The Devil's Patch (Sleepy Hollow Horrors, Book 2): The Hunt For the Foul Murderer of Ichabod Crane: Sleepy Hollow Horrors, #2

By Austin Dragon

This is not the fake, Hollywood-style Sleepy Hollow American television series. This is the true, terrifying story. The Devil's Patch! Book Two (and conclusion) of the Sleepy Hollow Horrors by Austin Dragon. Ten years ago Ichabod Crane disappeared! The Horseman took him—like so many others—one dark night in 1790. All that remained of the town's amiable schoolmaster was his hat on the side of the road, with a shattered pumpkin beside it. But soon the fearful townspeople of Sleepy Hollow realized that the terrifying Horseman, that haunted their region for ages, had also disappeared, inexplicably, after that night. They were free! Then a lone Julian Crane—Ichabod's nephew—arrived in Sleepy Hollow. He was friendly enough, well-mannered, charming, but he hid his true intentions—his personal hunt for the foul murderer of his dear uncle—and he single-handedly turned Sleepy Hollow upside-down in his quest of vengeance. Now he knows the truth of who killed his uncle—and the many, many other victims—and that murderer is not a man of flesh and blood. But can he and his Super Posse stop this evil thing? They are no longer in Sleepy Hollow. They have tracked it to its accursed domain—The Devil's Patch. Will Julian, or any of them, survive the wrath of the Headless Horseman?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Dragon
• Release date: Mar 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9780990931539

Austin Dragon

Austin Dragon is the author of over 30 books in science fiction, fantasy, and classic horror. His works include the sci-fi noir detective LIQUID COOL series, the epic fantasy FABLED QUEST CHRONICLES, the international futuristic epic AFTER EDEN Series, the classic SLEEPY HOLLOW HORRORS, and new military sci-fi PLANET TAMERS series. He is a native New Yorker but has called Los Angeles, California home for more than twenty years. Words to describe him, in no particular order: U.S. Army, English teacher, one-time resident of Paris, movie buff, Fortune 500 corporate recruiter, renaissance man, futurist, and dreamer.

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Introduction

My part in this horrific affair began five years ago. My parents had learned of the death, indirectly through third parties, two years after the original event in, of all things, a ghost story, and inquired further. When I became aware of the tragedy, I took the inquiries upon myself until I came to know a man named Diedrich Knickerbocker. It was his last post, in our nearly one year correspondence, that not only gave the fullest account of the alleged circumstances of the original event, but also the surrounding background and details. It was that letter that precipitated my quest, which, unsurprisingly to all who know me, evolved into my current situation.

In the late autumn of 1790, Ichabod Crane, a well-likeable schoolmaster in the New England town of Sleepy Hollow, disappeared in body from the face of God's Earth. Folks say in whispers what they refused to say aloud—he was 'taken' by the chief spirit that haunted the Hollow—the Headless Horseman.

Aye, this Headless Horseman. Some say, this horseman was bewitched by a German warlock in the earliest days of colonial settlement. Some say, an ancient Indian chieftain and sorcerer held dark pow-wows on the very land that is the Hollow. The Horseman, who, as legend has it, had his head carried away by a cannonball in the War, haunted the Hollow's valley in his nightly quest for his head. This Horseman is a giant of a man—albeit headless—in black clothes and a massive cloak, sitting on a fearsome black horse. This Horseman chases his unfortunate mortal victim, rising in his stirrups to throw its dreadful pumpkin, then passes by like a whirlwind, and disappears into the night.

Aye, they would declare, the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

I, however, believe in no such feeble supernatural tales, though the simple people of Sleepy Hollow regard them as unimpeachable certainties. However, the murder of a man, in all my considerable experience despite my youth in age, remains the province of other men of flesh and blood, and not ghosts and boogiemen. The Foul Murderer of Ichabod Crane is whom I seek. And when I find this man, without any hesitation to burden myself with any civilized reflections or academic considerations in 'seeking justice and not revenge,' all irrelevant to my purpose and irrelevant to my hunt, I shall kill this devil.

— Julian Crane, nephew of Ichabod Crane, 1800

Part I

THE HESSIAN

Death in Sleepy Hollow

Hello, my name was Ichabod Crane. I'm dead.

His very eyes bulged from their sockets. His teeth jutted forward from his wide-open mouth, unable to scream. His ponytail flew and flapped behind his head, and his hands clutched his horse, Gunpowder, with inhuman strength borne out of the depths of panic.

Ichabod rode the horse out of Sleepy Hollow in the grips of incredible terror. The ground was ripped up with the terrible force of his horror-stricken horse as both man and beast disappeared into the night.

In close pursuit, the black goblin horse appeared with its huge, misshapen, towering rider—a glowing pumpkin already in the rider's hand. The rider had neither neck nor head on his shoulders. They raced after their prey like an unstoppable force.

It was a fall day in 1790, and it was Ichabod Crane's last night—last day—alive.

More Hollow Blood

My name was Finn Shaunessy. I'm dead now.

It was a fall day in 1790 . . .

The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Hessian, or simply, the Horseman. These were all the most common names for the demonic thing that reigned over the night in this haunted region of the Hudson River Valley, known as the Tappan Zee. All these names were written in the outer margins of the page.

The crude sketch was unmistakable. Shaunessy stared at it in his little journal with its well-worn, brown leather cover. He flipped through the pages of his detailed handwritten notes, and then paused to glance back at the sketch again. He closed it, bookmarking it with a folded letter.

How reliable is the postal service in these parts? he asked.

The general store was well-stocked with everything from dinnerware and glassware to woven clothes of varied colors, men's clothing and women's dresses, and fresh and dried vegetables. He was only interested in some buttons to patch up his extra shirt, candles, coffee, a few books, and some candy.

The storekeeper, a large man with red-freckled skin and a bushy red mustache, stopped his vigorous sweeping of the floor.  He looked at the journal and letter in Shaunessy's hands.

If you post it, it will get to the person you send it to. When? I couldn't say. Where's it going?

Manhattan.

The storekeeper nodded. It will get there fine. He gestured with his hand to follow and walked to the front counter; leaning the broom against the wall.

Shaunessy joined him at the counter. He hesitated as he looked at the journal again.

Changing your mind? the storekeeper asked.

Shaunessy thought for a moment, then decided. I'll send it. But I'll most likely get home before it arrives.

I can package it for you, too.

Thank you kindly.

The storekeeper moved to a shelf to grab the packing materials.

Is there a local tavern you'd recommend?

Eating or drinking?

I'd like to do both.

If you want a good meal, then I'll send you to one place. If it's to get drunk, then I'll send you someplace else.

Drinking. Shaunessy looked down at his hands. I may need a bit of extra courage tonight, he said, almost to himself.

I won't tell you your business, sir, but normally when you need extra courage to do something, then you probably shouldn't do it.

Shaunessy chuckled. I would have said no different to my own son. He's headstrong like me. No. I have to go through with it. It's the culmination of years of research and planning. I intend to be a famous man. I'm a writer by trade, and I have the story to make my historical travelogue so famous that it will only be surpassed by the Holy Bible in popularity.

Famous, huh? The storekeeper looked up at him for a second with a grin as he continued to package up the journal with a letter.

I shall be the only man to come face-to-face with the Headless Horseman, himself, and live to tell the tale.

The storekeeper stopped wrapping and looked up, his mouth hanging open.

Tarry Town's main tavern was overflowing with rowdy patrons. Not a single man was without a drink in hand; some had a drink in each hand. Shaunessy, like every other customer who wanted to be served in the establishment, had to push his way through the crowd to the main bar and one of only two servers.

What's your pleasure, sir? the average-looking, dark-haired barman asked.

Shaunessy leaned forward on the bar, eyeing all the bottles in front of him.

Quite a fine selection, sir. You have me stumped, and it's quite a feat to stump Finn Shaunessy when it comes to the drink. A fine selection you have. A very fine selection. Shaunessy covered his eyes with his open hand and then randomly pointed forward with his other hand. That bottle. He peeked from behind his hand. Start with that one. Line 'em up. He grabbed one of the empty glasses on the bar and turned to face the customers in the establishment, raising up the glass. And line them up for everyone! Compliments of Finn Shaunessy!

The tavern erupted in shouts of joy as men moved to the main bar.

That's mighty generous of you, mister. The only other man in these parts as generous is Brom Bones.

Who might he be?

Of late, the wealthiest man in these parts.

Then there's no competition. I'm generous, not wealthy.

Men in the tavern approached him to give thanks. Finn got his first drink, and the barman emptied one bottle in glass after glass for each man, and then got another bottle to continue.

Whereabouts are you from, Mr. Shaunessy?

Down by Manhattan, presently.

Ah, I've been there. Family?

Lovely wife and a son who's growing into a fine man.

What brings you here? asked another man.

Finn Shaunessy began to laugh to himself. Ghosts. He gulped down his second drink. He then turned to another man, seeing an untouched mug. Shaunessy grabbed the mug out of the man's hand.

Ghosts? the man asked.

Shaunessy began to drink again. I've always wanted to see a ghost with my own eyes, and everyone in the last town told me that if that's what I'm beggin' to do, then this town is the place to go.

Where did they tell you to go?

Sleepy Hollow.

This is not Sleepy Hollow, mister. This is Tarry Town.

Shaunessy stopped drinking for a moment. They told me the wrong place?

Not the wrong place. You're just two miles shy from the right place. It's the next town over.

Shaunessy smiled and started to drink from his glass again.

But . . . why would you want to meet ghosts? People run from ghosts, not to them.

"I'm writing the official, accurate account of this region entitled, The True Supernatural History of the Hudson Valley: Ghosts, Strange Happenings, and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow."

What Legend are you speaking about, mister?

The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow, of course, Shaunessy replied.

Outsiders call it the Legend, one man said to another.

At first, the men surrounding him, sloshing back their drinks, paused. Was he playing a joke on all of them? After a moment or two, they realized he was serious.

Is this you talking or the liquor, mister?

Shaunessy laughed. Good question. Probably more drink than me, at this point. But we both are saying the same thing.

You're mad. You find the Horseman and you'll never be seen again, one man said.

It finds you, and you'll never be seen again, said another man.

Shaunessy answered, I doubt that. Many people have seen it, and they are still alive. Otherwise, there would be no Legend. In fact...

Because it was after someone else, a man interjected. That's the only thing that saved their lives.

What do you mean? Shaunessy asked.

It fixes on one man and ignores all others when it rides to attack, the man answered.

Shaunessy nodded. I surmised the same thing, but...There are many accounts of sole riders, or sole travelers on foot, in its domain falling prey.

But none of those accounts are true, the same man countered. Any man by himself would be taken, and no one would ever know—unless there was another witness.

You're very certain of it, Shaunessy noted.

The man was tall with a large mustache, stubble for a beard, and he wore a long tan coat that almost touched the ground. Shaunessy glimpsed a gun belt underneath.

I'm a lawman, the man answered. But not in these parts.

What you're saying is that some of the ghost stories of the Horseman are true, and some are not.

You can tell when a man has genuinely seen the Horseman with his own eyes and those who're just telling tales.

Shaunessy asked, What's your name, sir?

Damian Marshal.

Have you seen the Horseman, Mr. Marshal?

The lawman paused as everyone in the tavern watched the exchange between the two men.

I have.

A tipsy Shaunessy staggered out of the tavern arm-in-arm with a dozen other drunk men. All of them singing the same drinking song.

Shaunessy, you are in no state to go looking for the Horseman, one man managed to say, slurring every other word. You are in no state to ride your horse. You are in no state to walk in the road. You are in... The man tripped over his own feet and fell face-first into the dirt. The crowd of men began laughing hysterically. A couple more men stumbled and fell to the ground, causing another outbreak of group laughter.

Shaunessy jumped up and down in place and then shook his head back and forth. I'm going!

Going where, Shaunessy? To see the Horseman?

If I were doing that, I wouldn't be here the whole night drinking with you fine men. I'm going to bed.

The men laughed at him. Courage has left you? one man said.

Not the courage. The warmth from my bones. It's too cold. I can only be brave on warmer nights, so I'll settle, figuratively and literally, on a warm bed instead.

Men began to laugh again.

Where's my horse? Shaunessy asked.

A few of the men grabbed him and walked him to the livery stables. Most of the men were local, so with the spectacle over; they began walking home, calling out goodbyes to their drinking friends.

Shaunessy saw his horse, ran to it, and hugged it. The laughs began again, and then intensified when he tried unsuccessfully to get on the horse.

Shaunessy, you can't even mount your own horse. Walk the horse.

Get me up. I'll manage.

Two men pushed him up, and finally Shaunessy managed to swing a leg over and get on. He grabbed the reins and sat up, somewhat straight, to move his horse out.

Men waved and called out goodbyes as he rode out and left them behind.

Wait, wait, Shaunessy said to himself. Where am I going?

Where do you want to go? A sole man stood in the road with a lantern. His face was familiar.

Well, not Sleepy Hollow. I shall save that for another day. Which way to the inn? I have a rendezvous with a warm bed and good sleep.

The man smiled. The last inn on the way out of town?

Yes, sir.

Damian Marshal grabbed the reins of his horse and turned them around. He pointed down the road into the night. There. And you'll need this. Marshal handed him the lantern. Take mine.

Thank you, fine sir. Shaunessy waved him a goodbye and rode out again.

Shaunessy galloped past a few men slowly walking down the road to their homes in Tarry Town. The center man held their only lantern.

Isn't that the Shaunessy man?

Looks like him.

Why is the fool riding into Sleepy Hollow on a cold, dark night like this?

He wants to trade in being drunk and foolish with being dead and foolish.

Shouldn't we go after him?

It's his fortune to risk. It's cold. It's dark. There's not even a moon out. I gotta walk you two home and then get to mine.  I'm tired. No. Let him go.

A shivering Shaunessy turned up his collar, trying to cover as much of the open skin on the back of his neck as possible. He could see his breath more and more as his horse galloped along. The lantern was a blessing as it brightened the way, but it was also a curse. His left hand was painfully numb from the cold and holding the lantern's shiny, metal handle.

He glanced back and then swung the lantern to the front of his face.

I heard something.

He turned back around and dug into his horse's sides with his boots. Ya, boy. Move faster. Get us off this dark road and out of the cold. Why is it so cold all of a sudden?

Shaunessy got quiet. He held his head down as his eyes darted around nervously. He jerked his entire torso to look back again. This time, he stopped the horse.

Something's following me.

Who's back there? he called out. I am in no mood for pranks. Come out from back there.

It wasn't that the night was so dark. It was the rider behind him was so black. Shaunessy's eyes widened as the rider seemed to melt out of the darkness to meet the illumination from the lantern. Shaunessy froze