Beware! The Horseman Cometh (A Short Story)

What if Washington Irving met the Headless Horseman before he wrote The Legend of Sleepy Hollow? I wrote a short story to commemorate the 200th anniversary of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow! I hope you enjoy it.

London, 1819

Washington Irving sat at a small desk in the small library inside his small rented house near Hyde Park and read the letter again. His brother had written to inform him that the family shipping business had officially failed and he should return to New York as soon as possible. Sighing, he put the letter down and rubbed his eyes. It had been several years since he’d left New York. He’d come to London to focus on his writing, but it was proving more difficult than he imagined. Since he was a boy he'd dreamed of being a writer, not a merchant like his father and brothers. 

Washington's thoughts drifted back to his childhood. When he was but a lad of fifteen years, yellow fever had swept through the crowded neighborhoods of Manhattan. His parents, worried about their youngest son, sent him north of the city to stay with family friends in Tarry Town, a small village of sprawling farms nestled in the rolling hills along the Hudson River. Memories flooded his mind as he reflected on his boyhood haunts with his friend, James Paulding. The boys spent that summer fishing in the Pocantico River, hunting squirrels in the deep forests, and listening to the Dutch village folk spin tales of witches and ladies in white that haunted the woods. The unearthly cry of a fox (listen) broke his reverie and he started in surprise at the unnerving sound.

He stood and glanced out the window at the swiftly darkening skies sinking menacingly over the gardens of Hyde Park. Clouds drifted across the sky like wraiths, darkening the full moon. 

Like the clouds, his mind drifted then settled uneasily on a memory long forgotten, the memory of one particular evening at the Van Tassel family’s annual harvest party. It was that same night he'd first heard the chilling tale about a Hessian mercenary soldier who had lost his head to a cannonball during the war.

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{Photo of the stone bridge trail in Rockefeller State Park Preserve, NY. Copyright 2019 The Curse of Sleepy Hollow}

Tarry Town, New York, 1798

Autumn’s harvest was in full effect throughout the small valley just north of Tarry Town known as Sleepy Hollow. The leaves on the tall trees were bursting in colorful plumes of orange, goldenrod, and crimson. Washington had only arrived a month ago, but already he felt like he belonged in the small town. The whole town had gathered at the Van Tassel tavern and music filled the air and the large common room was brightly lit with hundreds of candles and the glowing warmth of a blazing fire. The tavern was bedecked with corn stalks, pumpkins, and lumpy green gourds. There were wreaths of evergreens tied with colorful ribbons, cinnamon sticks, and orange slices patterned with cloves. The festive room was filled with local townsfolk celebrating the harvest’s end – telling stories, and enjoying the party atmosphere.

Washington was standing near the back of the room with two boys – his friend, James Paulding, whose family he was staying with, and another local boy named Abraham Boyce, or Brom, as he was called. James, at 16, was a year older than Washington; taller, and more confident of his place in the world. Brom was 15, the same age as Washington, and tall and brawny in the way country boys often are. Unlike Washington, who to tended to be more reserved, Brom possessed an impetuous confidence that was prone to mischief.

The boys were eagerly partaking of the great feast laid out before them. Silver platters covered every available surface. Washington had never before seen such a magnificent spread of food; there was honeyed ham and smoked fish, roasted carrots and parsnips with butter and herbs, mincemeat, cherry, and apple pies, fresh-baked buns with currant jam, and silver pitchers of mulled cider.

The favorite pastime at these parties was the telling of tall tales and ghost stories. Near the fireplace, a tall man with dark hair and a blacksmith’s large build began to tell a ghost story and several people had gathered around him to listen. Washington was watching the gathering crowd when his eyes beheld the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. He stared mouth agape, at the most exquisite creature he’d ever laid eyes on. Suddenly, he stumbled forward as James landed a playful punch on his shoulder.

“You better stop staring, Irving,” said James in a teasing voice. “That’s Catrina Van Tassel and her father owns this tavern. She’s all but engaged to the blacksmith; that rather large fellow telling the story.” James nodded at the man in the middle of the growing crowd.

Washington blushed and stole another look at Catrina. A man seated next to her leaned in to say something and instead spilled his plate of plum tarts in her lap. Washington stifled a snigger as he watched the poor man try not to dump the rest of his dinner on the floor.  The man had been attempting to balance two full plates of food on his knobby knees while holding a third plate heaped with tarts, cakes, and fried donuts covered in sugar icing, which now covered Miss Catrina's skirts.  The man frantically tried to help, but only appeared to be making matters worse. 

James noticed Washington looking at the odd, clumsy man said, “That is Samuel Youngs, our illustrious schoolmaster." James rolled his eyes. "He is the most superstitious man you will ever meet.” He crossed his arms and continued in a low voice, “You should have seen how Brom here got us out of lessons by claiming that he saw a ghost in the schoolhouse cellar.”

Brom smirked, “It wasn’t hard. That man will believe anything as long as it has to do with witches and ghosts.”

Washington looked again at the schoolmaster – now shoveling spice cake into his mouth at an alarming pace – and noticed how he was listening to the storyteller in complete rapture. The blacksmith’s broad, handsome face glowed in the firelight as he spun his ghostly tale.

“‘Twas a cannonball that took the Hessian soldier’s head clean off, severed at the neck, and the wound seared closed.” The crowd grew hushed as they hung upon his every word. “Each full moon he rises from an unmarked grave in the old church graveyard and rides, searching for his head. If you, by unlucky fate, chance to meet him on the road, make for the bridge where he cannot follow lest he draw his saber and take your head in revenge.”

A log sparked loudly in the fire, and the crowd laughed nervously, the tension in the room breaking. 

Washington turned to James and whispered, “Do they truly believe in a headless ghost?”   

James smiled wryly, “He always tells the same story about the headless horseman, year after year. You’d think by now he would have found a new tall tale.”

Brom snorted, “Whatever he’s saying, it is working on the Headmaster. Look at the skinny, old bloke! He’s trembling so much he’s spilled his cider.” Brom squared his broad shoulders and sneered, “The horseman is just an old Dutch wives’ tale, naught but a tired old ghost story meant to frighten children.”

“He is real, you know.” A voice came from a dark corner behind them. They all jumped in surprise. Washington whipped around. He could have sworn there was no one standing there a moment ago. A young woman that looked to be about their age stepped out from the shadows. “I’ve seen him.”

James leaned close to Washington and whispered behind his hand, “That’s Eleanor Van Tassel, but she goes by Laney.” His voice dropped lower as he added, “She’s a bit ‘cracked,’ if you know what I mean.”

Brom found his voice first. “What do you know about the Horseman, Laney?” He challenged.

The flickering candlelight cast half her face in darkness, but her wide grey eyes gleamed silver in the dim light. She had raven black hair and wore a dress of boldly striped black and grey silk. “I saw him a month past, near the old church graveyard. I was awakened in the night by someone calling my name, but there was no one in my room. I looked out of my window toward the graveyard and I saw him.”

“Laney, it was likely someone riding through the woods late at night, or perhaps it was a trick of the wind?” said James, a half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

She shot a cold look at James, and the smirk fell from his face. “I know what I saw. I heard my name again, and I found myself walking out into the night as if I was being compelled. A blue mist rose from the ground and covered the graveyard.” Despite their disbelief, the boys stood transfixed, the sounds of the party dimming as they leaned closer to listen. “I saw him standing in the graveyard, just beyond the trees, holding the reins of an enormous black horse with red, glowing eyes. There was no head upon his shoulders, only a gaping wound." Even Brom looked solemn as she went on. “He reached out his hand toward me, beckoning, and I could see something in the palm of his hand, glinting in the moonlight. He held a black velvet choker, which he tied 'round my neck...” 

“Oh come now!” snorted Brom, interrupting her. “Be truthful, Laney.”

Laney cast him a dark look, her voice as calm and cold as a lake in winter. “It was as if I’d turned to stone. I could not move nor could I cry out for help. The horseman drew his sword and the cold hiss of metal rang in my ears, filling me with dread as he laughed, a terrifying, hideous sound.  It was at that moment I awoke, safe in my own bed, from what I thought was a dream. But then I discovered the necklace, still tied at my neck.” She raised her chin and her long fingers brushed a black velvet band with an ornate silver cameo bearing the image of a bird.

Brom snorted. “Poor Laney Van Tassel,” sneered Brom. “Are you so desperate to draw attention away from your cousin, Catrina, that you must invent a ghost story of your own?”

Laney lowered her chin and took a step closer to Brom, “Fools mock, but they shall mourn,” she recited the bible verse with a steady voice. “The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow is real, Abraham Boyce. I would watch your words lest he come for you next.”  She turned away without and melted back into the shadows.

“See what I mean?” James murmured to Washington, “Mad as cats.”

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The hour grew late and guests began to depart. The boys shuffled reluctantly out into the crisp evening, glancing around nervously at the eerie, dancing shadows cast by a bright autumn moon. A cold breeze swirled dried leaves around their feet as they crunched up the dusty road toward home. As they approached the old Dutch church and graveyard, the boys fell silent and their pace quickened despite their earlier bravado.

Brom paused near the fence. “You know, my Da told me once that the Hessian is buried here in this graveyard,” his voice cut through the still darkness. “Let’s go find his grave!”

“We are not going to sneak into the graveyard,” said James. “Brom, it's late. Let’s go home.”

“James, are you a lily-livered coward like that sniveling schoolmaster?” Brom grinned and hopped over the short fence surrounding the old church graveyard. “Come on! Just a quick peek to see if the old boy is resting in peace as he should be!” He yelled over his shoulder as he trotted up the hill and disappeared into the darkness.

Washington looked at James and shrugged. What did he care about some old Dutch wives’ tale? This was the most excitement he’d had in ages. James sighed as they climbed the fence and followed after Brom. The uneven ground forced them to slow down as they passed through rows of stonegrave markers. Washington shivered as a chill crept over him. The tall gravestones cast odd shapes in the moonlight, making every shadow appear alive.

{Photo of the Old Dutch Church graveyard. Copyright 2019 The Curse of Sleepy Hollow}

“This is completely foolish,” muttered James, peering at the tombstones as they crept through the silent graveyard. Washington squinted into the darkness to see where Brom had gone.

“YAH!” A dark figure jumped out at them from behind a large stone statue with a loud yell. Washington stumbled backward, tripped on the edge of a grave marker, and fell flat on his back. Brom was bent over laughing at his clever jest.  

“Brom!” yelled James angrily. “Stop playing and let’s go home.”

James bent to lend a hand to Washington who was sprawled in a shallow depression in the grass between two massive tombstones.

Brom grinned, “Good man, Washington, I think you found it!” He spread his arms wide and in a loud voice boomed, 

"Oh, Horseman, we bid thee rise,
and ride on in thy quest;

A head to take, a soul to steal, 

Rise and ride at our behest!”

“Brom, don’t be a fool!” James looked furious. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Out of the corner of his eye. Washington caught the glimmer of something. Right where Washington had fallen, a blue mist began to swirl up from the ground.

“James, look!” said Washington.

 The boys all jumped back in fear as the earth began to roll in on itself and the grass peeled away. Dirt and rocks crumbled and fell into a widening hole in the ground and bright red light poured out from below. The boys huddled together behind a tombstone and watched in horror as the snout of a great black beast emerged, nostrils glowing fire red. Its lips peeled back, revealing menacing fangs. The monster climbed from the gaping pit revealing a headless rider, a ghastly wound where his head should be.  The sound of creaking leather broke the awful silence as the spectre slowly turned to face them. The phantom horse towered over them as it stood above the trembling grave, its eyes burning red and sharp hooves clawing at the ground, sending sparks flying. 

{Photo from The Sleepy Hollow Experience, October 2019. Copyright 2019 The Curse of Sleepy Hollow}

"It can't be . . . " muttered James. 

"He . . . he’s real,” stammered Brom.

“Run!” screamed Washington, and the boys took off like a shot. Washington’s eyes blurred and his breath turned ragged as he ran to keep up with the two taller boys.
“The bridge!” shrieked Brom as they tore through the graveyard turning toward the river, “We have to cross over the bridge!”

{Photo copyright 2019 The Curse of Sleepy Hollow}

Washington ran as fast as he could toward the river. He could feel the demon horse’s hot, putrid breath on the back of his neck as he sprinted for the bridge. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of silver. He ducked and turned sharply to the right as he heard a swoosh right above his head. The horse shuddered to a halt and reared up as it turned to give chase. 

A dreadful laugh echoed through the graveyard chilling Washington to his bones. He didn’t look back as he pushed himself faster, faster.  He could see James and Brom on the other side of the bridge. They were shouting “Run, Washington! Run!” as they waved him on.

The thunder of galloping hooves filled Washington's ears. I’m not going to make it! He thought as his feet finally hit the wooden bridge, the horseman close behind. Too close. A bright flash of light burst into bright orange flames around him as he hurled himself to the ground, his shoulder hitting the wooden planks hard. He rolled, tumbling off the bridge and into the dirt. His ears rang in the silence as he felt hands reach for him, picking him up and dusting him off.

“Did you see that?” Brom said, breathless. “He disappeared! He was almost upon you, then he just . . . just disappeared in a flash of fire!”

Washington was breathing hard and James looked white as a ghost. He turned to Brom and said, “That is the last time we follow you into a graveyard, Brom Boyce.”

The boys said nothing as they hurried home, constantly looking over their shoulders and listening for the pounding of hooves in the darkness. When they reached Brom’s stone house off the main road, he turned on the path that led to his door and muttered, “I think I owe Laney Van Tassel an apology.”

When James and Washington finally reached the Paulding home, they rushed inside and slammed the door behind them, panting as if they’d just outrun the devil himself.

James turned to Washington, eyes wide, and said, “Let’s make a pact to never speak of this night to anyone.”

“Agreed,” said Washington. “I, for one, intend to take this story to my grave.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

London, 1819

Washington Irving stood looking out the window at the dark hedges lining Hyde Park, lost in the memory of that night. The moon broke through the drifting clouds and bathed the garden in a weak, winter glow. The wind howled and sent the tree branches swaying like the gnarled bones of a withered hand shooting up from the ground. Again the cry of a fox floated up from the distance, its eerie, mournful scream sounded rather more human than animal (listen). He closed the heavy velvet drapes and sat at the desk once more. He pushed the letter aside and took out a fresh stack of paper. He dipped his quill and began to write,

“In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler." 

~ The End ~

Read the full text of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving here. For more information about visiting Sleepy Hollow, NY, click here.

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All photos are the author's, and "Beware! The Horseman Cometh" and The Curse of Sleepy Hollow are copyright 2019. All rights reserved. Some names, spellings, and ages have been altered from the original people who lived in North Tarry Town in 1798 and on whom Washington Irving may (or may not) have based his characters. Note: This story is a work in progress and is subject to editing and updates.