Chapter 8
Crane
I awake with a start. Heart pounding, ears ringing. I sit up in my bed and look around, and for a moment, I can’t remember where I am. I can’t even remember who I am. I feel like I’ve been stripped of all my flesh and guts and I’m just a bag of bones floating through nebulous space.
Then it comes back to me. Where I am, who I am, and what I’m doing here. I’ve been waking up like this every single night since I arrived at the institute. In a cold sweat, covered in confusion, sitting up in my bed in a very dark and unfamiliar room.
I let out a shuddering breath, surprised to see my breath cloud over. It’s not that cold in here, and I can hear the occasional tick of the radiator pipes.
I also hear something else.
A soft wail.
A woman in tears.
I hold my breath, straining to hear it better.
In the men’s faculty wing of the dormitories, there are only a couple of men: Professor Daniels, a verified mage who teaches the non-magic curriculum; Aman Desi, the linguistics teacher from India; plus Gale Winslow, the custodian; and myself.
I’m unsure if Winslow has any magic or not, but if he doesn’t, he doesn’t seem all that bothered having to live among it.
But there are no women in this wing, and most of the rooms here are empty. However, that doesn’t mean Daniels or Desi doesn’t have a woman over. Same goes for Winslow, though he’s in his sixties and doesn’t talk much. I can’t imagine him ever making someone cry.
“Ichabod,” the woman says through a sob.
My heart comes to a standstill. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve imagined hearing Marie’s voice in the night, but tonight it feels different. It feels painfully real.
“Ichabod,” the voice says again. Very clearly Marie.
“No,” I say, my fingers gripping the edge of the blanket. “No, you’re not here. You’re dead.”
“Ichabod,” she teases now, her voice changing. Getting mean. Getting more vibrant. “You think you can outrun your past, but you can’t. You certainly can’t outrun me. Not here. Not here, of all places. They will eat your soul, and I will only watch. I’ve led them to you!”
“Shut up!” I cry out, getting out of bed, my blankets tangled around my legs. Once I’m on my feet, the solidness of the rug under me, I feel a little more grounded. I wait and I listen, and her voice doesn’t come back.
Thank God.
But there is something else now. An unusual solid yet wet sound.
Coming from outside my door.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Followed by a soft scraping noise, as if something heavy is being dragged.
I swallow hard, a cold wash prickling down my neck.
What on earth is that?
I reach for my lantern and fumble for the matches on my desk. Luckily, there’s enough light from the moon coming in through the window for me to light the lantern’s candle quickly.
It flames up with a soft glow, my room cast in light and shadows.
There’s not much to the rooms here, but they are a lot nicer than the ones I had been staying in before.
I have a wardrobe, my bed, a desk, plus my own private toilet, basin, and tub.
All of it overlooks the lake, which tonight is just a black oil slick beneath stagnant fog, the moon barely reaching through.
Slowly, I creep toward my door and stop once I reach it, listening once more.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
What the hell is that? I steady myself and put my hand on the knob and turn, curiosity getting the better of me as it always does, my lantern shaking, causing the light to dance.
Slowly, I open the door, the hinges creaking, terribly loud, and look out into the darkness of the hallway.
My breath hitches. There is a long trail of what looks like blood leading down the hall, a slick path that dances dark red in the lantern light, and at the very end is a figure, an adult body on the floor, dragging themselves around the corner.
Jesus Christ.
I stand there, and I stare, and the fear is so overwhelming that I can’t even take a breath.
What if this isn’t in your head? I think. What if this isn’t a ghost? What if this is real? What if they need help?
I set my jaw and steady myself and step out into the hall, my lantern held like a shield against the dark. Ghosts exist, but so do horrible accidents that involve humans. What if this person was involved in one?
The person on the floor has disappeared around the corner now, leaving only the trail of blood.
I take a moment and crouch down, my fingers brushing lightly over it.
It’s thick like blood, and when I bring my hand to my nose, it smells like it too, sharp and metallic.
All my senses are saying this is real, that this isn’t some transmission from the afterlife.
I straighten up and carefully make my way down the hallway.
I want to call out after them, but I stop myself time and time again, as if there’s some hidden part of me that’s making me stay quiet.
I suppose if the person is so grievously injured, whomever committed the crime could still be on the floor, and I don’t want their attention.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
The building that houses the staff is an old stone one closest to the lake, shaped like two Ls that come together in a grand circular staircase.
The bottom floors are full of classrooms while the upper floor of one of the Ls houses the women while the other L houses the men.
My room is at the end of the men’s L, so when I come around the corner, I expected the person to be gone for some reason, as if they wouldn’t dare venture into the other wing.
Instead, the trail of blood continues past the staircase mezzanine and across to the women’s quarters, rounding the corner.
My stomach twists. There is no possible instance that the body moving at the speed it is could have made it to the women’s quarters so fast.
The blood is wet, smells real, I tell myself, trying to keep myself in stride. The way it catches the lantern’s glow, like red oil, that’s real. But the speed in which it moved, that couldn’t be real, couldn’t be…human.
I’m not usually a cowardly man. I’ve seen and done things in my life that would land people in jail, that would make others run. But here, with the lantern swinging in my hand, on a quiet night in this old building, I feel fear like I’ve never felt it before.
Something is strange here. Strange in a way that could be very, very dangerous if I’m not careful.
Taking in a deep breath, I manage to find my courage. And I keep walking.
I go quietly, sneaking past the staircase and into the women’s wing. I try to keep that bravery with me as I turn the corner, expecting to see the body down the other hall.
But there’s nothing. There’s no blood either. I look down at my feet and see the floor is just faded wood. The house feels like it’s sleeping.
I let out a long exhale, running my hand down my face for a moment. None of it was real. Not the blood, not the body. It was all in my head. All the pressures of the job and this need to create a new life are building up inside me. Not to mention the last time I had any drugs or alcohol in me.
I stand there for a moment, then realize a teacher could come out of her room and see me loitering in the halls.
So I get my wits together and walk back the way I came, marveling at how dry the floor is as I go.
I know I touched blood, I smelled it, but what if it was all an illusion?
What if none of this is real, like a dream?
That’s it, I think to myself. I’m overstimulated and exhausted and dreaming. Once I get back to my bed, it will all be over. I’ll wake up, and the day will start again, and all of this will fade away into memory.
I round the corner to my hallway.
I see the body.
Right outside my open door, long arms in a pale, bloodstained nightgown pulling themselves inside my room.
There is no blood this time, but the body is there, slender gray feet disappearing through my door until the hall is empty again.
I feel sick, the lantern shaking in my hand again, bad enough that the flame of the candle flickers, threatening to go out.
“Fuck,” I swear, managing to keep the lantern away from my breath.
This isn’t real, I tell myself. Remember, there’s no blood this time. This doesn’t follow the laws of physics, the laws of science.
Yes, but neither does magic, and that’s very much a tangible thing. It governs my life. How can I be so bold as to assume all of this is in my head?
And yet I find myself walking down the hall back to my bedroom as if being compelled by the thing that’s waiting for me there.
One step in front of another, the lights wavering on the stone walls, the building so quiet that my heartbeat is the only thing I hear.
Even the thump of the woman is gone; the dragging sound of her soiled nightgown has vanished. It’s just me.
It’s just me.
There’s only me.
I get to my door, and for one second, I fear the horror will kill me. The idea of what’s waiting for me inside.
They will eat your soul, Marie had said earlier.
Joke’s on them. I might not even have one.
I step inside my room, my lantern held out in front, casting the darkness into light.
There’s no one here.
Nothing except a row of candles all along the windowsill, the flames dancing as if there’s a breeze. What in God’s name? I didn’t light those. I know I didn’t.
I quickly walk in all the way and look around, including my bathroom and closet, making sure there’s no place for this thing to hide. Satisfied, I march over to my desk and the candles on the sill above it.
I suck in my breath.
On the desk is a black snake with several sewing needles stabbed through it, in the eye, the middle, and the end of the tail. Dead, except for a faint twitch of the tail.
And below it, there’s something written on a scrap of paper in very fine handwriting.
Written in blood.
Welcome to Sleepy Hollow. May you never leave.