The Lonely Hollow

By Christopher Weston

Irving Crane is not at all pleased with his family's move to quiet, rural Sleepy Hollow. He doesn't like having to start at a new school during his senior year. He doesn't like having to take care of his grouchy, nearly invalid grandfather. He doesn't like the way the locals make him feel like an outsider, or how the small country church doesn't

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cushing Publishig
• Release date: Jan 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9781963661057

Book preview

The Lonely Hollow

Christopher Weston

Cushing Publishing

http://cushingpublishing.com

Copyright 2024 Christopher Weston

ISBN: 978-1-963661-05-7

Cushing Publishing

P.O. Box 38

Middlesex, NC 27557

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means – whether electronic, mechanical, auditory, written or graphic – without the written permission of both the author and the publisher, except for excerpts required for reviews and articles. Unauthorized reproduction of this work is illegal and punishable by law.

Cover photo by Jim O’Malley

Dedicated to Washington Irving, author of the original tale, with my gratitude for all the hours of pleasure it has given me.

And to the memory of my grandfather. You were not an easy man to take care of, but I loved you just the same.

Author’s Note: While there is a town in upstate New York known as Sleepy Hollow, formerly North Tarrytown, which was the basis for Washington Irving’s classic legend, the town in this book and its inhabitants are entirely fictitious and products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities between the real town and the one depicted here are purely coincidental.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere…. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions…

Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Afterward

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Chapter One

The first thing that struck Irving Crane was how quiet the place was. The house sat in a remote and sequestered clearing at the end of a long, winding dirt road, a good distance away from the town of Sleepy Hollow. Having lived in rural areas for all of his seventeen years, Irving knew country life was considerably more peaceful than that in the city, but even he was surprised by the silence of the forest around the family’s new home. It wasn’t just the sounds of traffic and machinery and people that were missing: there were hardly any sounds at all. Even the mindless twittering of birds he’d always associated with wooded regions was conspicuously absent. It was as if the whole forest was locked in an enchanted sleep.

The spell was shattered quite suddenly when the front door of the house banged open, the noise reverberating in the stillness. Irving’s grandfather Henry Ripper peered out at Irving and his parents. That you, Alice? he bellowed. About time! You said you’d be here an hour ago!

Irving felt a hot, clawing emotion struggling up his throat but swallowed it forcefully back down, reminding himself, not for the first time today, to take several deep, calming breaths. And judging from the look on his mother’s face, he wasn’t the only one struggling to maintain a level temper. Sorry, Daddy, she called, adjusting the strap of the bag hanging off her shoulder. We got off to a late start.

Irving waited with clenched teeth for her to elaborate, silently daring her to explain just why they’d gotten underway a full hour after their planned departure time. After all, it wasn’t his fault that his horse had decided, out of the blue, that he didn’t want to get in the trailer. Gunpowder had never had trouble loading before, so how was Irving supposed to foresee that the gelding would choose that morning to decide that the trailer was actually a scary monster intent on swallowing him whole? But Alice said nothing more on the subject, hurrying over to her father and giving him a hug. She was quite tall, a trait she’d inherited from Henry, so she had to bend over in order to get her arms around him. Her long brown hair swept down into his face, but he said nothing. The old man merely raised one hand from his walker to return the embrace—rather halfheartedly, in Irving’s opinion—and then shuffled backward, letting his daughter into the house.

Irving’s father Ryan, a man of average height and more than average girth with the auburn hair he’d passed on to his son, started the process of unloading the overpacked interior of the car, a chore that would no doubt take the rest of the afternoon. Irving felt his heart sink at the prospect, but rather than lend a hand, he turned and headed to the rear of the trailer. He felt his father’s gaze on him but didn’t look around, instead lifting his eyes up to the slats and grinning as they met a large brown eye taking in its new surroundings. Smiling for the first time since leaving home, he said, We’re here, bud. Let’s get you settled in.

He opened the trailer door and stepped inside, and a moment or two later he guided the handsome dark-brown-and-white Paint gelding out into the brisk September air. The horse’s nostrils flared and his ears swiveled as he absorbed the sights, smells, and sounds of his new home. Irving wondered if he, too, noticed just how quiet the place was. Surely this level of silence wasn’t natural.

Apparently deciding the silence wasn’t offensive enough to warrant his attention, Gunpowder huffed and lowered his head to munch on the overgrown grass of the front yard. Chuckling slightly at this rather predictable behavior, Irving pulled on the lead line, forcing the horse’s head up. Gunpowder snorted irritably and Irving said, You’ll have plenty of time to graze later, bud. But right now, I need to get you to your new pasture.

He peered around the trailer and saw a small, rather ramshackle barn standing behind the house, and beside this was a moderate-sized paddock complete with rusty metal gate. It was smaller than what they’d left behind and Irving had some serious doubts regarding the safety of the stable, but it would just have to do. He led Gunpowder to the pasture, pausing to struggle for a moment with the gate, which obviously hadn’t been opened in quite some time. Then, once his horse was inside and gazing with mild interest around at his new dwelling, he headed back to the trailer to fetch his saddle, bridle, grooming kit, and other assorted horse-keeping supplies. These he took to the barn, which had a sort of tack room inside, though to Irving it was more like a broom closet. There was barely room inside to turn around, especially once his things were in place. The saddle rack alone almost spanned the entire width of the room. Irving sighed, wishing for perhaps the two hundredth time he wasn’t being forced into this change. But what was the good of useless wishing? He shook his head and headed back to the trailer to fetch the bags of horse feed and the bales of hay, making a mental note to inquire into where he would be able to buy more when the time came. And don’t forget to find a vet, added a voice in his head, and a farrier too. His insides squirmed at the thought of how much adjusting lay before him. He pushed these concerns aside for the time being, however, and once the grain and hay were safely stored in the little feed room attached to the barn, he finally started to help unload the car.

Nice of you to join us, Ryan remarked as his son pulled a box from the backseat.

Irving shot a glare at him and snapped back, So I should have left Gunpowder in the trailer all afternoon? Is that what you’re suggesting?

I’m not suggesting anything, his father said shortly, picking up his own stack of boxes and walking away toward the house, leaving Irving alone to grumble under his breath. A few minutes later he stood, arms laden with his personal belongings, in the entry hall of his grandfather’s—and now his—home.

Henry, Hank to his friends, was sitting in his chair in the living room as Irving passed. He’d once been a big, imposing man, but eighty-nine years were taking their toll on his physique. His back was permanently bent, and his clothes hung loosely on his bony frame. His head was bald and his eyes gray, and his teeth, while still his own, were yellowed. At the sight of his grandson, the old man smiled warmly. It was a much more welcoming expression than the one he’d worn for his daughter earlier. Hello, he called, and Irving paused in the doorway, hitching what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face. How are you?

Fine, thanks. How about you?

I’m doing fine, Henry said, waving a hand as if his own health was of no importance to him. And how’s Gunpowder doing?

Irving was delighted that his grandfather remembered his horse’s name. He’s good. He’s down in the pasture now, probably eating. Then after a slight pause he added, Thanks for letting him stay here.

It’s no trouble at all, Henry replied, and his eyes took on a familiar far-away look. Penelope was quite the horsewoman herself, you know.

Irving was no longer sure if Henry was speaking to him or reminiscing aloud, but he said in a purposefully light voice, Yes, I know. She used to let me ride her horse Samson whenever we came to visit. He was a good boy.

He was, he was. Henry sighed, and then to Irving’s horror his face seemed to crumple. She loved that horse, he said, and his voice was thick with tears.

Oh my God, not the crying again! Irving thought with sudden panic. He’d never found a way to properly deal with his grandfather’s random and abrupt bouts of emotion. It had been three years since his wife’s passing, yet he still got weepy at the mere mention of her, and these episodes always left Irving at a complete loss.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to come up with anything to say, which was perhaps lucky, as he couldn’t think of a single word to steer the conversation to happier topics. His mother came down the hall, saw the boxes he was carrying, and said, Come on, come on. There’s still lots to unload. We can all sit down and relax when we’re done.

When we’re done, I’m planning to hop on Gunpowder and go for a quick ride, Irving thought. But he didn’t say anything. He just nodded wordlessly and slipped past Alice, heading down the hall to his room to drop off the boxes. He cast a doleful eye around the small bedroom, which in the absence of an occupant had turned into a storage room for two lifetimes’ worth of memories. Boxes much like the ones he’d brought inside were scattered about in untidy stacks, filled to the brim with old photos, ancient business papers, dusty books, and God alone knew what else. Wondering vaguely where exactly he was going to put any of his own stuff, Irving set his belongings down on the bed, took another brief glance around, and then turned and headed back out for another load, trying to bottle the despair he could feel brewing in the bottom of his stomach.

Thankfully there wasn’t that much else to bring inside. The family had only packed their clothing and other essentials. The rest of their belongings—the furniture, the appliances, and everything else that couldn’t be packed into an SUV—were still locked away in darkness in their house four hours away. This move was only temporary, so there was no need to relocate everything or to sell their house. As he carried the last box inside, Irving wondered how long they’d be here, but as he could find no clear answer, he pushed the question aside and focused on the next task at hand: unpacking.

This undertaking soon proved to be rather futile. He opened the closet only to find that it was filled from floor to eye level with boxes with no room to spare for clothing. The bookshelf on the far wall was already loaded with books, and there was no space left for Irving’s own collection. Even the bedside table was cluttered, and he had to rearrange a whole assortment of odd little knickknacks just to make room for his few personal items: an alarm clock, a flashlight in case of power outages, the book he was currently reading (a horror novel about vampires—it was only September but he was already getting excited for Halloween), a framed photograph of him standing next to Gunpowder, and his phone were the only things he was able to fit onto it. He also managed to find a few flat surfaces where he could place a few of his books, but other than that his bags and boxes stayed pretty much as they were. He would just have to get used to living out of his suitcase until he was able to clear up some space.

He was suddenly overcome with a wave of hopelessness that threatened to submerge him, quite out of nowhere. His throat tightened and he found it hard to draw a complete breath. He turned around and quickly closed his door, not wanting either of his parents to see him until he had a chance to recover. There was a small square mirror on the back of the door with a jagged crack running from one corner to another. He gazed at it silently, and a tall, skinny boy gazed back with wide green eyes whose light seemed to be dimmed.

Stop it, he told his reflection. Get a hold of yourself. You’re not the first person to move from home or start at a new school, so stop moping and get it together.

He took another few seconds to breathe deeply, calmingly, and then he opened the door and stepped out into the hall. He found his parents in the kitchen, unpacking one of their many boxes and a cooler full of food. Daddy’s finally going to get some home-cooked meals for a change, his mother had said as she packed it that morning. This eating-lunch-out-every-day thing is going to stop.

Irving watched his parents for a few seconds, and then he checked the clock over the sink. He frowned and then looked at his watch. Was it really so late?

It was. Unloading the car and trailer had taken the better part of what remained of the afternoon. He turned around and hurried out the front door without pausing to tell a soul where he was going. The moment he was outside, the odd silence from before seemed to press in on his ears, and he marveled over it for a moment or two. This was by no means his first visit to his grandfather’s house, but he didn’t remember the quiet ever being this intense before. It was unnatural, almost eerie.

He shook it off and headed down to the barn to start his usual evening routine. Gunpowder, whose internal clock told him it was dinner time, was pacing back and forth in front of the gate with impatience, stomping his hoof occasionally. I’m coming, I’m coming, Irving called, and a smile turned the corners of his mouth. Quit acting like you’re starving.

Gunpowder merely snorted and continued pawing the ground, and Irving just rolled his eyes good-naturedly. This at least was normal, and he welcomed this one shred of familiarity. He walked into the feed room and started measuring his horse’s meal, taking his usual amount of care. Then he carried the bucket and a portion of hay out to the pasture. Seeing his master and, more importantly, his supper, Gunpowder let out a rumbling nicker of delight. He barely let Irving into the pasture before he shoved his head into the bucket in a rather desperate attempt to find his food. Irving, who was far too used to this behavior to be at all put out by it, merely pulled away and said, At least let me shut the gate, bud, come on!

Gunpowder ignored him and continued trying to reach his grain as though he hadn’t eaten in days. Irving chuckled and walked into the pasture until he came to a little rubber feed bin, and then he dumped the contents of the bucket into it. Gunpowder’s attention was immediately diverted, and he started munching away happily, barely even noticing when his master set his hay down beside him.

One-track mind, Irving remarked playfully, and then his own stomach gave a growl, and he added, Then again, maybe you have the right idea.

But he didn’t return to the house just yet. The very thought of going back indoors made his heart sink like a stone. Inside were all those boxes and cases, constant reminders that he was in a new place, and tomorrow he’d be starting at a new school for the one year he had left until graduation. Worse yet, the semester had already started, so he’d be behind and have to play catch-up. And in a town as small as Sleepy Hollow, he was bound to be gawked at. Surely newcomers were novelties in a place as remote as this.

He shook his head to banish these troubling thoughts but was largely unsuccessful, as these worries had been plaguing him the entire day and wouldn’t be driven off so easily. So he did the only thing he could to find comfort: he leaned into his horse’s shoulder, burying his face in the gelding’s mane and breathing in that thick, slightly musky barn smell he loved so much. It was a calming scent, more soothing than any therapy candle could ever hope to be, and he felt his tense muscles relax. He traced little circles in his horse’s hair absently with one hand, closing his eyes and letting a small grin spread across his face. Gunpowder took no notice of his master’s attentions and continued eating contentedly, but Irving’s heart swelled with affection nonetheless. I love you, you big, silly goof.

After a few minutes, he drew back with a sigh, and giving his horse a fond pat on the barrel he turned and left the pasture. He returned the empty bucket to the feed room before heading back up to the house, feeling just slightly better than he had all day.

Chapter Two

Sleepy Hollow was a tiny little New England town nestled in a forested valley surrounded on all sides by low, rolling hills. It was quaint and picturesque, something Irving would have expected to find in a storybook or feel-good TV movie. The air was clear, the people seemed friendly, and the whole village seemed to have a calming influence over it. It was a place unaffected by time, where courtesy ruled the day and even strangers were met with a smile. No one rushed or hurried, and it wasn’t uncommon to see groups of people congregated on the sidewalks, chatting idly, seemingly unconcerned about schedules to keep or deadlines to meet.

The high school was situated on the far side of town, a small cluster of single-story buildings grouped closely together. Trying without success to calm the worried thundering of his heart, Irving climbed out of the family car and shouldered his bag, wondering if any of the students milling around before class started had noticed him yet. He imagined he could feel