Headless Over You

1. Iris

ONE

Iris

The driver slows as we approach a stop sign. There’s a larger sign off to its right. It’s wooden, weatherworn, and remnants of paint flake off in the breeze. It speaks to the town’s ambience and overall vibe as we finally stop moving.

Welcome to Sleepy Hollow.

Autumn is in full swing. Bright orange and yellow leaves swirl, powered by gusts of wind. It’s dreary and foggy. The overcast sky blocks the sun’s warmth, and though the driver has had the heat on since picking me up from the airport, I pull my coat tighter around me.

“The inn is just ahead,” he says, looking both ways before pulling through the intersection.

We’re on Main Street, passing historic buildings before we cross over an old bridge with a small waterway underneath.

The myths and legends of its dark history are a contrast to its quiet and quaint existence.

Sleepy Hollow appears to be just that, sleepy.

Hardly a doomed and dreadful source of a curse.

But that’s why I’m here. I’m a folklore professor at Indiana University, and my present work has brought me to Sleepy Hollow for research.

The lore of the Headless Horseman became too great to resist. I need to live and breathe the town’s history from the source.

Everything is as I expected it, nothing fearful lurking in the shadows. Excitement swirls through me.

Residents take notice of us as we drive through and pull off to the side. As they pull their coats tighter and lean in closer to whisper amongst each other, the atmosphere changes slightly. Slowly, the street empties and the judgments are carried away on the wind.

I step out with the driver, and he heads to the trunk.

“Oh,” I say, reaching for the second bag as he sets the first on the ground. “You really don’t have to go through the trouble.” I slip him the fare plus a generous tip, and he waves my statement off.

“It’s none at all.” He climbs back into his car and leaves me with my belongings. The low hum of his engine fades away as he turns off Main Street.

I gather my things and walk inside as the wind picks up. An older woman sits behind a counter, and though she smiles at me, it doesn’t reach her eyes. There’s a small-town hospitality feel that’s mixed with trepidation and hesitation.

“Hello,” I greet her. “Iris Crane.” The woman doesn’t introduce herself. Instead, she looks down to a mess of papers as she scans for my name.

“Here you are,” she offers, handing me the key.

“Mind the rules of the house, dear.” The statement has something unspoken behind it, but I let it hang between us as a kind reminder, giving the benefit of the doubt.

Not everything has to be analyzed and read into, and sometimes it’s better to assume altruism first.

“Yes, ma’am, I will.” I walk upstairs and open the door with the matching number three on it.

The room is curious, just like the town.

I leave my bags, as there’s no time to waste.

After locking the room behind me, I don’t offer the woman pleasantries as I exit the main foyer and step out onto the sidewalk.

Wind rushes around me and leaves scatter over my feet as I look up and down the road.

There’s a coffee shop down the way, settled on a corner.

Its brickwork is old, but there’s some newly renovated areas.

As I approach, a woman ducks inside, her gaze averting from mine.

The town’s quirkiness is becoming unsettling.

Assuming kindness might be easier said than done with this less than warm welcome.

The air stirs in the wrong direction now.

It feels as though I carry a plague with the way they run away from my presence.

No, that’s not exactly right.

It feels like there’s a secret to keep away from me. Something they don’t want to share with an outsider, which is understandable to a degree, but it’s just folklore.

My hand on the coffee shop door handle, I give it a pull just as it pushes open with force and a man tumbles out. Our bodies collide and cold coffee spills over my shoulder and down my chest.

“I am so sorry,” the man says, his voice gentle and deep as he rushes to wipe the drink off my shoulder. “Come inside,” he instructs as he ushers me in. Napkins fill his large hands, and we work to dry the coffee as best we can.

“Thank you,” I reply, resigning to smell like an iced white mocha for the rest of my day.

“As far as shitty introductions go, I’m Kurt Van Tassel.” He holds his hand out for me, and I take it. His grip is firm and confident.

“Iris Crane.” I pump his hand; mine is slightly sticky from the drying sugar.

“That’s a beautiful name.” His eyes roam over me, stopping a little too long on certain aspects. He’s handsome, but in that playboy kind of way. Chiseled jaw, too much time at the gym, and blond hair that falls in a too-perfect way across his forehead. His skin is flawless.

“Thank you. It’s my first day in Sleepy Hollow, so my apologies for the spilled coffee. Not really the best first impression.”

“Oh, really?” he asks, brightening. “What brings you here? We don’t get too many tourists this time of year.”

“That’s a shame because it’s beautiful right now.

The weather is nice and crisp, and the trees look magnificent.

” I smile enough for polite conversation and then get back to moving it along from pleasantries.

“I’m an author and a folklore professor.

I’m researching myths for an upcoming book series I’ve been working on. ”

“Ah, yes.” He takes a step back absentmindedly. “The legend of the Headless Horseman. That is a popular reason for visiting, though most stop at the museum and don’t stick around.” I watch as his demeanor changes. He’s reserved now, more cautious. Curious. “I’m a history teacher here.”

“Oh, that’s helpful. I was hoping to run into someone who could help me with my research. Though, I hadn’t meant literally.”

He clears his throat and looks off. “How about I take you on a short tour and show you the library?”

“That would be lovely,” I accept, moving around him to order my coffee.

He stands outside and doesn’t follow me in, but he watches me carefully.

The window is tinted—it’s why I didn’t see him walking out—so I chance a look back.

He’s drinking the little that remains of his iced beverage, but the way his face has fallen sorrowful has me on edge.

I face the barista, and her head cocks to the side as she takes me in.

“Can I get a cold brew, please? Large if you can.”

“I can,” she replies, and that’s all she says as she keys in the order and the price flashes on the terminal. I swipe my card over the screen, and it shows me the approval before disappearing. She says nothing as she stares at me, and I take that as my cue to step aside and wait.

I take in the little coffee shop. There are themed decorations for the season, hand-drawn art and displays for the drink of the week, and the table settings don’t match as a set, but they go together with the quirky vibe.

It feels homey even if the staff isn’t as welcoming as I’d hoped.

My eyes drift across the room and back to the storefront, where they land on Kurt as he waits for me.

He’s staring at his drink and shifts the ice in the now empty cup.

His brows are pinched together, and I’m curious to hear the thoughts he’s being burdened with.

“Cold brew,” a man says grudgingly, and when I turn around, he’s placing the cup down forcefully. The contents nearly slosh out, but he doesn’t look the least bit apologetic.

This is going to be fun.

As we walk through town, and I get an admittedly boring introduction to it, people stare and whisper. A few even go out of their way to not cross our path.

“Really, though, if you’re looking for the best?—”

“Kurt,” I interrupt. He isn’t explaining anything of importance, at least that’s relative to me. “Have you noticed that people are literally avoiding me?”

“Sleepy Hollow doesn’t do well with strangers,” he explains simply. We walk past the inn I’m staying at, and something catches my attention in the background: a little covered bridge by the river. Kurt notices and follows my gaze. “Don’t go there at night.”

“I’m sorry—” I laugh. “Why not?” I look up at him, expecting a goofy answer or an unserious face, but I’m met with a sternly set brow and a less than playful man.

“It’s just safer to stay in town,” he says without expanding. Was that an ambiguous threat? Assume kindness, Iris.

“Is the Headless Horseman going to get me?” I laugh again, but Kurt remains stoic. His mouth is set, smile lines gone.

“The Headless Horseman is little more than a ghost story. Sleepy Hollow has its superstitions, but it’s best to not test them.” Ominous as fuck.

We walk a little more, but this time it’s in silence, and I enjoy my coffee, unbothered by his warnings.

The library is close enough that it doesn’t feel too awkward.

I clearly struck a nerve, and I’m in no position to push someone’s boundaries.

Though, if I have to guess, something about the legend is swirling in that not so silent mind of his.

“Have a good time!” Kurt smiles, switching moods again. It’s back and forth, hot and cold with this one, but he’s mostly friendly to me, so I guess it’s a tolerable aspect of the gentleman.

As I start to turn around, I run into an elderly lady with terror in her eyes. “Some things are better left buried!” she shouts, wagging a finger in my face.

What the hell . . .?

She walks off without giving me a chance to say anything in return. I brush it off as local rudeness and eye the library. Unease settles in alongside the outsider feeling from the welcoming I’ve received.

Maybe this is a task for tomorrow. I scan the building.

It’s sturdy and old, plain like any other library would be.

I settle the discomfort within myself with the promise that tomorrow I’ll be able to better shake off the locals’ behavior.

The building will remain. The books will still be there in the morning.

Settling into my room for the remainder of the evening, I pull out my laptop and outline my novel.

I start with the rough idea of chapters and their target word goal.

I want this to be a story like no other has told regarding the history and richness of Sleepy Hollow.

The cursor blinks on my title page, and I question what would befit such a tale.

The town hasn't deterred me exactly, but my first day here was very chaotic. I look out my window, giving my eyes a break from the screen. The night is as gloomy as the day. My eyes are drawn to the forbidden bridge of doom that I mustn’t go to in the darkness of the night.

My recall was a little more dramatic than Kurt’s warning, but it felt right.

Fog rolls in off the river that flows under it, and the entire sight is disquieting.

Better left buried. The woman’s words haunt me, though I have no reference for meaning.

I blink, not sure if I can trust what’s starting to appear.

There’s a large figure on horseback coming through the fog.

There’s no hurry as the horse meanders, a faint neigh reaching me.

I crawl to the edge of the bed that sits nearest to the window and lean forward with my palms on the glass.

My breath starts to condense on the surface as my eyes widen with curiosity.

The rider leads the horse back in the direction from which they came, never actually crossing the bridge. I realize it then.

He’s headless.