Page 36 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
Fuck. She just transformed this experience, turning it on its head for me.
Her footsteps are light as she leads me down the gravel path that winds through this so-called haunted forest. While annoyance still prickles me with the reminder of how this charade is beneath me when I’ve faced the true chills and spirits of this world, I could not be more obliged than to serve as her metaphorical protector.
As we step off the gravel path and into the forest, a pretentious air of dread defines our surroundings. She describes it, setting the scene.
Fake cobwebs cling to the trees, their dusty, synthetic threads curling in the wind. She mentions the occasional plastic skeleton with glowing eyes that dangles from a branch or leans menacingly against a tree trunk. Such pale imitations of the real haunt that lies deeper in the woods, the true macabre of three gravestones on my land.
Belle tells me of the luminaries lining the path, how they cast an eerie but also whimsical aura.
I can’t ignore the cacophony of sounds designed to unsettle: a distant howl of a mechanical wolf, a shuffling noise that could only be produced by someone in an ill-fitting zombie costume. It’s all so contrived, so painfully obvious in its attempts to frighten.
I internally roll my eyes as we pass a particularly gruesome display. Her words convey a gory tableau with fake bloodsplattered across the scene, the fake body parts strewn about in a grotesque parody of horror.
I’m hardly impressed.
Then, there are the people. Oh, the people. I’m forced to endure the sounds of individuals in ludicrous costumes lurking behind trees.
Belle jumps and squeals at all the right times, startled by a thrilling fear from the masked faces and histrionic creatures. More squeals and shrieks echo through the night as the actors jump out at unsuspecting walkers, their theatrics as predictable. A loud, exaggerated moan resounds in the air off to our left, one belonging to a “ghoul” as Belle relays. She gasps, clutching my arm with a mixture of fright and amusement. I barely suppress an internal muttering.
The whole thing feels like a mockery of real fear, an insult to the very notion of the real hell that I’ve experienced. The forest’s attempt at a haunt is so superficial that it’s almost laughable. What should be a chilling exploration of the dark and unknown is a slapdash collection of horror clichés instead. A charade and a parade.
Belle’s enthusiasm is the only redeeming aspect of this farce. She’s utterly captivated by the spectacle, her delight evident in every intonation leaving her lips.
I attempt to share in her enjoyment, but my patience is wearing thin. The sudden screams, the poor attempt of a growl or a snarl or howl, irritate my nerves. I can even feel the artificial mist curling around my legs from fog machines.
We reach a clearing where the forest’s attempts at spookiness culminate in a grand finale of flashing lights and a booming sound system playing eerie, distorted music. The forest seems to groan and shift in rhythm with the soundtrack, adding an extra layer of theatricality to the already excessive display.
With Belle so fully immersed in the experience, I begrudgingly admire her ability to find joy in such cheesy costumery and deception.
With a resigned sigh, I follow her deeper into the forest. The majority of spectators move in the opposite direction, butBelle is tugging me along, leading me off the beaten path. The sounds of the haunted walk fade in the distance as we trod upon high grass, thickets, and war with thick branches.
Wherever are you going, dear Belle?
“Out of sight,” she whispers.
Why?
“You’ll see.”
I assure you I will not.
Her snort is very un-ladylike. I look forward to taking a cane to her naughty bottom. Perhaps over my desk or dining table. A sight I truly long for.
A few minutes later, we are standing amid a circle of trees. Their fir needles brush against my back. But all I may focus on is Belle as she rises on her tiptoes and presses a tender kiss to my neck. A vein throbs there.
“Okay, here goes.” She takes a deep breath, takes one hand in hers, couples our fingers, and leans closer till she lays both our hands on my chest where my beating heart should be. “I know it’s been just one week, but I feel like I’ve known you forever. It sounds cliche, and maybe it is just this blood tether. But like I said, I am not letting you go, Jackson Elias Moore. I want to keep you. Everything about you. The gentleman and the rogue.
“You are the man who cleans my bookshop with me. The man my cat loves, and cats have very fine opinions about people. The man who hunts me at night and helps me with my farmer’s market finds. My Heathcliff with a tragic past.”
She lets go of one hand to cup my neck in her dainty palm. Oh, that I could but kiss that palm.
“I will do everything in my power to help you, Jack. Even if it takes a lifetime, even if you are headless the whole time, I won’t want anyone at my side but you. So, yes, my Headless Horseman. Tomorrow evening, I want to beyours—ineverydefinition of the word.”
Heated blood surges to my manhood while a profound sense of gratitude to the spirits overcomes me for this wonder of a woman.
Belladonna Holloway, are you asking me to fuck you tomorrow night?
“Fuck me. Take me. Love me. Everything, Jack. I’m yours.”
