Her anguished cries tear at the pit of my stomach. She screams out her grief, wringing her copper hands and pulling at strands of her long, black hair. The first is the wailing spirit of a Weckquaesgeek woman in an unmarked grave, over there, by the bare-limbed tulip tree that’s been struck by lightning too many times to call it coincidence. The spirits buried here are older, unsettled and anxious to start their night’s haunting. The ghosts always rise from the church graveyard at sunset’s end. Another quarter hour passes before I hear the howls. But fear is a dowdy little thing, isn’t it? Especially when the dead rise and speak once more. Leaving God out of it, you would think that chivalry might compel him to take my place this evening. I wonder if he truly believes half of what he says on Sundays. I watch him go, my eyes peering out from under the hood of my cloak. The road is slick as snot, with a slow, steady sludge of rain dripping down and matting the sugar maple leaves like blood stains. He shivers, admirably swallowing back any childish fears, and continues up the white stone road that leads to the snug safety of his sister’s red brick house. He pauses on the other side, alert and listening for any movement in the cluttered speck of forest growing out of the swamp, as the old willows and elms groan in intermittent sprays of icy rain and frosty breeze. His feet scuttle fast across the wooden bridge that spans the murky, muddy swamp at the bottom of two hills, flanking the church like twin sentries. We must face our past sins… or be prepared to run from them.

He knows from experience that the chapel yard offers no impenetrable sanctuary. I have no preference between the two, but one is more accurate than the other. “Good evening, Widow Van Brunt,” he greets grimly, using my dead husband’s surname, rather than the customary “Widow Bones” that I hear from most of the Hollow. And not everyone is so comfortable in the company of ghosts. He knows my business here is direful but someone has to do it. He catches sight of me, hovering like a dour raven at the gate, giving me a short glance and a stiff nod. Reverend Van Duyne quickly descends the icy steps of the chapel, with his collar thrown up against the chill of a frostbite breeze. The coat wears thinner on nights like this, when the invisible world encroaches so seamlessly it becomes hard to reconcile what we believe with what we see. He puts confidence on every Sunday like a boiled wool coat, warm and familiar, his voice conjuring up all those same sermons we’ve heard over and over again since before Cotton Mather’s time. He’s long-winded in his prayers, but I know he has doubts like the rest of us. Reverend Van Duyne leaves the church late. Sleepy Hollow is an eerie place and autumn is an eerie season, filled with hauntings of both mind and soul. Sleet drips from the slate skies above, trying to drain the landscape of color, but the sunset spills out from its precarious perch on the horizon, giving the whole Hollow an eerie, rose-colored glow that entertains its shadows sideways.

I stand on a thick, wet carpet of cherry, carrot and straw leaves. But it’s October now and they’re bleeding out onto the ground, as if a restless soldier took a sword through the woods, slashing veins on his way through. In Sleepy Hollow, the trees change color in late September. The weather is autumn-chilled and gloomy. The phrase rushes into my head this evening, as I stand at the gate of the church graveyard, dressed in my usual widow’s weeds-black skirt, hooded cloak and leather gloves, with silver forks clutched in either hand like talons. My actions turned midnight-moon-macabre some time ago and I’d hate to think it’s all my own failing of character. Are we predisposed to act in certain ways? If so, it would be a relief. I’ve never really understood the phrase anyway. He didn’t say much else and I’m not sure if he meant it as a compliment or an insult. But a flower doesn’t need to bloom to be plucked.Īfter all, pretty is as pretty does, my father used to say. Willing, I suppose, and certainly compliant. With everything that happened, I don’t know that I would describe myself as blooming. “Brom Bones too, who shortly after his rival’s disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin, which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.” Widow Bones Makes Her Rounds by Gretchen Tessmer

Scarlet hollow gretchen