Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones Read online

  A strange, butterflies-in-the-stomach sensation rose within him. He’d never felt anything like it. Not on the dance floor with Kate. Not when reading an object. Never. Energy rose and spread and coalesced. It raced down his arm to his hand still pressed to the shards of the cookie jar.

  As if on film run in reverse, the shattered pieces gathered and connected and fused back together. A blinding light flashed. From his palm. He pulled his hand back and gaped at it.

  The apple cookie jar lay completely intact. Not a crack, not a blemish, as if plucked from the dime store shelf on the day Eliza bought it. He ran his fingers around the inside. Smooth and slick. It was perfect.

  Jason hugged his pillow, eyes wide.

  What the hell just happened?

  Charley barked twice, staring at an empty corner, and extended a paw as if to shake hands with the invisible.

  Hadewych Van Brunt lay on expensive sheets in a comfortable bed. He’d parted the drapes to welcome the distant lights of Philipsburg Manor and the moon over the Hudson. A diffuse icy glow lit the room. He lay on his back, hands behind his head, and stared at the wide water-stain on the ceiling.

  He was happy.

  Once upon a time, he’d saved his nickels to buy this house. Agathe Van Brunt’s house. The matriarch’s house. Hadewych’s ancestor Brom Bones had built it for his beloved mother. A generation later, Brom’s son Dylan lost it as the family sank into poverty. The house had passed through lesser hands for more than a century, leaving the Van Brunt descendants homeless in every sense of the word. But thanks to Hadewych, this small piece of former glory belonged to the family again. Thanks to Hadewych Van Brunt. The boy from the shelters. The boy who did what was necessary.

  And wasn’t the honor and dignity of the Van Brunt family worth the life of some foolish old woman?

  “There’s no magic to make it 1850 for us, son,” his mother had said, back in their homeless days. “You have to work twice as hard as everybody else, understand?”

  Hadewych had nodded and promised but his mother had been so wrong. About everything. He listed her rules:

  “Don’t cut corners.”

  “Don’t look for shortcuts.”

  “No freebies.”

  “Shirkers don’t eat.”

  “Lazybones sleep outside.”

  But Hadewych had cut corners, had found shortcuts, had lied, had stolen and had even murdered. But he wasn’t sleeping outside, was he? No. Not him. The boy was sleeping outside, out in the cold garage while Hadewych had the master suite, a warm bed, and this magnificent view. Hadewych opened the drawer of his nightstand and withdrew a heavy bar of gold. He yawned and wiggled his toes, turning the bar in his hands. How have I done so well in life, he thought, when I was raised by such a fool?

  Midnight struck.

  The Sandman had come. A few faint notes drifted through the rooms of 417 Gory Brook—the hollow wind testing the weatherproofing, the weak skritch of the persimmon tree against Zef’s window, and the drone of Hadewych’s snoring. The old house shifted, creaked, and the shade of Agathe Van Brunt descended from the attic…

  Brom? she called.

  The ghost paused, collecting herself on the stair. She passed a mirror but the glass remained empty, reflecting only absence. Agathe would not have recognized herself, anyway. She had been beautiful, long ago, and still was, in her own mind. Not a toothless and wizened specter. Not a blue chalk sketch of a hag half-erased from the blackboard of night.

  She drifted into the master bedroom, disappeared into a shaft of moonbeams, and reappeared on the other side. She stood over Hadewych, listening to him snore. Agathe will help you, she thought, you weak men have always needed Agathe’s help. But Hadewych was not Brom. She needed Brom.

  She slipped through the floor, into Zef’s bedroom. She stood over him for a long time, listening to the persimmon tree’s weak coffin-scratch on the window screen. She thought of bells in cemeteries, bells attached to underground chains for the salvation of the prematurely buried.

  Brom?

  No. This was not Brom. Not Brom her son. But she loved this boy. So much hidden potential. He reminded her of Dylan, her grandson. Dylan had slept in this room—many, many times. But Dylan was dead, never to return. This boy—Zef—was alive. So alive. Oh! Would that he might remain so forever. Look at him. Who would consign such a handsome lad to the rot of death? Only a very cruel and blind God. Agathe brushed her spectral lips to Zef’s cheek.

  “Go into your closet and pray,” she whispered.

  He stirred, scratched the spot, and rolled into his pillow. But Zef was not Brom. Where—

  Oh.

  Brom is dead.

  She remembered now.

  Brom is dead and so are Hermanus my husband and Hans my brother and old Baltus Van Tassel. And Katrina. All dead. Only old Agathe remains, after a fashion, to trouble the world.

  Her sense of herself sharpened and returned to her. She searched the rooms for the Crane boy. Where had he gone? Had he run away? No. She sensed him. In the carriage house. She drifted shadow-less across the yard, unseen by the moon. She passed through the walls of the carriage house. Yes, here was the boy. Sleeping fitfully, holding his animal. She extended a hand as if to reach into Jason’s chest and take his heart in her talons. The dog woke, sensing Agathe’s presence, and growled.

  Growl till your voice cracks, cur. I could kill this child myself. I could possess the man or the boy. I could take the butcher knife from the drawer. I could stride through the night in strong male form and dissect this child at my whim. But I cannot rob my Monster of his victory. He must kill the boy himself. When he is strong again. And he will be—

  Something struck her. Something blasted her up and away from the boy, through the walls of the RV. Her form shattered and she lost herself, becoming a mere mist above the lawn. She collected her energies again and tried to re-enter but could not pass through the walls. She hovered silently above the lawn, her mind filling with outrage and suspicion. When she found her voice it came as hollow and cold as wind through a tomb.

  “Who is here?” Agathe whispered and her tone might have withered grass. “Show yourself.” She waited with growing confusion and anxiety. She threw herself forward and battered the door like a tempest. “Who is here?” she cried.

  But no one answered.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Erased from History”

  Sie sterben an der Brücke…

  Sie sterben an der Brücke…!

  Sie sterben an der Brücke…!!

  Jason woke with a shout, his heart pounding, his arms and legs tangled in blankets. He hit his head on the top bunk again.

  He calmed. His breathing slowed. He did his usual morning check to make sure he had all his body parts. Head. Fingers. Groin. Check. Check. Check. Oh, the Nightmare had been terrible this time. The water, the hatchet, the Monster standing above him and…

  Sie sterben an der Brücke…

  He blinked. He had heard that distinctly. Something had growled it in the dark… just before he woke. A cold voice, full of hatred.

  Sie sterben an der Brücke…

  Sie sterben an der Brücke…

  That was new. But what did it mean?

  He grabbed the Gatewood Guide, found a red pen, and wrote the phrase on the cover, guessing at the spelling. He stared at the red letters, feeling uneasy.

  His eyes fell on the intact cookie jar. Yes, that had actually happened. He looked at his palm, peering intently at it, looking to see if he’d grown tiny light bulbs there. How could your skin make a flash of light, anyway? Did Edison know about this? He considered. Kate was the only other person he was sure had a Gift. She had told him that it was like a muscle, that fighting off ghosts made you stronger—if you didn’t die. He’d faced the Horseman so it stood to reason he’d be more powerful. But had his Gift… changed? Could your Gift change over time?

  Time.

  What time is it?

  Oh, hell.

  He’d forgot
ten to take an alarm clock into the RV. He stuck the Gatewood Guide under his arm and limped for the house.

  The sun was high and he was late for school.

  “Good Morning, Sleepy! It’s Turkey Week and you know what that means! Calories! Fitness room schedule is today, Wednesday, and Thursday.”

  Jason’s math teacher, Mrs. Thorstenson, scowled up at him as he shuffled past her desk under cover of the morning announcements. Her disdain was obvious.

  “And you fast, fast girls, if you plan on joining winter track, please meet up with Mrs. Koenig after school today by the gymnasium near the trophy case.”

  Narrowed eyes followed Jason. Fists closed around potential weapons: a black or red pen, a needled compass, the blade of a protractor. The whole class looked ready to pounce and math him to death. He found an open desk. Kids shifted away, rubber hooting across tile. A girl with gauged ears spun in her seat, scanning his forehead as if looking for horns.

  “Debate team will meet today at four p.m. for a mock trial on the subject of youth vandalism. Room 314. And that’s the Sleepy Report! Gobble gobble, everybody!”

  Someone tossed a note onto Jason’s desk. He sighed and unfolded it.

  WE’RE GOING TO THROW YOU THROUGH A WINDOW

  He looked around and saw seven or eight kids nodding.

  This had become his day-to-day existence. Sleepy Hollow survived on tourism. The church was a landmark. It was in the Legend. Of course they hated him. His desk felt like a tiny island in a sea of contempt.

  He left math class by the door, thankfully, and limped to history. The morning sun would be pouring through those south-facing windows, right behind Kate Usher. Maybe he could get some time alone with her and tell her what had happened with the cookie jar. Or just look at her. That would be okay too.

  Mr. Smolenski intercepted him outside Room 216 and waited until the hall had cleared.

  “Didn’t Principal Grayson tell you?” he said.

  “Tell me what?”

  “You’re not in my class anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  Smolenski looked pained. “I wouldn’t be able to grade you fairly. I’m on the board of the Historic Preservation Society. That makes me the man who has to repair the Old Dutch Church.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’ve made my life hell. The village council wants it done by October but it has to be done right. I’ll have to steal money from the preservation of Philipsburg Manor or Sunnyside. A lot of kids won’t get their field trips because of you.”

  Jason’s brows knit. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it. You may not know this but you were almost expelled. How many weeks did you get?”

  “Of community service? Thirteen. But I’ve already done two of them.”

  Smolenski looked away as if he couldn’t stand the sight of Jason anymore. His voice had remained level and professional but that made things worse, somehow, as if Jason didn’t deserve to see his emotions. “Your punishment’s not up to me, fortunately for you, but I will not teach history to a student who…” His anger flared. “…who pisses on it.”

  “I don’t. I love history. It’s the one class I do love.”

  Mr. Smolenski shook his head. “Actions speak louder than words. Mr. Wollenberg has agreed to take you. It’s room 315. You’ll fit in there.” Smolenski opened the door and strode back into class. He clapped his hands. “Napoleon! The great Napoleon! Who can tell me where Napoleon was exiled?”

  Jason raised his hand and leaned into the room. “Elba,” he said.

  Smolenski didn’t turn. “Anybody?”

  Jason raised his hand higher. “They sent him to Elba, sir.”

  “Anybody else?” Smolenski pulled the door shut.

  Jason jumped back. He stared through the little window, trying in vain to find Kate. The lock turned. He lowered his hand and limped away.

  Mr. Wollenberg taught civics by omission. He slept and the class got a lesson in anarchy. Butts shifted from seat to seat. Cell phone conversations overlapped. Two brunettes texted each other across a distance of three feet. One girl drew hearts on her own hand with a red sharpie. A freckle-faced boy picked at an omelet, trying to remove bits of bell pepper. Someone rapped, unconvincingly.

  Jason took a desk in the back. He sniffed the air, smelling pot.

  Eddie Martinez slouched by the open window, grinning. He took a drag off something and flicked it outside and into the bushes. Jason shook his head. Eddie could get away with anything. He was The Monster, number twenty-five, star player of the Sleepy Hollow Horsemen. Even if that meant nothing to his teachers it still gave him command of a small army of grunts—his Sleepy Hollow Boys—and everybody in school feared that Mongol horde.

  Jason took the Gatewood Guide from his backpack and ran his finger over the words he’d written on the cover.

  SIE STERBEN AN DER BRÜCKE

  He took out his phone and went online to Google Translate. He tried Dutch, first, since it seemed like everything Sleepy Hollow-related was in Old Dutch. No luck. The words sounded German so he tried that next.

  Yes. They were German.

  The easiest word to figure out was “Brücke.” Jason felt a crawling sensation up his back as he stared at the result.

  [SIE STERBEN AN DER] BRIDGE

  He worked backwards, producing:

  [SIE STERBEN] AT THE BRIDGE

  “Sie” was “You”, so the phrase was:

  YOU [STERBEN] AT THE BRIDGE

  You what at the Bridge? He plugged in alternate spellings of “sterben” until he got his answer.

  DIE

  He stared at the screen, mouth agape. He didn’t know German. He’d never studied it. He wasn’t particularly good at languages, either. But somehow he’d dreamed:

  YOU DIE AT THE BRIDGE

  He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. Was the Nightmare… a vision? A memory? A message? From whom? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. You die at the bridge… He stared at the words, hoping he’d made a mistake—that he’d heard wrong, or translated wrong. But he hadn’t, and he felt certain that the warning… or threat… was directed to him. Something bad was coming. And a feeling of dread rattled all his nerves, like the rumble before an avalanche…

  “How’s it going, Ichabod?”

  Jason jumped, startled. Eddie Martinez loomed behind him like a semi tailgating a tricycle. “Where you been?” Eddie said, in that mock-friendly tone so familiar to every bullied high-schooler. “We thought the Horseman got you.” Eddie whistled and a few Sleepy Hollow Boys gathered around, swinging football helmets. “Tell my boys what you told my dad. In jail, he says, like, ‘Officer Martinez! I had no choice. The Horseman come after me.’” One boy gasped and pretended to faint. One turtled his head into his letter jacket and menaced the group. “The Horseman got all up in his business. That’s what you told my dad, right? Sounds like somebody got wasted that night. You party, Ichabod? You a user? I don’t see any tracks. That why you all skinny?” Eddie flicked Jason’s ear. “Ichabod…” he sing-songed, “the Horseman’s comin’…”

  Jason swiveled in his chair. He’d taken enough crap for one lifetime. “Which Horseman? The Headless one or the brainless one?”

  Eddie blinked once. His fist flew like a cannonball and struck Jason in the shoulder. Jason and his desk tipped over and crashed into a girl across the aisle. The girl’s desk tipped over as well, throwing her and her laptop to the ground with a clatter. All the kids laughed, especially Eddie’s Boys. Wollenberg awoke. He raised an empty coffee mug and slammed it down. The class quieted. The girl rose, retrieving her laptop, and found the screen shattered. She looked at Jason with withering hatred. Eddie was grinning, leaning back in his seat. Jason righted his desk again. His hand went to his mouth. He’d split his lip and his fingers came back bloody. He picked up the Gatewood Guide and sat, trying to ignore Eddie and his boys. He stared at his book, at the new bloody fingerprint on the cover next to the words in red ink.

>   SIE STERBEN AN DER BRÜCKE

  “The Horseman’s gonna get you,” Eddie whispered.

  “The Horseman’s gonna get you,” repeated the others, drumming on their helmets.

  “Clippety clop,” said Eddie.

  “Clippety clop,” said the boys.

  “Clippety clop clippety clop clippety clop clippety clop…”

  “I am having such a great day,” said Joey, grinning at Jason. “Look at me!”

  An enormous collage hung near the auditorium doors. It looked like something you’d see on the news after a national tragedy. A banner read JOEY OSORIO GET-WELL WALL. Students had scrawled messages of support (“Feel better, J!” “HANG IN THERE!” “LOVE YOU!!!”), some had stapled carnations, some had pasted newspaper articles—articles about Joey, his coma, his miraculous recovery. An album sat on a music stand, filled with pictures of Joey: his eternal grin, smudged gravedigger face and shock of black hair, singing with Hollow Praise, wearing cardboard buckles as an extra in The Crucible, in choir robes, on field trips, at cast parties. The wall dripped with get-well cards both handmade and store-bought: Hello Kitty smoking a thermometer, puppies in casts, Winnie the Pooh with a pot of hunny marked ‘Rx’—healing thoughts and prayer requests and guardian angel blessings. It was an outpouring, no, an explosion of Joey-love.