Page 21 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow
At best, this re-creation is a desperate old man’s delusion. At worst, it’s a vindictive bastard trying to punish me from beyond the grave. Re-create the scenario so it’ll all be too much, and I’ll flee, to spend the rest of my life knowing I could have been rich… if only I’d been stronger.
If that’s his plan and he’s watching, he’s going to be disappointed. I’ll leave still knowing my dad is a killer but with the money to help my mother.
You lose, Grandpa.
Iwillpay a price in mental torment and emotional trauma, but I’vechosento pay it, and that makes a difference.
I slide into that bed, with my old stuffed cat Blinky, feeling those warm sheets, smelling the freshness of them, and I am a child again. Safe and loved and enjoying my perfect summer break.
Tears spring to my eyes, but I don’t even stay awake long enough to cry. I’m in my old bed, and it is so damned easy just to close my eyes and drift off. Before I do, the last thing I hear is the memory of my parents talking in the kitchen, as they always did after I went to bed. Dad is saying something and Mom is laughing and the little girl in me smiles and cuddles down with her stuffed cat and falls asleep.
I startle awake to the sound of hooves pounding hard dirt. I wake, gasping, ears straining until I realize what I thought I heard and I have to laugh under my breath.
The headless horseman rides again.
I shake my head. Of course, there’s no sound of hoofbeats once I’m awake. It’s just me and Blinky and the ticking of my old alarm clock.
How many times had I woken in the night and sworn I’d heard hooves? My cheeks heat as I remember how I’d rush out to tell my parents.
I heard him. The horseman. I heard him outside.
Mom had always fretted at that. My grandfather’s stories were clearly giving me nightmares. Dad said no, listen to my voice, look at my face. Iwantedto see the horseman.
He was right, of course. Maybe it’s because “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” was such an old story, like a fairy tale, set too far in the past to be frightening. Maybe it’s because the story is—let’s face it—a little ridiculous. New schoolteacher comes to town and sets his hat on the girl from a wealthy family. His rival tells him the horseman story and then chases him and throws a pumpkin at him. Oh, I know, the ending is supposed to leave that open to interpretation, but even as a child, I never envisioned an actual horseman throwing his actual severed head. The implied explanation had been clear to me.
The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow was as fake as a Scooby-Doo mystery. I wantedourhorseman to be different.
I wanted the magic.
I smile to myself and walk into the living room. It’s warm. Normally, we’d open the windows facing the lake, but I can’t do that if there’s someone squatting on the property.
Gail and I will check out the shed in the morning. If someone’s been living in there, I can hope that once he realizes the property is occupied, he’ll leave. If that seems unlikely, I’ll need to tell Ben. That’ll be awkward, but heisthe caretaker. I’ll only contact Sheriff Smits if the squatter seems dangerous.
I hate to drive someone off. That’s such a rich-landowner thing to do. There’s plenty of space. But Gail and I are two women surrounded by acres of forest, with no neighbors for a mile. We can’t have a strange man camped a few hundred feet away.
We’ll figure it out. For now, the windows stay shut, which is making for a very stuffy night. At the very least, we need to invest in fans.
I head for the front window. I’ll crack it open enough to get a breeze and cool off. I’m reaching down to do that when I spot lights on the water.
I squint. I’m wearing glasses—I have contacts during the day. My glasses, though, are several prescriptions out of date. I can see lights on the water, but that’s it. Boats? I squint more. No, I don’t see anything floating on the surface. Even the lights seem to be under it.
Okay, that’s weird. Lightsunderthe water?
I briefly wonder whether I’m actually awake. After Dad died, I’d started sleepwalking. Mom kept finding me in his office at home, wandering around as if looking for him. Once she’d found me out back in his toolshed.
I’d gone to therapy then, with someone Gail had recommended, and my therapist had explained that the sleepwalking was a manifestation of my trauma. I haven’t done it in over a decade, but every time I see something questionable at night, that’s my first thought.
I peer at the lights. It must be something bioluminescent under the water. I’ll need to look that up in the morning. For now, it’s kind of cool. It’d probably be even cooler if I were wearing my proper prescription. Or maybe it wouldn’t be. Put on my contacts, and I might realize I’m just seeing reflections from light pollution.
I pull open the window. And the stench of something dead blasts in on the breeze. I fall back, hand to my nose. Then I quickly shut the window.
I’d forgotten that part of cottage life—the smell of decomposing critters. Of course, I used to get that in my apartment, too, when Lucille would actually bother to kill a mouse and leave it under the sofa. Dead mouse, though, smells a whole lot less than dead deer or dead raccoon.
I shiver. There must be a carcass between here and the lake. Add cleaning that up to my to-do list. One advantage to having been med-school-bound is that I’m not freaked out handling a dead animal. I used to find them fascinating, crouching to examine them and identify what I could. My own childhood anatomy labs.
I stand at the window as sweat dribbles down my temple. Lights dance under the water, and I really do hope it’s not a trick of the light. It’s so pretty. I’m tempted to slip outside and get closer, dead-critterstink and all. Except there’s more than a dead critter out there. I don’t want to bump into the squatter.
I sigh, take one last look at the lights, and head back to bed.
