, by the Goo Goo dolls, on the juke.
A flash of bright light startled Jim for a second, and he rolled his eyes in disgust as some of the local girls took turns with a camera, getting snapshots taken with this silly man.
Well, Jim thought he was silly. He didn’t want to know what Trixie thought of the nephew of the great NYC detective, Humphrey Marlowe. When she and Honey learned the identity of the young man after finding him stranded, they had been hanging on his every word. And this Crane fellow was eating it up. He had been the guest of many citizens of the rural town, usually the homes with eligible young ladies in residence. Irving might have been lacking in looks, but his smoothness with the opposite sex, young and old, was bluntly obvious.
Jim emptied his cup miserably. He was an athletic young man, and handsome to boot. And the heir to a small fortune, but cursed to be completely tongue tied around women.
He glanced at the pool stick again, willing it to turn into a baseball bat.
"Jim?"
His sister’s voice jarred him out of his thoughts.
"Do you think you could give us a ride back to Crabapple Farm? Mrs. Belden has prepared a picnic for our guest this evening."
Jim forced a smile. "Sure, Honey. I’ll go start the car and meet you out front."
Miserably he left the diner as Irving was declaring that he might be staying for another week, as the mechanic was having difficulty finding parts for his car. Lightly he laid an arm across Trixie’s shoulders, under the pretense of bending closer to hear something she said.
Seething, Jim started counting to ten as he walked to the back parking lot.
Irving Crane had to go. Soon.
Half an hour later, Jim stood in front of the Belden medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom, searching desperately for the Advil. Bad enough this fellow knows over a thousand detective stories; he knows something about everything. And doesn’t hesitate to share. Especially driving hints which were freely given after they were nearly sideswiped from some longhaired blonde maniac in a VW Bus with a bright red Libertarian bumper sticker. He had honked the horn at her, but she merely replied with a quite unkind gesture, so he had backed off.
Ah, there’s the bottle. Right behind Mart’s razor.
"Meowr-er?"
Jim looked down at a puffy black cat that was purring and rubbing around his ankles.
"Banished to the upstairs of the house, Merlin, my boy? Know how you feel."
He scratched Trixie’s pet under the chin, and remembered how high Mr. Crane had jumped when the friendly feline had run out to greet his mistress.
Superstitious did not even begin to describe the stranger. Why just yesterday Jim had seen Irving consulting Mrs. Sledijick in a quiet corner of the park for a tarot reading. Often she read the cards for people in the park, no charge. He remembered the sight--her purple scarf with the gold stars that she wore like a turban, her wrinkled hands with the fake long nails on the tips. She rocked and mumbled, the purple nail polish waving over the deck in a mysterious fashion.
Irving Crane had sat across from her, nervously eating Cheez-its from a brown paper bag, eyes riveted to the cards in front of them. Jim had no idea what was said, but Irving walked away, obviously distraught.
Merlin gazed up at him, and for a long moment green eyes stared into green eyes, an almost common thought seemed to pass between man and beast.
The sleek black cat ran off as the telephone in the hall clanged noisily.
"Hello?"
Jim could hear Mart answer the phone, then hang up. He wandered into the hall.
"Wrong number?"
Mart scratched his short blonde hair. "I’ll say. Just some nut breathing heavily."
Jim grinned. "Watch out, could be the undead…"
Mart laughed. "Better watch it with that talk--you might unnerve our guest…"
Both young men stared out the window down at the picnic going on in the Belden back yard.
Irving was holding court quite nicely between wolfing down Mrs. Belden’s yummy hamburgers and potato salad, and managing a few fresh peach slices in-between.
"I think you have met your match."
The redhead exclaimed dryly to his companion.
Mart merely scowled as he watched Diana Lynch offer the gangly youth the last slice of the cherry pie.
"For two cents I would drop Merlin on the superstitious jerk’s head..." he mumbled.
Jim said nothing but turned to meet Mart’s blue eyes, as Merlin jumped up on the windowseat, purring his approval.
Irving Crane was truly in his glory seated at the long outdoor table at the Belden farm. Sleepyside was a rural area, yes, and the automotive engineers could use a healthy updating of their equipment, but the hospitality of the townfolk had been exceptionally generous. And the food! He smiled and began anew with his praises for the lady of the house’s fine culinary sense.
He glanced around at his company. Three of the loveliest young ladies from the crowd downtown just happened to be best friends. Or what was the name of their little club? The Wrens? No, the Quail? Not quite. Anyway, imagine the pleasure at seeing the estates where the lovely maidens resided. Two of the richest men in all of New York, and he was sitting next to their daughters.
But lovely as they were, there was something even more appealing about the little Dutch-looking girl with the round blue eyes that deepened and sparkled every time he would bring out a story about his Uncle Marlowe. And after tasting her mother’s cooking!
Irving wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin, and watched her sit and listen raptly as he began another tale of one of the famous detective’s adventures.
A light fog began to roll in as the sun set on the Hudson valley. The group of young men that lived at the farm and nearby gathered around the table, eating the last of the watermelon that was left on the big tin tray. Irving stood as the girls excused themselves to wash dishes and put away any stray leftovers, of which there was but few.
The shorter lad with the crew cut lounged comfortably nearby.
"That was quite a tale of the big city."
Irving fiddled idly with his watch. "Yes, I suppose New York seems exciting to country folk."
The two dark-haired young men exchanged a look, and the Belden lad leaned back in his chair. "Oh, you’ll find we have our share of exciting tales around here."
Irving laughed, a bit nervously. "Why yes, some of the old legends I have been hearing were quite lively. The Hudson Valley seems to have its share of spirits, doesn’t it?"
Dan nodded sagely. "Yep, and the people here take them very seriously."
"Ah, yes, the man on the horse with the pumpkin, that tale originated here, right?"
"You mean the headless horseman," Dan said in a flat voice.
"Yes, that’s the one. Throws a pumpkin at a scholar, correct? Not conducive to proper learning, eh?" he attempted a weak laugh.
Brian spoke up. "It’s no laughing matter to the locals. And that’s not quite how the story went." His brown eyes serious.
A hush fell over the table as wisps of fog curled through the trees.
"The horseman did have a head." Mart’s voice was low. "A shrunken one."
The pale blue eyes of the Crane gentleman were now the interested ones, growing bigger at the blonde man’s words.
"As the legend got out, it grew out of proportion, and some of it got changed. Probably for the better. What really happened is too creepy for the books." He paused to take a sip of root beer. "Long ago, a Hessian soldier and gentleman was wrongly accused of murder. He vowed from his position on the chopping block to punish those who were walking the wrong paths, causing misery to the good folk. After his execution, a strange little man was given his head, per the soldier’s last wishes, and the word got around the town that this man or gnome or creature was practicing strange spells and voodoo on the head, shrinking it and encasing the Hessian’s curse inside."
"All was quiet for a while, until one night a passing stranger was walking past the old churchyard down to the inn. A thick fog, like the one we are experiencing tonight, had rolled in. Suddenly he heard a faint clopping sound, growing closer and closer. The graveyard seemed to come to life, all the spirits moaning and crying out for him to join him. Then, out of the fog came the ghost, astride a devilish black mount that had wild fire-red eyes. Holding his shrunken head out in front of him, the horseman sent the stranger off to the realm of demons in a blaze of fire!"
Mart paused for a moment. "And he was never seen nor heard of again. He was the first of many." Silence fell again on the group, as the last hint of sunlight faded from the sky, and the full moon tried to shine its beams through the swirling mist.
Dan stood. "Gotta get going home, wood to chop in the morning." Thanking Mr. and Mrs. Belden, he took his leave of the group and headed off into the woods, back to the rustic cabin he shared with Mr. Maypenny.
Irving stood up shakily. "I, too, should not overstay my welcome. I believe you said that the Inn was only a mile’s distance to walk from here?"
Brian pointed to the wooded path entrance on the other side of the gnarled crabapple trees. "Right over there. Half a mile through the woods, past the old church, and over the wooden bridge, and there you are at the Inn’s back door. Simple." He clapped the thin man on the back.
Irving stared off through the dark trees. "Past the old church?" he said.
Brian and Mart glanced at each other quickly. "Nothing to worry about," said Mart. "Hasn’t been an incident in quite some time. Good night!" he said heartily, shaking the stranger’s hand.
Brian looked doubtful, but then nodded. "I reckon you won’t have any trouble-- but take my light, you might need it in this fog. Good luck!"
He ushered the city man over to the beginning of the path, handed him a flashlight and waved him on.
Irving started walking hesitantly down the path, then gained confidence as he continued on in his rambling stride, all arms and legs jarringly akimbo. He almost started to whistle a merry tune, when a loud "GRRROOOINK!" filled the air.
Irving jumped off the ground, and spun quickly, the beam of light from his hand shaking and bobbing. He peered into the mist desperately.
Think, man, think! Trixie’s little brother told you repeatedly about his frog pond. Sighing a bit, Irving continued down the path, although at a slightly faster pace than before.
It seemed forever, but finally he emerged from the dark path, relieved to be out of the reach of the dark and gnarled limbs that seemed to reach at him from every angle.
Suddenly the flapping of wings behind him made him spin with a start, barely catching the faintest glimpse of white floating away into the trees. Still traveling backwards, he nearly stumbled as one foot landed in a puddle.
Turning ruefully, he shook the muddy boot twice, then jammed his hands into his coat pockets, elbows sticking out at odd angles from his slender frame.
Slowly, the old church loomed up from the fog, whitewashed, standing as if enchanted. A turn in the dirt road brought him past the graveyard, the will o’ wisp slowly moving through the headstones as if spirits doing a hypnotic waltz over the holy ground.
A slight breeze moved through and rustled the leaves in the trees and a keen, thin, soft moan spoke to the slim man’s ears, raising the hair on the back of his neck and making his fingers grasp the pockets of his coat more firmly.
Ears straining to catch every sound, Irving nearly stopped still at the faint clopping he thought he heard.
Stride lengthening, he moved faster as the sound grew more distinctive. It was rhythmic, and completely unmistakable for anything else. The horses' hoofbeats grew nearer, and Irving tried to resist the urge to look behind him as he quickened his steps into a slow jog.
Panting, he came over a small hill to spy the wooden bridge! Faint snatches of legends echoed into his beleaguered mind and the one thought prevailing was to get to that bridge. If he could cross the old wooden structure, he would be safe. Outwardly running now, he nearly made it across, except for the most awful screech from behind him.
Unable to stop himself, Irving glanced over his shoulder.
Nearly on top of him, a large black beast of a horse was rearing, his powerful front hooves flailing at the air nearly above his head. The monster let loose another frenzied whinny, and Irving turned his frightened gaze upward to gape at the apparition sitting atop the black demon.
Dressed all in black, with a long cloak waving madly behind it, the ghost’s strong arms held the reins firmly in one hand, and a shriveled head by its long, rotting hair in the other.
Eyes bugging with fright, Irving let them travel further upward to meet the eyes of his enemy, then let out a terrible shriek, unable to find a head upon the broad black shoulders!
Still crying out in terror, Irving missed the bridge and tumbled into the muddy bank, hiding his face and shaking with fear.
Now, some say that when he looked up again, the headless horseman was gone, and Irving ran to the inn, packed his things and headed back to the city.
Some say that the friendly Dutch gnomes that live under bridges and such took a liking to Irving, and brought him to live among them.
The older and wiser of the townfolk nod sagely at each other, knowing that the horseman claimed another victim on a foggy night.
In any case, the people of Sleepyside did not see hide nor hair of the young Crane man again.
As for the lovely young Trixie…
Trixie waited by the path near Glen Road, listening for the sound of hoofbeats.
He went home from the picnic early, but he promised to meet me for a midnight ride later…
Finally, the sound of a horse’s hooves met her eager ears, soon followed by a strong redhead astride a large black mount.
"I thought you weren’t coming," she scolded playfully.
Jim grinned as he pulled her up to sit in front of him. When she was comfortably settled, he urged Jupiter forward with his knees. "Had some things to take care of."
Trixie frowned as she spotted a small object hanging from his beltloop. "Why on earth do you have that goofy ‘shrunken head’ that Ben Riker put together last year?"
Jim just grinned. "Just felt like I needed something interesting to compete with stories from New York, that’s all."
Trixie thought for a moment and pulled on Jupiter’s reins for him to stop. Grabbing the riding crop from Jim’s freckled hands, she twisted around to face him.
"I found the city stories interesting," she said, tapping him lightly on the nose with it. "But I prefer our local legends. Especially the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow," she added, kissing him lightly.
Jim allowed a grin to light up his face as he kissed her back, then picked up the reins to urge the big black horse down the trail, the moon shining brightly as the fog cleared from the Hudson Valley.
The End