The Hollow (5 page)

"So how's junior year going so far?" she asked me, leaning forward slightly. "They say that junior year is when you get all of the hard work out of the way so you can enjoy your senior year."

I forced a fake laugh. "I don't doubt it. Lots of hard work this year, that's true. It's going to be a tough one."

"It sure is," she said softly, folding her hands together and resting them in her lap. "I know Kristen-" Her voice broke on the name, but she kept speaking. "Well, she was really looking forward to this year. She couldn't wait for prom, and to start looking at colleges."

Leaning closer to her, I patted one arm. "I know she was, Mrs. M. I know." I tried to think of something else to talk about. This was not going very well.

"She should be here, Abbey, with you." Her sudden exclamation echoed my thoughts from earlier in the week. "Starting school. Doing homework. Making plans for the weekend. Not… this." She looked around the room helplessly. "Now it's just an empty house."

"What if she's still out there?" I asked her, just as suddenly. "Why did you give up so soon?" I knew I shouldn't say those things, but I couldn't stop myself. The filter between my brain and my mouth had spontaneously erupted.

She looked at me sadly. "You know she's not out there, Abbey. You know what they found." She couldn't say it, but I knew what she was talking about.

"The cops should have done more," I said angrily. "I've seen how these things work on
Law and Order. They
don't give up so easily, and they bring in other agencies. What about the FBI? Why weren't they called in? They would have done something. Just because she's missing doesn't mean she's dead."

"It's not like this is the first time it's happened," she refuted. "When that old man fell in last year, his body didn't wash up for six months."

"I know. It's just…" I sighed and shook my head.

"Since there was no ransom note, no evidence of a kidnap-"

"What about the blood?" I interrupted. "It could have meant someone hurt her."

This time it was her turn to shake her head. "The police know what they're doing, Abbey. They said the small amount of… blood… on that rock was consistent with someone hittina their head and falling in. You know that already."

"Yeah, well, I still think they should be looking harder. Like the cops on TV."

"Life's not a television show." She sighed wearily before standing up from the couch. "Do you want some ice cream? I think I need some double mint fudge right about now." I nodded, and she left the room momentarily, before returning with a large carton and two spoons.

We passed the tub of ice cream back and forth several times before she spoke again.

"I didn't want to give up on her, Abbey," she said plainly. "But we needed some type of closure. With Thomas it was different. This time we just needed to have some type of an end to it all. Do you understand that?"

I didn't understand. But I
did
wish with all my heart that the sadness could go away for her as easily as that ice cream did.

Chapter Five

Choices

Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge… This was one of the favorite haunts of the Headless Horseman…

"The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"

The following Tuesday, after another rough day at school, I had a pretty strong feeling that if I went straight home, I'd end up on my bedroom floor again, rocking back and forth. Which was not a pleasant prospect. I discarded that idea and started walking, unsure of where I was headed but knowing that I had to keep going.

When I came to a fork in the road, I paused, thinking over my options. Something tugged at me and told me which direction to take. Five steps later the two huge wrought iron gates that marked the entrance of the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery greeted me. I inhaled deeply, took one step back, two steps forward… and sealed my fate.

I never thought that something as simple as walking could be so difficult, but that first step was big. And so hard to take. Every tentative move I made felt earth-shattering as I remembered the last time I had been in this cemetery… the reason for it…

It was not a good memory.

Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, I trudged slowly along the path. I knew where I had to go; there was someone I needed to talk to.

Tombstones of all shapes and sizes greeted me along the way. Multigenerational family plots were tucked behind narrow crooked fences that served as separators. Flimsy barriers erected between the living and the dead.

Mausoleums and crypts, with faded names that I knew by heart, rose majestically from the earth. Their outsides, although ravaged by the effects of time, still provided a safe place for the bodies that rested inside, and I nodded my head as a sign of respect to those once graceful homes of the departed.

And then I passed the chair.

It was still here, resting beside its grave. A fine covering of grass now grew along the surface of the grave, and fresh flowers surrounded the edges of the plot. I waved hello before quickly moving on.

The trees around me were bursting with the vivid colors of autumn. It was absolutely beautiful, and I stopped momentarily to take it all in. I realized then how much I had truly missed visiting this place. It was my home. My sanctuary.

When I finally came to the end of the path, I turned left and stepped around another huge mausoleum carved into the side of a hill. A giant slate door guarded the entrance, but my destination was the next spot over… Washington living's tomb.

After following the narrow stone steps that led the way up to a little iron gate, I gently pushed the gate open and crossed over into the Irving family plot. I knew this spot better than any other. Kristen and I had stopped by here almost every day.

When we were younger, we'd played make-believe among the tombstones and spent hours speculating about the legendary scribe who had made our small town so famous. We'd dreamed of the mythical figures buried down below in the Old Dutch section and had scared each other silly with ghost stories involving the Headless Horseman. And on more than one occasion we had spilled our secrets to a storyteller who had been gone for so long yet still fascinated us with his words.

I couldn't think of a more perfect way to have spent my childhood.

Suddenly the forgotten memory of a fourth-grade school project popped into my head, and I smiled to myself. It felt like it had been a lifetime since Kristen and I had painstakingly copied down each name on the tombstones in the Irving plot (gravestone rubbings weren't allowed) and used information from old newspapers at the library to design an elaborate family tree. We'd also put together a "family newsletter" detailing highlights and favorites from each person's life.

It was an A++ for both of us on that one.

Kristen had been so proud of that extra "+" the teacher had given us. It was all she could talk about for days. I shook my head, and the memory disappeared, relegated once again to the back of my mind. It really
had been
a lifetime ago.
Hers.

Wandering slowly among the tombstones, I took my time to read the dates and words inscribed upon them, saying hello to each family member as I passed by. I stopped near the huge oak tree that stood in the middle of the plot and ran my fingers over the carved initials etched into it. So many letters. So many different stories.

But I didn't linger long, and when I reached Washington living's stone, I glanced down at the familiar sight of offerings left behind by his adoring fans. Stacks of pennies, dimes, quarters, and even foreign currency were piled high around his tombstone. People had been doing it forever-or at least for as long as I had lived here-and I still couldn't figure out the logic behind it.

There were also a couple scraps of paper tucked under several small rocks sitting next to the grave. Messages, no doubt, written to the famous author.

In a town that celebrated and revered "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," it was impossible
not
to learn about Washington Irving. His works were required reading in the school curriculum as part of the town's history, and students were encouraged in English class each year to write letters to him.

Kristen and I had written to him several times. A lot of kids liked the extra element of danger that went along with delivering a letter to the dead on Halloween night. We had done that, too.

But to me, "The Legend" had always been… more. More than just a school assignment, or a town obsession. More than just some topic to talk about with my best friend. It meant more than any of those things. I don't know what the connection is, or why I even have it, but I think it's always been there.

For my part now, I plucked a single wild violet from a cluster of flowers growing next to the oak tree to leave as my token.

"Good day to you, Mr. Irving." I spoke quietly as I bent down to place the flower beside a stack of coins. I straightened, and then hesitated, not sure how to start. "I'm sorry I haven't visited in a while. Some things have… changed."

I couldn't think too much about what I was going to say, or how to say it, so I tried to let the words come naturally. "Kristen hasn't been by to visit you either. She won't be… coming back. At all. There was an accident."

The words sounded hollow and foreign to my ears.

"There are a lot of rumors going around, but none of them are true." I spoke quickly now, to get it all out. "They say she drowned in the Crane River, but they still haven't recovered her body. A funeral was held a couple of weeks ago. They buried an empty casket." My voice cracked on the last sentence, and I paused to take a minute. "That… that's pretty much it."

I wasn't expecting any type of reply, and obviously I didn't get one. A light breeze picked up, and for a second I swear I caught the sound of two little girls laughing. I listened more closely, but it disappeared. There was no one there. I traced the lettering on the tombstone as I whispered sadly, "Yeah, she won't be coming back."

A soft crunching noise distracted me, and I turned to see an old man with gray hair scooping up the scattered leaves that had fallen over the small plot. I had no idea how long he had been there, or what he'd overheard, but he was surprisingly graceful as he moved around the bulky tombstones.

After making five or six piles, he pulled out a small bristled brush from his back pocket and proceeded to wipe off the top of each grave. He didn't say anything to me, or even act as though he knew I was there. I gave it another minute and then walked over to him when he dropped to one knee and started pulling at stray weeds running along the edge of the wrought iron fence.

"I can help you with that if you want," I offered.

He gazed up at me with large brown eyes that had deep wrinkles in the corners. He looked surprised that I wanted to help. "I thank you for your offer, and gladly accept," he said softly.

I looked at him quizzically.
Is he serious?
Most of the old people I knew didn't talk that way. Then he smiled, and his eyes glowed with mischief. I could tell that he knew exactly what I was thinking.

Blushing, I dropped to my knees and started yanking weeds wildly, heedless of the grass stains my jeans would probably suffer. We worked side by side in silence for a couple of minutes, and then he sat straight up. Something was in his hand, and he held it out to me.

"Look, we have a prize here."

I stared hard at the green leaf resting in his scarred and lined palm. "Poison ivy?" I guessed.

He smiled and shook his head. "No, something better." Then he tore the leaf in two, popped part of it into his mouth, and began chewing.

I watched him like he was a crazy person. If he started convulsing, or foaming, I would be ready to run for help at a second's notice.

"It's mint," he said, laughing at my expression and holding out the other half of the leaf to me. I cautiously took the outstretched offering, still watching him like a hawk. Holding it up to my nose, I sniffed deeply, and was surprised by the sharp aroma.

"You're right." I sniffed again, smelling the familiar scent a little more with each inhalation. "I've never seen it growing wild before. I'm used to finding it in a bottle."

He looked surprised, but pleased. "How wonderful! It has so many uses."

I nodded. "I use peppermint essential oil and mix it with other oils to create perfumes." It was strange, to blurt out something as personal as that to a virtual stranger, but I kind of felt proud that he was pleased I knew what it was.

He smiled enthusiastically and bent back to his task. "That's a very creative way to use it."

When he fell silent, I looked over at him, really seeing for the first time this stranger I was working with. He wore dusty blue overalls that had obviously been patched several times, and a matching short sleeve button-down shirt. His black boots were old and scuffed, but they had a comfortable, worn look to them. His gray hair blew gently in the wind, and he looked like he would be a nice grandfather.

"I'm Abbey, by the way," I said. "It's actually Abigail, but I like Abbey better."

"My name is Nikolas," he replied. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Abbey."

I started working on the weeds again, and it didn't take long for both of us to make our way around the fence. Once that was finished, we hauled over the clumps of weeds and added them to the piles of leaves. I wasn't sure what to do next. "So, um, are you a family friend or something?" I asked awkwardly.

"I guess you could say that," Nikolas answered.

"You know they have a caretaker for the cemetery that's supposed to do this sort of thing, right? His name is John."

I had met John several times before, and while he was very good at his job, he wasn't very friendly. But then I guess it takes a certain type of personality to be able to work alone with only the dead as company every day. Definitely not a job for a people person.

Nikolas pulled out a black garbage bag from another pocket and quickly stuffed it with the weeds and leaves before I even had the chance to offer my help.

"Old habits die hard," he said while tying a knot at the top of the bag. "I'm something of a caretaker myself." He smiled at me, and the corners of his eyes crinkled again. "Thank you for your help today, Abbey, and try to remember the good memories. They will help the sad ones."

I watched him closely as he lifted the bag over one shoulder and went down the narrow stairs, taking the path that led to the other side of the cemetery. So he'd obviously heard what I'd said. And yet it didn't bother me. That was weird.

Standing still for a moment longer, I knew that my time here wasn't over yet. I waved a silent good-bye to the Irving family, pushed my way back through the gate, and started toward the Old Dutch Church.

Dread filled the pit of my stomach as the stone structure loomed ahead, large and imposing. To my right was the Washington Irving Bridge, where Kristen had fallen into the river. To my left was Kristen's burial spot.

I looked in both directions, at a loss as to what choice to make. Again I felt that tug. It was an unseen prompt steering me toward my destination, telling me which way to go. So I listened to it. I chose the bridge.

The Washington Irving Bridge was a never ending project that was still under construction. While it was supposed to help bring in more tourists by re-creating the famous covered bridge that Ichabod Crane had been chased over in "The Legend," all it'd done so far was create traffic jams. And tourists don't like traffic.

So
that
plan had been a big fat bust.

With the delays from the investigation of Kristen's accident, and the winter months coming quickly, a temporary hold had been placed on the project. The way things were going, it would probably be another three years before the bridge was actually finished.

I walked slowly down to the river's edge and paused there. The water rushed by, swirling and bubbling, hypnotic in its frantic cadence. The sudden burst of a squirrel chattering in a tree next to me startled me, and I kept moving. Toward the bridge. Toward our spot.

Long before the town had decided to rebuild the bridge, Kristen and I had been meeting at the Crane River, named after the gangly love-struck schoolteacher who was scared off by the Horseman in Washington living's tale. A leftover platform from part of the old bridge sat directly above one of the newer concrete supporting towers, and it made a fantastic seat. The wooden beams made a bench of sorts, and your feet could swing out over the open water. There wasn't any railing in front to hold you in place, or catch you if you fell, but it was like you were literally sitting on top of the river.

The construction work they had done recently made the platform a little harder to get to, but I was still able to reach it. I climbed up the tower and wedged myself in, looking out over the water. The sun was warm on my face, but I was cold inside. Had it really happened here, at this place? Would I never get another chance to sit up under this bridge and talk with Kristen again? It all seemed so surreal. This wasn't how my life was supposed to go. It wasn't fair.