Return to Sleepy Hollow

“You really mean to keep us here all night?” asked Harris.

“If you work fast, we might be away before daybreak,’ Jones said.

Harris pulled his shovel out of his bag. Its blade was still stuck with a dry layer of clay from its last ignoble venture. ‘I’m the best gravedigger this town ever had. Sometimes I get the grave done before the body’s finished dying off. Which one do you want?’

‘There,’ said Jones, as he gestured with one hand toward a relatively new gravestone. Among the crumbling and moss-ridden stones dating back to the seventeenth century, this stone looked almost lovely in comparison. Only a little lichen and erosion had touched it.

Someone had chiseled into the headstone, ‘Here Lies Brom Bones. Died 1814.'

Harris paused. ‘Old Brom? That’s who you want? He only died five years ago! I used to drink with ‘im sometimes.’

Jones said. ‘A body is a body. You were perfectly willing to dig up a stranger a few seconds ago.’

‘Fine, fine,’ Harris muttered. He walked to the grave, shook his head almost apologetically, and cut into the grassy ground with the shovel blade.

‘Ghastly,’ he muttered, but he pulled out the loamy earth and dumped it beside him.

‘How did he die? I heard the consumption got him but no one was sure.’

‘The consumption or something like it. His widow said he wasted away overnight. It looked gruesome, or so I heard.’ As he dug, Harris said, ‘Sorry, Brom. But times are tough.’

‘It’s perfectly natural,’ Jones said. “The most natural thing, a body in a graveyard. Unlike the other things in this town.’

‘What do you mean?’ Harris paused before digging up the next load.

‘You’re a gravedigger in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery,’ Jones said. ‘You should already know what I mean.’

‘Oh, those old stories? That’s old wives’ gossip. No one’s seen any ghosts here in Tarrytown for—who knows?’ He went back to his work. ‘Are you a superstitious man? You shouldn’t be spending the night in a graveyard if you are.’

‘I’m not superstitious. But I am a student of humanity, especially the myths and legends little communities share and build on. I had to come to this graveyard when I heard about Brom Bones.’

‘Why?’ Harris asked. ‘Brom didn’t believe in ghosts.’

‘I am not talking about a ghost exactly. It is the headless rider that I’ve come to study.’

‘The Headless Horseman?’

‘That’s right.’

‘That's just a Hessian mercenary hired to fight in the Revolution,’ Harris said. ‘He had an accident with a stray cannonball and lost his head. Was buried in this cemetery, though nobody knows where they buried ‘im.’

‘I am aware,’ Jones said. ‘But there have been many sightings since his death. The last one was about twenty years ago. When Brom was a young man.’

‘That was the last sighting of the horseman. Or at least they say it was.’

‘I’ve heard,’ Jones said. ‘I also hear it was an imposter. Someone only dressed as the Headless Horseman as a joke.’

For a while Harris said nothing, and only the sound of the shovel in the dirt could be heard.

‘I also heard that jokester was really Brom Bones’ Jones said. ‘Supposedly he was always making up pranks.’

‘He was,’ Harris said. ‘But it wasn’t one of his normal pranks. Some shabby bachelor came into Tarrytown for the teaching position at the schoolhouse. He was all skin and bones—he could have dressed as a skeleton at the Halloween party that year and everyone would’ve believed it.’

‘You mean Ichabod Crane?”

'Yeh.’

‘Yes. Is it true no one saw him again after Halloween that night?’

‘All they found was a broken pumpkin on the other side of the bridge,’ Harris said, ‘but no horseman. Everyone talked and the rumors lasted for years. Some say he ran off and found better lodging elsewhere, even found someone to marry ‘im. It was for the best that he left. He didn’t fit in with people around here.’

‘He didn’t leave exactly. He was chased out.’

“Same thing.’

‘Why would he do something like that to a schoolteacher?’

‘Did you hear about the rivalry between Crane and Brom?’

“A little. I thought the rivalry was his pranking Ichabod.’

‘That was at the end of it. They schemed for the same girl for a while.’

‘Would that be Brom’s widow?’

‘Yes, the one with a wealthy father. They both were at the party for Halloween. But Brom left a little early. He knew Ichabod’s weakness, that he was a superstitious fellow. So he snuck out and dressed ‘imself according to the stories about the Headless Horseman, got a horse and chased Ichabod Crane straight out of Tarrytown. Ichabod never even came back for his belongings. Of course, he didn’t really have any.’

“How did he make the costume?’ Jones asked. ‘I’d think that he wouldn’t be able to see.’

‘A cloak and jacket pushed up over his head, some slits to see out of. He’d bought a fresh pumpkin and carved it into a Jack-o-Lantern. And he’d made a large head of cheese to look like a man’s head. You’d think he’d have lost his sight or his bearings and fall off the horse, especially at night, but Brom had a way with pranks.’

'And Ichabod, being a superstitious already, assumed it must be the real thing.’

'Just as Brom hoped. Ran off with a borrowed horse and everything, like a real coward.’

‘Well, I don’t know if I’d call him a coward,’ Jones said. ‘If I saw a headless man riding toward me—especially given the stories about Sleepy Hollow—I’d be inclined to keep my distance.’

After a long spell in which Harris continued to dig, tiring more as the hours passed, Jones examined the moon and took a bright silver chain from his pocket.

‘What’s that?’ Harris said.

‘It’s for protection.’

“Protection from what?’ Harris eyed the silver.

‘Well, we know Brom pretended to be the Hessian twenty years ago, but how do we account for all the other sightings? One prank can’t disprove the legend.’

‘The legend was made up by superstitious settlers and drunkards,’ Harris said. ‘Even if you were right, what’s some silver going to do? The only way to escape the Headless Horseman is to make it to the bridge over the water. It’s how the story goes.’

‘As there is no running water and no bridge in the graveyard, I decided to take a chance with the silver.’

‘So you’re as gullible as Ichabod Crane,’ Harris said. ‘Is that why we’re out here? To summon the old Hessian?’

‘It’s a possibility. If the headless rider is real, I suspect that like the most specters and revenants of folklore, he would be a vengeful creature. And your local legend says he’s always looking for a head, no? Poor Brom might be a good way to appeal to both of his spectral instincts and lure him out.’

‘You are a real piece of work,’ Harris said.

When enough dirt had been cleared away, Harris got his rope and wrapped it around the casket. Jones continued to watch the moon. Technically, there was another way to defeat the Horseman—wait for daylight. But then his experiment would be botched.

‘Help me pull it out,” Harris said. He climbed back up and tossed the end of the rope to Jones. “It’ll go quicker with two of us.’

‘Pleased to help,’ Jones said. In the end, though, Harris ended up doing most of the work, and Jones burned his hands raw with the rough hemp.

When the casket was on flat ground, Harris shook his head. ‘Well, there he is. Old Brom. Your Headless Horseman.’

‘I need you to break open the casket, please.’

Harris took his crowbar and started at the lid.

‘Are you really trying to draw that spook here?’ he asked.

‘You say the specter is not real. So what does it matter?’

‘This proves you’re mad, trying to summon an imaginary creature.’

‘The Headless Horseman wants a head,’ said Jones. ‘And here could be a good candidate—the man who mocked him by impersonating him and his condition on Halloween night.’

‘You finish opening it,’ Harris said. He threw down the crowbar and stepped away from the casket, head shaking, eyes averted. ‘I can’t do it. This is wrong. Digging up an old mate for a madman.’

‘Consider it a prank, if you must.’ Jones picked up the crowbar and shoved it under the lid of the casket. ‘Either way, I’ll have more data to collect. All I want to know is whether or not the creature is real.’

He strained against the casket with the crowbar, huffing, as Harris looked on. Eventually, the lid broke free. Jones lifted the lid. For a moment, his eyes popped, white and vivid in the darkness. He lowered the lid and stepped back. ‘W-well,’ he muttered. ‘She lied—’

He held the silver chain and looked about the cemetery. His face kept shifting uncertainly, and he finally sat on a nearby gravestone, breathing heavily and muttering to himself.

‘What on earth is it?’ Harris asked.

‘It’s—a prank,’ Jones managed. ‘If you will. Does that mean I was—?’ He trailed off, the silver chain still clutched in hand.

Knowing he was only going to regret it, yet not able to go without knowing, Harris pushed the lid off the casket and peered inside.

‘His widow said—’ He stuttered and broke off. ‘Consumption! That’s what she said!’

‘She must have lied,’ Jones said. ‘To cover it up. The funeral was a closed-casket affair. It makes sense now. I was right, just late.’

Brom’s rotted body was in the casket, but the head had been cut clean off.

Fin.