Page 3 of Headless Over You
I race out of the inn, not giving anyone time to strike up a conversation with the town’s strange visitor, not that they would, and bolt straight for the bridge.
Loose gravel and dead leaves crunch under my sneakers as my feet pound the ground. My breath comes out in small clouds in the cool air. I’m not built for running, especially in the fallweather. My lungs are burning, but my pace doesn’t slow as I look around, making sure I wasn’t followed. Kurt was adamant that I stay away, but the promise of a mysterious headless being beckons me. The need to uncover the truth of the legend scratches at the surface of my being. Curiosity killed the cat but saved the writer.
At the dirt trail entrance, I slow to a walk. My chest heaves as I move forward and take in the scene. The bridge is old, and rather than a headless hazard, I fear the weatherworn wood breaking away into the river below. I walk the length of it, pulling out my notebook and phone, and wood creaks beneath my weight. It’s damp and as full of life as Sleepy Hollow, and I continue forward until I reach the end.
In the dirt, I spot an imprint and move closer. It’s a horseshoe. I take a picture and make a note, but disappointment fills me. There’s only one, and it’s not going in any direction but toward the bridge. There’s no telling where it came from along the path.
Putting away the notebook, I get the sense that I’m being watched. And while it is entirely possible that someone in town with a vantage point noticed me, it feels close by. I pull out my recorder and turn it on.
“Hello?” I call out, holding it close to me as I look around. Nothing speaks back. Though, what headless man could? “My name is Iris . . . and that’s silly to put out there.” I laugh to myself.
I stand and walk back through the bridge. The river below gives me no clues as the water rushes gently over the stones on the bed. With nothing and no one coming forward, I turn off the recorder and stash it back in my bag.
I take my time walking back to town. I don’t know what I hoped for or expected, but disappointment stirs deep inside me. I reason with myself that maybe he only comes out at night.Didn’t the myth portray that as well? There were many tales of many origins, but I doubted a ghostly being was bound to a curfew in the spirit realm.
If that’s the case, it’d be even easier to come when no one was around. Warning or not, I would be at that bridge when night fell.
Breaking through the tree line off the path and onto the sidewalk, I spot a somewhat familiar silhouette.
“Kurt?” He turns around and smiles at me. It’s genuine and the happiest look I’ve seen in the past twenty-four hours.
“Iris! How was the library yesterday?” he asks, coming back toward me. I scrunch my face together.
“I didn’t get very far,” I admit. “An old woman harassed me outside, and I decided to call it a day and settle in instead.”
“Probably a wise decision,” he agrees. His smile has fallen, but he doesn’t look quite as stern as before when discussing the history and locals.
“She talked about things being better left buried. I’m not here to uncover anything, you know? Just to write and research.” Why did that feel like a lie? My instincts are screaming that what I’ll learn will in fact uncover something, but is that my intent?
“Discernment isn’t this town’s strong suit,” Kurt reveals candidly. “The elderly, especially, are wary of new visitors. I’d take it with a grain of salt and get back in the saddle.”
“I’m on my way there now, actually. It was great running into you again, and this being a small town, I expect to see more of you.”
“I can’t wait.” He continues his walk. I take off in the opposite direction, to the other half of town.
The library is old, the brick work crumbling and the paint on the wood chipping, but it has a magical charm about it. Most libraries do; that’s why they’re my favorite places to be.
As I walk inside, I’m assaulted by the scent of old paper and bound leather. It’s so unique to the library, I wish I could bottle it up and wear it. There are endless rows of old and new texts, but I stop at the checkout counter first. No one is here, but there’s a small silver bell. I ring it and wait.
An old woman ambles from a back room and up to the counter. She’s so small, she hardly stands over the counter. She pushes her glasses on a beaded chain up her nose and peers up at me.
“Hello, dear. I’m Mrs. Abernathy. How can I help you?”
“I’m Iris Crane.” I extend my hand. “I’m a professor at Indiana University, and I’m in town to research the legends of Sleepy Hollow. I’m writing a novel based on the Headless Horseman, and I’m wondering if you have any original texts I could reference?” She draws her mouth into a thin line, clearly anxious, but her shoulders do relax a fraction as she turns and points.
“Over there, dear.” It’s still the kindest interaction I’ve had outside of Kurt.
“Thank you, I appreciate it.” Counting it as a success, I make my way over to the section she pointed out. It’s caked in dust. I do my best to clear off spines as I collect different texts that pique my interest.
There is a table with chairs nearby in the same condition, and I take my seat, clearing everything off in the same manner. I sneeze as the dust settles around me and make a note to pick up allergy medication from the drug store before I venture back here.
I don't know what has the people of Sleepy Hollow so nervous over research. I don’t see the harm in coming to a town to gather authentic lore. It’s better than the wild tales on the internet that twist fact and drama to fit a narrative. Authenticityis a special interest of mine, and to be able to sit and bask in it is something else.
Pushing those thoughts aside, I dig into the texts. My notebook is alive with ink and the sound of pen scratching over the paper in a rush. Quickly, I discover there are conflicting tales even at the source. While a few details remain the same, mostly the maiming and killing, there are vast differences in the origin of the Headless Horseman.
I note these with an annotation that I can simply choose which origin I like best moving forward. As I return the books to the shelves, a leather-bound text catches my eye. I slip it from the shelf where it’s wedged, only to realize it’s not a book. It’s a journal. Flipping through the pages, I realize the initial section is a town ledger. Each entry is a historical timeline of events that surround the legend’s entirety. A few things are incomplete, but it’s the most meticulous recounting I’ve found so far.
I begin my transcription, turning pages and becoming enthralled by the tale as my pen moves. Then I notice there are pages missing. Not that they weren’t recorded, but that they were torn out completely. The rough edges down the center of the record break my heart. I take a picture of them, lest I be accused of damaging property, but more for the fact of recording it.
