2. Iris
TWO
Iris
I wake up with a smile on my face despite the dreary day breaking over Sleepy Hollow.
My mind races over the figure I saw last night.
Was he real? Is this a prank a local is trying to pull?
Is it Kurt warning me away? I laugh off the last thought.
Kurt seems . . . not the type to be a prankster in that regard.
As I look out to the bridge, secretly hoping for another sighting of my headless friend, I see fog start to settle over the town. There’s no sign of him. Hardly anyone is walking the streets, and I decide it’s my best opportunity to investigate the bridge.
I pack up a small backpack with pens, a notebook, and a recorder. The chill from the window causes me to dress in warm layers, and excitement ramps up my heart rate.
I race out of the inn, not giving anyone time to strike up a conversation with the town’s strange visitor, not that they would, and bolt straight for the bridge.
Loose gravel and dead leaves crunch under my sneakers as my feet pound the ground.
My breath comes out in small clouds in the cool air.
I’m not built for running, especially in the fall weather.
My lungs are burning, but my pace doesn’t slow as I look around, making sure I wasn’t followed.
Kurt was adamant that I stay away, but the promise of a mysterious headless being beckons me.
The need to uncover the truth of the legend scratches at the surface of my being.
Curiosity killed the cat but saved the writer.
At the dirt trail entrance, I slow to a walk.
My chest heaves as I move forward and take in the scene.
The bridge is old, and rather than a headless hazard, I fear the weatherworn wood breaking away into the river below.
I walk the length of it, pulling out my notebook and phone, and wood creaks beneath my weight.
It’s damp and as full of life as Sleepy Hollow, and I continue forward until I reach the end.
In the dirt, I spot an imprint and move closer. It’s a horseshoe. I take a picture and make a note, but disappointment fills me. There’s only one, and it’s not going in any direction but toward the bridge. There’s no telling where it came from along the path.
Putting away the notebook, I get the sense that I’m being watched. And while it is entirely possible that someone in town with a vantage point noticed me, it feels close by. I pull out my recorder and turn it on.
“Hello?” I call out, holding it close to me as I look around. Nothing speaks back. Though, what headless man could? “My name is Iris . . . and that’s silly to put out there.” I laugh to myself.
I stand and walk back through the bridge. The river below gives me no clues as the water rushes gently over the stones on the bed. With nothing and no one coming forward, I turn off the recorder and stash it back in my bag.
I take my time walking back to town. I don’t know what I hoped for or expected, but disappointment stirs deep inside me.
I reason with myself that maybe he only comes out at night.
Didn’t the myth portray that as well? There were many tales of many origins, but I doubted a ghostly being was bound to a curfew in the spirit realm.
If that’s the case, it’d be even easier to come when no one was around. Warning or not, I would be at that bridge when night fell.
Breaking through the tree line off the path and onto the sidewalk, I spot a somewhat familiar silhouette.
“Kurt?” He turns around and smiles at me. It’s genuine and the happiest look I’ve seen in the past twenty-four hours.
“Iris! How was the library yesterday?” he asks, coming back toward me. I scrunch my face together.
“I didn’t get very far,” I admit. “An old woman harassed me outside, and I decided to call it a day and settle in instead.”
“Probably a wise decision,” he agrees. His smile has fallen, but he doesn’t look quite as stern as before when discussing the history and locals.
“She talked about things being better left buried. I’m not here to uncover anything, you know? Just to write and research.” Why did that feel like a lie? My instincts are screaming that what I’ll learn will in fact uncover something, but is that my intent?
“Discernment isn’t this town’s strong suit,” Kurt reveals candidly. “The elderly, especially, are wary of new visitors. I’d take it with a grain of salt and get back in the saddle.”
“I’m on my way there now, actually. It was great running into you again, and this being a small town, I expect to see more of you.”
“I can’t wait.” He continues his walk. I take off in the opposite direction, to the other half of town.
The library is old, the brick work crumbling and the paint on the wood chipping, but it has a magical charm about it. Most libraries do; that’s why they’re my favorite places to be.
As I walk inside, I’m assaulted by the scent of old paper and bound leather.
It’s so unique to the library, I wish I could bottle it up and wear it.
There are endless rows of old and new texts, but I stop at the checkout counter first. No one is here, but there’s a small silver bell. I ring it and wait.
An old woman ambles from a back room and up to the counter. She’s so small, she hardly stands over the counter. She pushes her glasses on a beaded chain up her nose and peers up at me.
“Hello, dear. I’m Mrs. Abernathy. How can I help you?”
“I’m Iris Crane.” I extend my hand. “I’m a professor at Indiana University, and I’m in town to research the legends of Sleepy Hollow.
I’m writing a novel based on the Headless Horseman, and I’m wondering if you have any original texts I could reference?
” She draws her mouth into a thin line, clearly anxious, but her shoulders do relax a fraction as she turns and points.
“Over there, dear.” It’s still the kindest interaction I’ve had outside of Kurt.
“Thank you, I appreciate it.” Counting it as a success, I make my way over to the section she pointed out. It’s caked in dust. I do my best to clear off spines as I collect different texts that pique my interest.
There is a table with chairs nearby in the same condition, and I take my seat, clearing everything off in the same manner. I sneeze as the dust settles around me and make a note to pick up allergy medication from the drug store before I venture back here.
I don't know what has the people of Sleepy Hollow so nervous over research. I don’t see the harm in coming to a town to gather authentic lore.
It’s better than the wild tales on the internet that twist fact and drama to fit a narrative.
Authenticity is a special interest of mine, and to be able to sit and bask in it is something else.
Pushing those thoughts aside, I dig into the texts.
My notebook is alive with ink and the sound of pen scratching over the paper in a rush.
Quickly, I discover there are conflicting tales even at the source.
While a few details remain the same, mostly the maiming and killing, there are vast differences in the origin of the Headless Horseman.
I note these with an annotation that I can simply choose which origin I like best moving forward.
As I return the books to the shelves, a leather-bound text catches my eye.
I slip it from the shelf where it’s wedged, only to realize it’s not a book.
It’s a journal. Flipping through the pages, I realize the initial section is a town ledger.
Each entry is a historical timeline of events that surround the legend’s entirety.
A few things are incomplete, but it’s the most meticulous recounting I’ve found so far.
I begin my transcription, turning pages and becoming enthralled by the tale as my pen moves.
Then I notice there are pages missing. Not that they weren’t recorded, but that they were torn out completely.
The rough edges down the center of the record break my heart.
I take a picture of them, lest I be accused of damaging property, but more for the fact of recording it.
Assuming they haven’t been destroyed, my new mission is to find these pages and learn what someone wanted to keep a secret . Maybe I’m uncovering things after all.
Sure, some things are better left buried, but that’s not the type of person I am when it comes to history and preservation.
Hours pass, and my stomach rumbles. I haven't eaten all day and am paying the price for it now. I gather a few texts that are in line with the journal and make my way to Mrs. Abernathy.
“Find what you were looking for?”
“Yes, ma’am. The lore is magical and enthralling, much like the town itself. I was wondering if these are allowed to be checked out?” I set the small stack on the countertop, and she looks them over.
“I don’t see why not. Just handle them with care, please.” She starts to process them, and I speak up, nerves twisting my stomach.
“One of them has pages ripped out. Would you know anything about that?” She looks at me over her glasses before she pushes them up.
“We received this collection as is. I know what pages you mean; it likely happened decades ago. The collection is from the Van Tassel estate. If you’re looking for more information, best to start there.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but thank you. I’m acquainted with Kurt, so I’ll reach out to him.” She gives me a nod before gathering my books into a brown paper bag.
“Iris,” she starts, stopping me in my tracks. “Please understand, not everything is meant to be found, child.” Her words are kinder than the woman’s yesterday, but they still chill me to the bone.
“Yes, ma’am, thank you again.”
When I step outside, a flash of blond hair I've become too familiar with catches my eye.
“Kurt?” I call, turning for a better look. “Are you waiting for me?”
“I figured you could use a nice walk back, not accosted by the residents.” He falls in step beside me, and I appreciate the sentiment.
“Thank you, that’s very thoughtful.”
“I finished my evening run and ran the odds that you would stay until Mrs. Abernathy turned the lights off.” I laugh and look over my shoulder toward the towering library.
“You assumed correctly.” There’s a pause in the conversation, and I work up the nerve to ask Kurt outright. “Tell me, do you know about a journal holding the history of the Headless Horseman?”
“I know there are a few out there.” His shoulders stiffen, but we walk on. He isn’t fully cold and closed off, but he is beginning to get cagey.
“I was thinking you might be able to help me after all; Mrs. Abernathy said this journal came from the Van Tassel estate.” I pull it out of my bag, but with one glance, he turns away from it.
“I don’t know,” he says, looking everywhere but at me. “How about we talk it out over coffee and breakfast tomorrow? You bring your questions, and I’ll do my best to answer what I can.”
“That sounds nice.” We walk on in silence after he tells me to meet him at our regular run-in spot just down the street.
At the inn, he bids me a good night, and I walk back to my room.
It’s been a long day, and as night falls, I’m drawn to the window once more.
I pull a protein bar from my bag and unwrap it, taking a bite and only mildly enjoying its taste.
The fog rolls in by the bridge, and I desperately want him to show himself to me. If he even knows that I’m watching.
I wait and wait, but there’s no Horseman tonight.
I’m early for our breakfast meeting, but it gives me time to prepare and settle my nerves. The town is touchy about the Horseman legend, their supposed secrets, and Kurt is very reluctant to share anything. Going over the questions in my head, I wonder just how many answers I’ll actually receive.
The door chimes and Kurt walks inside, waving to me before going to the counter to order.
He sits down in front of me, and I pull out the ledger and my notebook full of research haphazardly compiled.
Tonight, while I wait for the Horseman’s appearance, I’ll organize them as I transfer them to my computer files.
“Right to it, I see,” he notes, discomfort returning to his posture. He was the one to propose this, but now it seems like a mistake more than anything of use.
“I’m sorry. It’s just really important I know about this. There are pages missing, and like Mrs. Abernathy said, this came from the Van Tassel estate.”
“No, I understand. It’s okay. I just wish I was able to help more. I personally haven’t seen this journal before.” He takes it from my hand and flips through it. “It’s likely this was donated long before I was born. But I will say, it’s the most accurate recount of the history.”
“That’s helpful, at least. I want to use it as my main source of information. Do you think the missing pages are still at your family home?”
“I don’t,” he replies, giving me the journal back as he sips his coffee. “Given the age, I’d just resign myself to those being lost.” And that is all he had to offer. It feels like a done deal and a dead end in his eyes.
“As an historian and a Van Tassel, do you know what’s missing?” This question gives him pause. Pride and regret wash over him.
“The Van Tassels were one of the founding families of Sleepy Hollow, and we’ve been here for generations. What I think would be best is if you visit the historical society. The pages could easily be there.”
“Could you take me?”
“I have to be at school soon, but we can go when my last class lets out.”
“Thank you, Kurt. You’ve been a big help.” Though it feels like a lie slipping from my tongue with the nonanswers I’ve been given, he’s at least trying. And that’s more than most have done during my visit.