Chapter 3
Iclose my suitcase and stuff it under the bed. The room feels both foreign and familiar. Mine but not. The door to this room must have been kept closed for some time, as there’s a faint smell of mildew in the air, but there’s also a hint of old wood and the lingering scent of lavender.
I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over the dresser chair. Kick off my boots. Well, I may as well have a look around.
Stepping out into the corridor, my footsteps are somewhat muted by the threadbare carpet, although some of the floorboards squeak under my weight.
The house seems to breathe around me, a symphony of groans and creaks as I make my way down the long, dimly lit corridors.
Shadows lurk in the corners, where the weak light from the sconces fails to reach.
Just as I remember, the upstairs is a warren of rooms, but most are empty, or the doors are locked. The brushed brass doorknobs are cool under my touch, and I feel like an intruder, quietly skulking around a space that isn’t mine.
Turning a corner, I come to a long hall lined with a gallery of portraits.
The Van Tassel family. They loom over me, and I swear their eyes track my own as I pass from one end of the corridor to the other.
Ancestors whose names I struggle to remember.
The Van Tassels have lived in Sleepy Hollow for a hell of a long time, and the further down the corridor I go, the more elaborate the dresses become.
As I walk back along the corridor, a small hatch in the ceiling catches my eye.
It occurs to me that if my mother left anything behind all those years ago, then it might still be here, put into storage.
If I haven’t come across anything down here, perhaps it was moved to the loft space.
Everything here feels strange and unfamiliar.
It would be comforting to find something of my mother’s, to have it here with me. To feel connected to her in this place.
I find Meredith in the flagstone kitchen, hands dusted with flour as she kneads a fresh ball of dough. Her eyes well with tears as I ask about the attic.
“Oh love, I understand. Yes, I suppose if your mother did leave anything behind, Philip probably would have had it moved to the attic. Although I can’t really say for certain what is up there,” she says.
She disappears into a side room and returns holding a heavy metal torch.
“I don’t think the attic light has worked for years,” she says handing over the torch. “Be careful up there.”
In all the books I read, the stepmother is always such a bitch. What a shocker that Meredith is actually nice.
I don’t waste any time climbing up to the attic, but once there, I’m disappointed to find that despite its size, the torch casts a surprisingly weak light.
Luckily, the sun is on the right side of the house, and it’s coming in through a large, triangular window, which illuminates most of the bigger things up here.
Outside, I can see the grounds to the back of the house, stretching out towards the forest. I can even see the old family mausoleum, standing just before the line of trees.
I hold the torch down low to try and see where I’m stepping. The floorboards here are bare and thick with dust. The high wooden trusses are solid, and I can almost feel them holding up the weight of the enormous roof pressing down above me.
I shine the torch around the vast space, but there’s not much up here.
I find a stack of boxes under a dust sheet, but they’re only filled with old papers, the corners yellowed and curling, the ink already faded.
There’s a big dresser full of china plates and cups with saucers, all with intricate, lacy blue patterns.
On the other wall is a double wardrobe, which I discover is filled with fur coats, and the cloying smell of them hits me as I pull the doors open, making me cough.
I don’t think my mother would have worn any of these.
Turning away, I spot what looks like an old travelling trunk squatting in the far corner.
It’s a hulking great thing, dark leather with straps and metal buckles to keep it shut.
Like everything else up here, I have to wipe away a layer of dust before I can look at it properly.
I unfasten it, unsure what I’ll find. I don’t think this was my mother’s either.
It’s far too old-fashioned and looks like it’s been sitting here a long time.
The lid is heavy, and I struggle to pull it open.
There’s not much in the trunk, except for what looks like a pile of old fabric.
I pull it out, wrinkling my nose slightly at the stale, musty smell that comes with it.
As I turn it over, I realise it’s a dress — one that looks like it came straight out of a Jane Austen film.
It’s pale cream, floor-length and lacy, complete with corset, which makes the fabric heavy in my hands.
I stand and hold it up against me. Definitely not my style. Plus, the bottom is dirty and torn.
As I go to fold the dress back inside the trunk, I notice something else resting at the bottom.
It’s dark in colour, almost as dark as the bottom of the trunk itself, which is why I didn’t see it at first. But there are little, golden metal corners that glint in the weak light of the torch and catch my eye.
Reaching down, I pull out a book. It’s made of a leather similar to the trunk, with a leather string binding it closed.
Turning it over, I see that it’s embossed with three golden letters.
KVT. My initials.
Intrigued, I open the cover and fan through the yellowing pages. They’re filled with flowery, sloping cursive handwriting. Every few pages starts with a date, penned in on the top right-hand corner.
I realise it’s not a book, but a diary. And from the apparent age and the initials on the cover, I’m guessing it must have belonged to my namesake, the original Katrina Van Tassel.
My father has told me about her before, his however-many-times great grandmother from the early 1800s.
But I’ve never seen this diary or heard him mention it before. I wonder if he even knows it’s up here.
I skim through the pages again. It’s a fascinating glimpse into the past. My namesake, who lived in this very house all those hundreds of years ago. I can almost picture her walking the corridors in her long, lacy dress, a candle held out delicately in front of her.
I place the dress back in the trunk and carefully shut the lid. But I keep the diary with me.
Returning down the ladder to the upstairs landing, I have no idea what to do next.
It’s so strange being in a house that I hardly remember, with so much free time but absolutely nothing to do.
Still holding the diary, I make my way down the grand staircase, back to the ground floor.
My hand rests on the smooth, cold wood of the banister.
I remember my mother warning me to be careful on these wide, red-carpeted steps, which are so easy to trip on.
I imagine my foot catching the edge of a stair, sliding over the worn carpet and tumbling down, down to the glossy floor below.
Thankfully, I reach the bottom of the stairs safely, and down here, the tiles of the entrance hall are cool under my socked feet.
Mid-step, I become aware of music. The faint strains of piano keys, halting and hesitant as if the player is unsure of their next move. In the quiet of Van Tassel Manor, the fractured melody carries through the stillness.
Curiosity quickens my steps as I go in search of the music. I follow the halting notes down the long, dark-panelled corridor, the sounds of the piano growing closer and clearer. Finally, I reach a door at the end of the hall. It’s slightly ajar, and a warm slice of light spills out through it.
I push the door open, and the music room reveals itself to me, unfolding like a memory.
I pause, leaning against the door frame.
I can almost see my mother sitting at the piano against the far wall.
Floor-to-ceiling windows are framed by gauzy curtains that flutter in the breeze from the open panel, capturing dust motes dancing in the breeze.
The walls are lined with shelves haphazardly stacked with sheet music and books on composition.
Although I’ve only actually met him a few times at family get-togethers over the years, I immediately recognise the boy sitting at the piano as my half-brother, Toby Van Tassel. Next to him, a man with dark hair and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows guides Toby’s hands gently.
“That’s it,” he says. “Don’t just play the notes, but feel the pauses between them as well.” His voice firm but encouraging.
As I move further into the room, Toby turns.
“Kat! When did you get here?” He jumps up from the bench and crosses the small room quickly to hug me. I stumble back under his enthusiasm as a surprised laugh escapes me.
“Only an hour or so ago. I’ve just been upstairs unpacking,” I reply, still smiling.
The man rises, leaning over to pick up a music book from the stand on top of the piano and the movement makes me look up. Toby notices my inquisitive glance and introduces us.
“This is Professor Crane, my music teacher.” He indicates the man standing by the piano. “I’ve only been learning since the start of the year, but the winter recital is coming up, so Professor Crane is giving me extra lessons at home.”
Our eyes meet for a moment, and I can feel him studying me. The light from the window cuts across his features, catching dark, piercing pupils.
Crane moves forward, extending his hand and I take it. His palm is warm and dry, and I feel a small electric buzz run through me when we touch. He’s tall and lean, his shirt showing off muscled arms.
“Ichabod Crane.” He lets go of my hand but doesn’t break eye contact. “You must be Katrina Van Tassel. Toby here has been telling me all about you, his big sister from the big city.” His voice is velvety, and I can still feel where his hand held mine. Like I’ve been scorched.
I feel myself blush under his gaze, and I wonder what Toby could possibly have told him.
“Professor? Do you work at the university with…” I start to ask.
He cuts me off. “Your father? Yes, I can’t seem to get away from you Van Tassels.” He chuckles at Toby’s look of playful offence.
I can’t help but notice that Ichabod looks very young for a professor, and I only just manage to stop myself from making the observation out loud. Instead, I gesture to the piano. “Do you make house calls for all of your students?” I raise my eyebrows.
He smirks. “Only the ones who have grand pianos lying around.”
Touché.
He notices the diary in my hand. “And ancient libraries, apparently. Are you reading anything good at the moment?”
I hold it up, looking at it in my own outstretched hand. “Oh, this. I found it in the attic. I think it’s the diary of my ancestor, the original Katrina Van Tassel.”
Toby furrows his brow slightly. “How have you had time to go in the attic? You said you only just got here!” he asks, and Ichabod and I exchange a look of being caught out over his head.
“Well, that diary had better not be cursed. You know how these things go — find an old book, start reading, and the next thing you know, you’ve unleashed the curse of The Mummy,” Ichabod jokes.
I smile, holding the diary closer to my chest. “I haven’t had a chance to read any of it yet. But if any ghosts or ghouls come spilling out, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“Ah well, this would be the perfect setting for it,” he chuckles. “This house does have a bit of a ghostly charm.”
“I can see that,” I say nodding slowly. “I don’t think I’ll be here for long though.”
“Oh?” Ichabod asks.
“This house… This place. It’s not for me,” I say, tears tingling threateningly at the back of my eyes.
“Of course it’s your house Kat. You live here with us now,” Toby interjects. He bends down and picks up a bag by the foot of the piano. “Thanks, Professor Crane. Same time tomorrow?” he asks as he heads for the door.
Ichabod nods. “Yes, keep up the good work, Toby. Great session today.” He begins to gather pages of sheet music into a leather satchel. “I’d better be getting back to the university before they miss me. It was nice to meet you, Katrina.”
I like the way he says my name — almost a bit too much. This could be dangerous. I don’t want to become entangled with anything that Sleepy Hollow has to offer.
“You too, Professor Crane.”