Chapter 19
The university towers over me, dark and foreboding.
The building is all sharp angles and soaring spires, not unlike Van Tassel Manor.
Its dark stone walls are streaked with age, and ivy creeps up the side like skeletal fingers.
Gargoyles perch along the roofline, their weathered faces watching me with strange, empty eyes.
Tall, arched windows give away nothing of what’s going on inside.
The whole place hums with a heavy presence.
What the hell is going on? Why has Ichabod been brought here?
When I reach the main doors, they’re locked tight and won’t budge. I press my hands against the thick wood. I’m sure Ichabod is inside. There must be another way in.
I look up at the sheer walls, searching for an opening. There’s nothing on the front of the building. Carefully, I start to circle around to the side. At this hour, the university feels abandoned, but I know there must be at least a few people inside.
Around to the left, I finally spot a small window cracked open on the ground floor. Bingo.
Bracing myself, I hook my fingertips over the edge of the window and hoist myself up, feet scrambling to find some purchase in the ivy. Once my feet are on the windowsill, it’s easier, but I’m still breathing hard as I wiggle through the gap and land with a soft thud on top of a metal cabinet.
For a moment, I just lay there, catching my breath.
Slowly, I start to take in my surroundings.
The room is dimly lit from the open window, but the sharp smell of cleaning products burns my nose, and I suspect I’m in some kind of caretaker’s closet.
As I lower myself to the floor, I start to question what I’m doing.
I still have no plan. I’ve broken into a university, and I might not even find anything.
Why am I even here? What does the university have to do with anything?
Well, I certainly won’t have any questions answered by lingering in here. I cross the small room in a few steps and press my ear to the door. I can’t hear anything outside. Thankfully, the door handle turns easily. I take a deep breath and step out into the corridor beyond.
When I step into the hallway, I hear the first scream.
It sounds like Ichabod. His voice echoes down the corridor, raw and desperate, each shout slicing through the stillness of the university’s empty halls.
I turn towards the sound and start running, my footsteps beating a frantic rhythm against the lacquered floor.
I don’t know where I’m going, I’ve never been here before. The air is thick with chalk dust, making it hard to swallow. Ichabod cries out again, and I use his voice to guide me through the labyrinth of corridors.
I skid to a halt outside a set of double doors.
I hesitate.
Suddenly, I’m not so sure I want to know what’s on the other side. But Ichabod’s shouts tell me he’s in trouble. I steel myself and push the doors open.
And stop dead in my tracks.
I’m looking at what I assume must usually be the university’s food hall.
Long, wooden tables are pushed up against one wall and a shuttered hatch takes up most of the other.
But everything has been pushed aside, leaving a large open space in the centre of the room.
It’s scattered with red candles, their flickering flames casting distorted, writhing shadows against the vaulted ceiling.
Wax drips down onto the flagstone floor, pooling like blood.
Three men stand in a semicircle facing me, robed all in black with hoods drawn low over their faces.
They startle at the sound of the opening doors, and I can just make out their faces in the flickering candlelight.
I don’t recognise two of the men, but the man in the centre is my father.
He stands rigid, his expression unreadable.
And then there’s Ichabod.
He’s bound on a makeshift altar at the feet of the robed men.
His wrists and ankles are secured with torn strips of material.
His shirt has been ripped open, exposing the lean lines of his stomach, rising and falling as he struggles against his restraints.
Lying on his back, stretched out, his face is contorted in fear.
I take it all in in a fraction of a second.
Then the man on the right moves forward, and I see the glint of a blade in his hand. It’s a long, curved knife, its wicked sharp edge gleaming in the low light. My stomach drops.
He’s seen me, but still he raises the knife. He’s going to kill Ichabod.
I shove the doors open the rest of the way with a force that sends them crashing back against the stone walls.
“No!” I shout, my voice echoing in the big, empty space.
My father falters, raising his eyes to meet mine. Ichabod takes advantage of the pause and rolls off the altar with a defiant twist, landing on his knees. Hands still bound in front of him, he tries to shuffle back and away from the three men.
The man with the knife takes another step forward.
My father looks deep into my face for just a beat. Then he holds up one hand.
“Enough,” he says. His voice is filled with authority, but something more. He sounds defeated.
The room stills. Then, almost reluctantly, the man lowers his knife and steps back.
My father slowly reaches up and lowers his hood, the other two men following his lead.
Ichabod shuffles closer to me, and I move forward, putting myself between him and the improvised altar.
His breath is ragged as he looks up at me, relieved and disbelieving.
I face my father, my voice coming out as little more than a whisper. “What is this?”
My hands tremble as I take in the scene before me — the candles, the robes, the curved knife. It’s like some kind of ritual. Some kind of cult sacrifice.
My father hasn’t answered, and the silence grows between us.
I can’t tear my eyes away from him. It’s as if a cold wave of realisation has crashed down around me, numbing me to my core.
Has my father been involved in the deaths in town? Is he in league with the Horseman somehow? Is that what this is all about?
My father, who I’ve barely reconnected with since being back in Sleepy Hollow. Who kept warning me of the dangers, to stay inside after nightfall. He’s involved in this, part of something dark.
Finally, he takes a step towards me, and I recoil.