Page 1 of Headless Over You
ONE
Iris
The driver slowsas we approach a stop sign. There’s a larger sign off to its right. It’s wooden, weatherworn, and remnants of paint flake off in the breeze. It speaks to the town’s ambience and overall vibe as we finally stop moving.
Welcome to Sleepy Hollow.
Autumn is in full swing. Bright orange and yellow leaves swirl, powered by gusts of wind. It’s dreary and foggy. The overcast sky blocks the sun’s warmth, and though the driver has had the heat on since picking me up from the airport, I pull my coat tighter around me.
“The inn is just ahead,” he says, looking both ways before pulling through the intersection. We’re on Main Street, passing historic buildings before we cross over an old bridge with a small waterway underneath. The myths and legends of its dark history are a contrast to its quiet and quaint existence. Sleepy Hollow appears to be just that, sleepy. Hardly a doomed and dreadful source of a curse.
But that’s why I’m here. I’m a folklore professor at Indiana University, and my present work has brought me to Sleepy Hollow for research. The lore of the Headless Horseman became too great to resist. I need to live and breathe the town’s history from the source. Everything is as I expected it, nothing fearful lurking in the shadows. Excitement swirls through me.
Residents take notice of us as we drive through and pull off to the side. As they pull their coats tighter and lean in closer to whisper amongst each other, the atmosphere changes slightly. Slowly, the street empties and the judgments are carried away on the wind.
I step out with the driver, and he heads to the trunk.
“Oh,” I say, reaching for the second bag as he sets the first on the ground. “You really don’t have to go through the trouble.” I slip him the fare plus a generous tip, and he waves my statement off.
“It’s none at all.” He climbs back into his car and leaves me with my belongings. The low hum of his engine fades away as he turns off Main Street.
I gather my things and walk inside as the wind picks up. An older woman sits behind a counter, and though she smiles at me, it doesn’t reach her eyes. There’s a small-town hospitality feel that’s mixed with trepidation and hesitation.
“Hello,” I greet her. “Iris Crane.” The woman doesn’t introduce herself. Instead, she looks down to a mess of papers as she scans for my name.
“Here you are,” she offers, handing me the key. “Mind the rules of the house, dear.” The statement has something unspoken behind it, but I let it hang between us as a kind reminder, giving the benefit of the doubt. Not everything has to be analyzed and read into, and sometimes it’s better to assume altruism first.
“Yes, ma’am, I will.” I walk upstairs and open the door with the matching number three on it. The room is curious, just like the town. I leave my bags, as there’s no time to waste. After locking the room behind me, I don’t offer the woman pleasantries as I exit the main foyer and step out onto the sidewalk. Wind rushes around me and leaves scatter over my feet as I look up and down the road.
There’s a coffee shop down the way, settled on a corner. Its brickwork is old, but there’s some newly renovated areas. As I approach, a woman ducks inside, her gaze averting from mine. The town’s quirkiness is becoming unsettling. Assuming kindness might be easier said than done with this less than warm welcome. The air stirs in the wrong direction now. It feels as though I carry a plague with the way they run away from my presence.
No, that’s not exactly right.
It feels like there’s a secret to keep away from me. Something they don’t want to share with an outsider, which is understandable to a degree, but it’s just folklore.
My hand on the coffee shop door handle, I give it a pull just as it pushes open with force and a man tumbles out. Our bodies collide and cold coffee spills over my shoulder and down my chest.
“I am so sorry,” the man says, his voice gentle and deep as he rushes to wipe the drink off my shoulder. “Come inside,” he instructs as he ushers me in. Napkins fill his large hands, and we work to dry the coffee as best we can.
“Thank you,” I reply, resigning to smell like an iced white mocha for the rest of my day.
“As far as shitty introductions go, I’m Kurt Van Tassel.” He holds his hand out for me, and I take it. His grip is firm and confident.
“Iris Crane.” I pump his hand; mine is slightly sticky from the drying sugar.
“That’s a beautiful name.” His eyes roam over me, stopping a little too long on certain aspects. He’s handsome, but in that playboy kind of way. Chiseled jaw, too much time at the gym, and blond hair that falls in a too-perfect way across his forehead. His skin is flawless.
“Thank you. It’s my first day in Sleepy Hollow, so my apologies for the spilled coffee. Not really the best first impression.”
“Oh, really?” he asks, brightening. “What brings you here? We don’t get too many tourists this time of year.”
“That’s a shame because it’s beautiful right now. The weather is nice and crisp, and the trees look magnificent.” I smile enough for polite conversation and then get back to moving it along from pleasantries. “I’m an author and a folklore professor. I’m researching myths for an upcoming book series I’ve been working on.”
“Ah, yes.” He takes a step back absentmindedly. “The legend of the Headless Horseman. That is a popular reason for visiting, though most stop at the museum and don’t stick around.” I watch as his demeanor changes. He’s reserved now, more cautious.Curious.“I’m a history teacher here.”
“Oh, that’s helpful. I was hoping to run into someone who could help me with my research. Though, I hadn’t meant literally.”
He clears his throat and looks off. “How about I take you on a short tour and show you the library?”
