Chapter 23
The Sleepy Hollow Historical Museum appears before us, its stone facade weathered by time.
We move quickly, our footsteps echoing against the empty pavement.
I texted Ichabod as we left the house, and he met us halfway.
He walks beside me now, hands stuffed deep into his pockets.
The atmosphere in our group is tense, but the two men have agreed to be civil, at least until we banish the Horseman.
Meredith follows close behind us, glancing over her shoulder every so often, as if she expects the Horseman to come charging out of the midday mist.
My father is leading the way, as though this was his idea. He walks with a determined stride, his shoulders squared, his head high, but I can see the knowledge that he is the last remaining target of the Horseman weighing on him.
I swallow against the lump in my throat.
The museum’s iron gates groan as we push through them.
The building is old, dating back to way before the Horseman first appeared in this town.
I can’t believe that just a few short days before, Ichabod and I had been here under such different circumstances.
How much had changed in such a small space of time.
The receptionist glances up as we file in.
“Sorry, loves, we’re closed for the day. Maintenance work.” She jerks a thumb over her right shoulder.
“We’re not here for the exhibits, Martha,” my father says, striding past her desk without waiting for permission. “We just need to access the archives.”
Martha half rises from her chair. “Um, Mr Van Tassel? Excuse me, but you can’t just…” she calls after him, but he’s disappeared around the corner to the left.
“Sorry,” Meredith offers. “Town business, you know. Urgent.” She smiles tightly.
Martha hesitates, then shrugs and sits back down. “Fine. But if anyone asks, I didn’t let you in.”
The three of us hurry around the side of the desk and towards the back rooms. Ichabod holds up a thick red velvet rope and we pass underneath. The deeper into the building we go, the colder it gets.
We catch up with my father in the archive room. It’s a vast space lined with bookshelves, stuffed full of yellowing documents and leather-bound ledgers. There’s a fragile-looking town map in a glass display case in the centre of the room.
I step forward, taking a deep breath.
“Okay, we’re looking for something from the late 1700s to early 1800s, right?” I look to my father to confirm, and he nods. “Anything at all that might mention the Horseman.”
“Let’s get started then.” Ichabod’s glee at being surrounded by so much history and research is evident.
We split up, each taking different sections of the archive.
I start with handwritten logs from the 1700s, scanning for any mentions of the Horseman.
My fingers tremble slightly as I turn the old pages, the faded ink making them hard to read.
They seem to be mostly stock and inventory records from the old farmlands. I move on.
Across the room, Ichabod is working silently, his brow furrowing as he sorts through a stack of old letters. My father is working his way methodically across the shelves nearest to me, and Meredith is sat on the floor, surrounded by loose sheets of paper.
The next set of files I pick up appear to be church records from the 1800s — attendance, births, deaths.
I flick through quickly. My heart rate spikes as I find mentions of strange happenings, reports of demonic sightings, burials of villagers found with their heads cut off. Prayers are scribbled in the margins.
I think I might be on to something.
The church was aware of an evil presence, one that was poisoning the town. I turn the page.
Blank.
And the next.
I fumble through the files, but the next entry I find reads like the ones at the front of the records. There’s a birth announcement, a wedding announcement, but no further mention of the Horseman.
I grit my teeth, replace the ledger, and keep looking.
I’m acutely aware of time passing. I check my phone. An hour passes. Then two.
I feel every second pressing down on me.
We find nothing.
“There’s nothing here,” I mutter, snapping the book in my hand closed and shoving it back into the stack.
My father exhales sharply and rubs a hand down his face. I avoid eye contact with him.
“I really thought we might find something that would help,” Meredith says, and her voice breaks into a sob. He crosses the room to put an arm around her shoulders.
I sigh and sit back on my heels. I had thought so too, and now we’re running out of time.
There has to be something.
I’m vaguely aware of the others talking quietly, but I’m lost in thought, chewing my lip.
Think. There must be something.
But there isn’t. Not here.
My head has started to pound and it feels like the walls of the archive room are closing in around me. I bring the tips of my fingers to my temples to massage them. I need coffee.
Wait. Coffee. The bookshop.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since coming to this town, it’s that Sleepy Hollow is steeped in the supernatural.
I didn’t want to accept it at first, but here we are.
Now that I think about it, even that police sergeant who’d laughed me out of the station must have been covering for the chief.
And where was I the first time I’d come across any mention of it?
The bookshop.
I think back to my second day in town, when Brom had shown me around, already knowing that I would like the place.
It had smelled of old paper and incense, and crystals had lined the walls.
The woman behind the counter had been adorned in charms, and she had been scribbling in that pentacle-covered notebook.
“Meet me back at the house,” I say abruptly, standing up to leave.
“Where are you going?” Ichabod asks, reaching for me.
“To find another option.”
Before any of them can respond, I turn and head towards the exit.
Across town, the familiar blue bookshop comes into view, nestled between two other brick buildings, its weathered old sign creaking in the breeze.
The window display has changed and now there’s an array of dreamcatchers, big leather tomes and a single black candle that flickers despite not being lit.
I push the door open, and a soft bell chimes above me.
Looking around, I see now that the shelves are packed with books on the occult, astrology and folklore. I guess I wasn’t that observant on my first visit. The same woman with the long, pale blonde hair is sitting at the counter, sorting through a deck of tarot cards. Poppy.
She looks up as I approach, smiling knowingly.
“Back so soon?” she asks.
I’m unsure where to begin, but there’s no time for hesitation as I’m on a deadline. Or rather, my father is.
“I need some help and… I’m looking for old stories, legends, information about… the Headless Horseman.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I heard you mention him the last time you were here. But you’re not a believer.”
“Well, I believe now,” I mutter darkly.
Time to cut to the chase.
“I need to stop the Horseman.”
The sparkle dies in her eyes and her back gets a little straighter.
“How interesting. I’ve been waiting for someone to come, ever since we sensed something had upset the balance.
Then the deaths. When no-one did, well, we were hoping it was a blip, and he had been caged once again.
I suppose none of us truly wanted to face the idea that he had crossed back to this world,” Poppy says, one hand on her chin, her eyes glazed and lost in thought.
“I wouldn’t have guessed you would be the one to come asking, though. ”
A prickle of hope flares in my chest at Poppy’s words, the same ones my father had used last night.
“It sounds like you know a lot about it,” I say.
“I know a great many things you won’t find in these books.” She raises her hands to indicate the shop and the volumes lining the walls.
I look around at the bags of herbs hung around the door and the windows, that spooky black candle, the tarot cards resting on the countertop.
The way Poppy is talking, of sensing things, knowing things, waiting for someone.
I want to laugh at what I’m about to ask, but this is Sleepy Hollow, and I guess I really am a believer now.
“Wait, Poppy, are you a witch?”
The corners of her mouth lift as she studies me for a moment and then motions behind the counter. “Let’s see how I can help. Come with me.”
She leads me to a small back room, softly lit with tealights. Back here, the shelves are lined with jars of powders, dried flowers, charms I can’t even begin to name. In the corner is a small table draped with black cloth. Poppy motions for me to sit.
As she putters around, picking items up, examining them, and then putting them back down, I give a quick overview of everything I know, including my father’s secret society.
“We’re almost certain the Horseman will come for my dad tonight, and I can’t let that happen.
If he… dies,” I stutter over the word, “the Horseman will become real, and he’ll be free to destroy everyone in the town.
There must be a way to stop him. We just need more time.
” I feel like I’m pleading, but I’m not sure who with.
Poppy nods calmly. “I’ve lived in this town my whole life, we can’t let that happen. I know the legends well, but we weren’t aware of this Order, as you call it.”
She’s collected an array of crystals, candles and small hessian bags, and she now deposits them on the table, taking the seat opposite me. She drums her ringed fingers against the tabletop, thinking.
“My family specialises in natural magic — healing, protection charms, tonics for health and wellness, rites to cleanse the mind and body.” She shifts in her seat.
“The Horseman is dark magic. He isn’t a ghost or a restless spirit, he’s vengeance given form.
My family has never dealt with anything similar.
Even with your father’s connection to this society you mention, you and your family are not strong enough to kill him. ”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” I try to hide the irritation in my voice.
“I believe there might be a way to trap him. It won’t bind him like before. But you said you needed time, and I think I can give you that.”
“Okay, how?” I lean forward, examining the objects on the table before me.
“This isn’t my usual kind of magic. It’s older, more dangerous,” she says reluctantly.
“You’ll need to create a circle using the salt and the herbs.
” She indicates the small bags. “And place the crystals and the candles at equal distances. Once the Horseman steps inside, the circle must be sealed with fire. That should hold him, at least for a while.”
“For how long?”
She hesitates, her shoulders dropping. “I don’t know. But long enough to get your father to safety.”
Her words reverberate inside me, as a new idea forms in my mind.
So stupid. Why hadn’t I thought of this before?
Poppy is packing the items for the ritual into a cream tote bag.
“Don’t hesitate. As soon as the Horseman crosses the boundary, light the fire.” She passes the bag across the table to me. “Good luck.”
I thank her, distractedly taking the bag. My mind is reeling, and I quickly check the time. Late afternoon by now. Still time.
Clutching the tote bag, I hurry out of the shop, where the autumn wind is whipping dried leaves up into the air. But inside, I feel calm. I have a new plan, and if we act quickly, I won’t need the witchy items at all.