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September has arrived, and that ways that my latest book HORSEMAN: A TALE OF SLEEPY HOLLOW is nearly here! It will be out on September 28th, 2021, just in time for your spooky season reading. I've got a sneak peek at the kickoff chapter for y'all beneath, followed by the U.S. and UK covers and preorder links galore. I promise you join me in Sleepy Hollow on September 28th!

CHAPTER I

Of course I knew about the Horseman, no matter how much Katrina tried to keep it from me. If ever anyone brought up the subject within my hearing, Katrina would burke that person immediately, her optics slanting in my direction as if to say, "Don't speak of it in front of the child."

I found out everything I wanted to know nigh the Horseman anyway, because children always hear and see more than adults remember they do. Besides, the story of the Headless Horseman was a favorite in Sleepy Hollow, ane that had been told and retold about since the village was established. Information technology was practically nothing to ask Sander to tell me virtually it. I already knew the part near the Horseman looking for a head because he didn't take one. Then Sander told me all most the schoolmaster who looked similar a crane and how he tried to court Katrina and how one dark the Horseman took the schoolmaster abroad, never to be seen again.

I e'er thought of my grandparents equally Katrina and Brom though they were my grandmother and grandfather, because the legend of the Horseman and the crane and Katrina and Brom were function of the textile of the Hollow, something woven into our hearts and minds. I never chosen them by their names, of grade—Brom wouldn't have minded, just Katrina would have been very annoyed had I referred to her every bit anything except "Oma."

Whenever someone mentioned the Horseman, Brom would get a funny glint in his heart and sometimes chuckle to himself, and this made Katrina fifty-fifty more bellyaching virtually the subject area. I ever had the feeling that Brom knew more well-nigh the Horseman than he was letting on. Later I discovered that, similar and then many things, this was both true and not true.

On the day that Cristoffel van den Berg was found in the woods without his head, Sander and I were playing Sleepy Hollow Boys past the creek. This was a game that we played often. It would have been better if there were a large group only no one ever wanted to play with us.

"All correct, I'll be Brom Bones chasing the pig and you be Markus Baas and climb that tree when the pig gets shut," I said, pointing to a maple with low branches that Sander could easily attain.

He was still shorter than me, a fact that never failed to irritate him. We were both fourteen and he idea that he should accept started shooting up like some of the other boys in the Hollow.

"Why are you always Brom Bones?" Sander asked, scrunching up his confront. "I'g always the i getting chased up a tree or having ale dumped on my head."

"He'due south my opa," I said. "Why shouldn't I play him?"

Sander kicked a stone off the banking company and it tumbled into the stream, startling a small-scale frog lurking just under the surface.

"Information technology's boring if I never get to be the hero," Sander said.

I realized that he was e'er the ane getting kicked around (because my opa could be a fleck of a groovy—I knew this even though I loved him more anyone in the world—and our games were always about young Brom Bones and his gang). Since Sander was my simply friend and I didn't want to lose him, I decided to allow him have his way—at least simply this one time. However, it was important that I maintain the upper mitt ("a Van Brunt never bows his caput for anyone," equally Brom e'er said), then I made a testify of bully reluctance.

"Well, I suppose," I said. "Simply it's a lot harder, you know. You have to run very fast and express joy at the same time and also pretend that you're chasing a pig and yous have to make the grunter noises properly. And you have to express mirth similar my opa—that great large laugh that he has. Can you actually do all that?"

Sander's blue eyes lit up. "I can, I really can!"

"All right," I said, making a nifty show of not assertive him. "I'll stand up over here and y'all go a little ways in that management and then come back, driving the pig."

Sander obediently trotted in the direction of the village and turned effectually, puffing himself up so that he appeared larger.

Sander ran toward me, laughing equally loud as he could. It was all correct but he didn't really audio like my opa. Nobody sounded similar Brom, if truth be told. Brom's laugh was a rumble of thunder that rolled closer and closer until it broke over yous.

"Don't forget to make the pig noises, as well," I said.

"Stop worrying nearly what I'k doing," he said. "Y'all're supposed to be Markus Baas walking along without a inkling, carrying all the meat for dinner in a basket for Arabella Visser."

I turned my back on Sander and pretended to exist carrying a basket, a simpering look on my confront even though Sander couldn't see my expression. Men courting women always looked similar sheep to me, their dignity drifting away every bit they bowed and scraped. Markus Baas looked like a sheep anyway, with his broad blank face and no chin to speak of. Whenever he saw Brom he'd frown and try to look trigger-happy. Brom ever laughed at him, though, because Brom laughed at everything, and the thought of Markus Baas beingness violent was too silly to contemplate.

Sander began to snort, simply since his vocalization wasn't likewise deep he didn't actually sound similar a sus scrofa—more like a small domestic dog whining in the parlor.

I turned around, gear up to tell Sander off and demonstrate proper pig-snorting noises. That's when I heard them.

Horses. Several of them, past the audio of information technology, and hurrying in our direction.

Sander obviously hadn't heard them yet, for he was however galloping toward me, waving his arms earlier him and making his bad sus scrofa noises.

"Stop!" I said, holding my hands upwards.

He halted, looking down-hearted. "I wasn't that bad, Ben."

"That'southward non it," I said, indicating he should come up closer. "Listen."

"Horses," he said. "Moving fast."

"I wonder where they're going in such a bustle," I said. "Come on. Allow'due south get downward onto the bank so they won't come across us from the trail."

"Why?" Sander asked.

"Then that they don't encounter us, like I said."

"But why don't we desire them to see us?"

"Considering," I said, impatiently waving at Sander to follow my atomic number 82. "If they see the states they might tell us off for beingness in the woods. You know most of the villagers think the forest are haunted."

"That's stupid," Sander said. "We're out hither all the time and nosotros've never constitute anything haunted."

"Exactly," I said, though that wasn't precisely true. I had heard something, once, and sometimes I felt someone watching united states of america while we played. The watching someone never felt menacing, though.

"Though the Horseman lives in the wood, he doesn't live anywhere near here," Sander continued. "And of course there are witches and goblins, fifty-fifty though we've never seen them."

"Yeah, yes," I said. "But not here, right? We're perfectly rubber here. So just become down on the bank unless you desire our game ruined by some spoiling adult telling u.s. off."

I told Sander that we were hiding considering we didn't desire to go far trouble, but actually I wanted to know where the riders were going in such a bustle. I'd never find out if they caught sight of us. Adults had an annoying tendency to tell children to stay out of their business organization.

We hunkered into the place where the banking company sloped down toward the stream. I had to proceed my legs tucked upward nether me or else my shoes would finish upwardly in the h2o, and Katrina would twist my ear if I came home with wet socks.

The stream where we liked to play ran roughly along the same path every bit the chief rails through the woods. The rail was mostly used past hunters, and fifty-fifty on horseback they never went past a certain indicate where the trees got very thick. Beyond that place was the domicile of the witches and the goblins and the Horseman, and then no one dared go farther. I knew that wherever the riders were headed couldn't be much across a mile past where Sander and I peeked over the pinnacle of the bank.

A few moments after we slipped into place, the group of horses galloped past. In that location were nearly half a dozen men—amongst them, to my great surprise, Brom. Brom had and then many duties around the subcontract that he more often than not left the daily business concern of the village to other men. Whatever was happening must be serious to take him away during harvest time.

Not one of them glanced left or right, then they didn't notice the tops of our heads. They didn't seem to notice anything. They all appeared grim, peculiarly my opa, who never looked grim for annihilation.

"Let'south go," I said, scrambling up over the pinnacle of the bank. I noticed then that there was mud all down the front of my jacket. Katrina would twist my ear for sure. "If nosotros run we can catch upward to them."

"What for?" Sander asked. Sander was a little heavier than me and he didn't like to run if he could help information technology.

"Didn't yous see them?" I said. "Something'south happened. That's not a hunting party."

"So?" Sander said, looking upward at the sky. "It's nearly dinnertime. We should go back."

I could tell that at present that his gamble to play Brom Bones had been ruined, he was thinking near his midday meal and didn't give a fig for what might be happening in the woods. I, on the other paw, was deeply curious nearly what might set a political party of men off in such a hurry. It wasn't as if exciting things happened in the Hollow every 24-hour interval. Near days the town was just as sleepy as its name. Despite this—or perhaps because of it—I was always curious about everything, and Katrina often reminded me that it wasn't a virtue.

"Permit's just follow for a bit," I said. "If they become too far we can turn back."

Sander sighed. He really didn't desire to become, but I was his only friend the same every bit he was mine.

"Fine," he said. "I'll go a short manner with you. Only I'm getting hungry, and if nothing interesting happens before long I'1000 going abode."

"Very well," I said, knowing that he wouldn't go home until I did, and I didn't plan on turning around until I'd discovered what the party of horsemen was chasing.

We stayed close to the stream, keeping our ears pricked for the sounds of men or horses. Any the adults were about, they surely wouldn't desire children nearby—it was always that way whenever anything interesting occurred—and so nosotros'd accept to keep our presence a secret.

"If you hear anyone approaching, simply hibernate behind a tree," I said.

"I know," Sander said. He had mud all downwards the front of his jacket, too, and he hadn't noticed it yet. His mother would tell him off over it for hours. Her atmosphere was the stuff of legends in the Hollow.

Nosotros had simply walked for about fifteen minutes when we heard the horses. They were snorting and whinnying depression, and their hooves clopped on the ground like they were pawing and trying to get away from their masters.

"The horses are upset," I whispered to Sander. We couldn't see anything withal. I wondered what had bothered the animals so much.

"Shh," Sander said. "They'll hear u.s.."

"They won't hear us over that noise," I said.

"I idea you wanted to sneak upward on them so they wouldn't transport us away?" he said.

I pressed my lips together and didn't respond, which was what I e'er did when Sander was right about something.

The copse were huddled close together, chestnut and saccharide maple and ash, their leaves just starting to curl at the edges and shift from their summer dark-green to their autumn colors. The sky was covered in a patchwork of clouds shifting over the sun, casting strange shadows. Sander and I crept adjacent, our shoulders touching, staying close to the tree trunks so nosotros could hibernate behind them if we saw anyone ahead. Our steps were silent from long do at sneaking well-nigh where we were not supposed to be.

I heard the murmur of men'due south voices before I saw them, followed immediately by a smell that was something like a butchered deer, just worse. I covered my mouth and nose with my hand, breathing in the scent of world instead of any half-rotten thing the men had discovered. My palms were covered in drying mud from the riverbank.

The men were standing on the track in a half circumvolve, their backs to u.s.. Brom was taller than any of them, and even though he was the oldest, his shoulders were the broadest, too. He still wore his hair in a queue like he had when he was young, and the only manner to tell he wasn't a beau were the streaks of gray in the black. I couldn't make out the other v men with their faces turned away from us—they all wore green or brownish wool coats and breeches and loftier leather boots, the same style every bit twenty years before. There were miniatures and sketches of Katrina and Brom in the firm from when they were younger, and while their faces had changed, their fashions had non. Many things never inverse in the Hollow, and article of clothing was one of them.

"I desire to see what they're looking at, " I whispered close to Sander'southward ear and he batted at me like I was an annoying fly.

His nose was crumpled and he looked a little green. "I don't. It smells terrible."

"Fine," I said, annoyed. Sander was my only friend only sometimes he lacked a sense of adventure. "You lot stay hither."

"Wait," he said in low whisper as I crept ahead of him. "Don't go so shut."

I turned back and flapped my manus at him, indicating he should stay. Then I pointed up at one of the maples nearby. It was a big one, with a broad base and long branches that protruded almost over the track. I hooked my legs around the trunk and shimmied up until I could grab a nearby branch, so quickly climbed until I could see the tops of the men's heads through the leaves. I still couldn't quite run across what they were looking at, though, so I draped over ane of the branches and scooted forth until I had a ameliorate look.

Equally presently as I saw information technology, I wished I'd stayed on the footing with Sander.

Only beyond the circumvolve of men was a boy—or rather, what was left of a boy. He lay on his side, like a rag doll that'south been tossed in a corner past a careless child, one leg half-folded. A deep sadness welled up in me at the sight of him lying at that place, forgotten rubbish instead of a male child.

Something about this sight sent a shadow flitting through the dorsum of my mind, the ghost of a idea, almost a memory. And so it disappeared earlier I could take hold of information technology.

He was dressed in elementary homespun pants and shirt, a chocolate-brown wool jacket much like my ain over it. On his feet were leather moccasins, and that was how I knew information technology was Cristoffel van den Berg, because his family was likewise poor to afford shoe leather and cobbled soles, and all of the Van den Bergs wore soft hide shoes like the Lenape people. If it weren't for the moccasins I wouldn't take known him at all, because his caput was missing. So were his hands.

Both the head and hands seemed to take been removed inexpertly. There were ragged bits of mankind and muscle at the wrist, and I saw a protruding bit of cleaved spine dangling where Cristoffel's head used to be.

I hadn't liked Cristoffel very much. He was poor, and Katrina always said we should exist compassionate to those in need, merely Cristoffel had been quite the bully, always looking for a chance to take out his pique on someone. He ran in a trivial gang with Justus Smit and a few other boys who had no personality to speak of.

Cristoffel had tried information technology out on me in one case and I'd bloodied his olfactory organ for him, which earned me a lecture from Katrina on proper behavior (I was subjected to these endlessly, so I never bothered to listen) and a clap on the shoulder from Brom, which had warmed my middle despite Katrina'due south shouting.

I hadn't similar Cristoffel, only he didn't deserve to die. He didn't deserve to die in such an awful style. I was glad Sander couldn't run into. He had a delicate tum and he'd take given us away by getting sick on peak of the grouping beneath.

At that place were splashes of claret all effectually on the track. The men didn't seem to desire to get whatsoever closer to the body, though whether this was out of respect or fear I could non tell. They were murmuring softly, too softly for me to make out the words at first. All of the horses pulled on their reins except for Brom'due south horse, Donar, a great black stallion three hands taller than all the others. He stood still, the wide flare of his nostrils the only indication that he was troubled.

Finally Brom gave a great sigh and said, loud enough for me to hear, "Nosotros'll accept to accept him dorsum to his mother."

"What are nosotros supposed to tell her?" I recognized this voice as Sem Bakker, the town justice. His shoulders were curled forward, as if he were trying to hide from what he was seeing.

I didn't take much use for Sem Bakker, who was ever too hearty when he saw me and thought it was a fine affair to pinch my cheeks and comment on how much I'd grown. He had no children of his own and clearly had no notion of how children like to be treated. I did not like to have my cheeks pinched past anyone, much less the town magistrate with his muddied fingernails.

Brom didn't have much utilize for Sem Bakker either, whom he considered every bit defective in basic common sense, something that ought to have been a requirement to exist a justice. But and then most people who lived in the Hollow were farmers or tradesmen, and had no desire to meddle in diplomacy of the law. Not that there were so many crimes in the Hollow, actually—information technology generally amounted to little more than than breaking upwards fights at the tavern and sending the offending parties home to take their ears burned by their angry wives—though now and and then something more than serious occurred.

All in all, though, the Hollow was a peaceful place to live, and was lived in by the descendants of the same people who'd founded the village. Strangers rarely visited, and nigh never stayed. The Hollow was, in many ways, like a diorama in a box—never changing and eternal.

"Nosotros'll tell his mother what nosotros know," Brom said, and I recognized the trace of impatience in his vocalism. "We establish him in the wood like this."

"He's got no head, Brom," Sem Bakker said. "How do we explicate about the lack of head?"

"The Horseman," 1 of the other men said, and I recognized the gruff tones of Abbe de Jong, the butcher.

"Tch, don't start with the Horseman nonsense," Brom said. "You know information technology isn't real."

"Something killed that boy and took his head," Abbe said, pointing at the corpse. "Why couldn't it be the Horseman?"

"Could be the damned natives," said another man.

I couldn't see his face because of his hat, and couldn't pinpoint his vocalisation, either, though I knew everybody in the Hollow just equally they all knew me.

"Don't kickoff with that nonsense, either," Brom said, and there was a difficult warning in his tone that would accept made any homo with sense back down. Brom was friends with some of the native people who lived nearby, though no one else in the village dared. Mostly nosotros left them alone and they left us alone, and that seemed to exist the all-time programme for everyone.

"Why non? They lurk effectually in these woods, taking any animals they want—"

"The animals are wild, Smit, anyone can have them," Brom said, and at present I knew who Brom was arguing with—Diederick Smit, the blacksmith.

"—and nosotros all know they've stolen sheep—"

"There'southward no proof of that, and since you're not a sheep farmer, I hardly encounter what it has to practise with you lot," Brom said. "I'g the but sheep farmer for miles around."

"I don't want to hear your defence of those savages," Smit said. "The proof is right hither, before our eyes. One of them killed this poor boy and took away his head and his hands for one of their infidel rituals."

"At present yous mind here," Brom said, and I could run across him swelling with anger, his shoulders seeming to grow broader, his fists curling. "I won't have you lot spreading any of that around the Hollow, yous hear me? Those people accept done nada to u.s. and you have no proof."

"You tin't stop me from speaking," Smit said, and though his words were dauntless and his arms were nigh every bit muscled as Brom'due south, I heard a little quaver in his vox. "Just considering y'all're the biggest landowner in the Hollow doesn't requite yous the right to run anybody's lives."

"If I hear i word accusing the natives of this murder I'll know who started the rumor," Brom said, stepping closer to Smit. "Just recollect that."

Brom towered over the blacksmith, as he towered over every man in the Hollow. He was built on a scale about inhuman. I saw Smit'south shoulders move, as if he considered a antiphon and so decided meliorate of it.

"If information technology's non the natives that simply leaves the Horseman," De Jong said. "I know y'all don't like it, Brom, but it'due south true. And y'all know, too, that as soon as word gets out about the boy's circumstances, anybody else in the Hollow will think the same."

"The Horseman," Brom muttered. "Why will none of you say what's probably truthful—that someone from the Hollow did it?"

"One of us?" De Jong said. "People from the Hollow don't kill children and cut off their heads."

"It's a practiced bargain more likely than the mythical Headless Horseman." Brom didn't believe in a lot of the things people in the Hollow believed in. It wasn't the offset time I'd heard him refer to someone else's ideas as nonsense.

Fifty-fifty though everyone in the village attended church on Lord's day there was a adept deal of what the pastor called "folk beliefs"—and he shared some of those behavior himself, which was unusual for a human of God, or then Katrina told me. It was something nigh the Hollow itself that encouraged this, some sense that at that place was lingering magic in the air, or that the haunts in the far woods reached their hands out for us.

Once, a long fourth dimension agone, I'd stepped off the rail close to the deep function of the woods. I remembered Sander going mad with feet, calling for me to come dorsum, but I only wanted to know why nobody in the Hollow went any farther than that point.

I hadn't seen any witches, or goblins, or the Horseman. But I had heard someone, someone whispering my name, and I'd felt a bear upon my shoulder, something cold as the wind that came in autumn. I'd wanted to run and then, to sprint terrified dorsum to the farm, just Sander was watching, so I'd quietly turned and stepped back on the track and the cold touch moved abroad from me. If Brom had known about it he would have been proud of my bravery, I recall—that is, if he didn't box my ears for going where I wasn't supposed to. Not that he did that very often. Katrina was the ane who meted out discipline.

"If you don't call back information technology's the Horseman then it's not someone from the Hollow," De Jong insisted. "It must have been some outsider."

"No i'south reported strangers passing through," Sem Bakker said.

"That doesn't mean they haven't passed through, only that no one was aware of them," Brom said, with that tone he always saved simply for Sem—the tone that said he thought the other human being was an idiot. "A man could cross these woods and none of the states would ever know, unless a hunter happened upon him."

Sem flushed. He knew what Brom was doing, knew total well that Brom Bones thought he was a fool. He opened his mouth, gear up to argue more, simply one of the other men cut him off.

"Let's just return the boy to his female parent," Henrik Janssen said. He was a farmer, like Brom, and his lands bordered ours. Some quality in Henrik Janssen always made me feel uneasy around him. "There isn't much that can be washed correct at present. If it was the Horseman, so that is part of life here, isn't it? It's the risk nosotros take by living and so close to the edge of the globe."

In that location was a general murmur of assent. This would seem callous in other places, other villages, but in Sleepy Hollow strange things were true, and sometimes those foreign things reached out their claws. Information technology wasn't that people didn't intendance; it was that they accepted horror in exchange for wonder.

"The male child'due south father will exist a problem," Sem Bakker said.

This was a sideways reference to Thijs van den Berg's habit of drinking until he'd spent all his pay and left goose egg for his family unit. He was the most volatile man in the village when he was in that state, and if he couldn't find a man to option a fight with in the tavern, then he'd go home and option a fight with his wife—a fight she always lost, being small and unable to stand upwards to his fists.

Every woman in Sleepy Hollow pitied his married woman, but they never dared show it to her. A prouder woman than Alida van den Berg didn't exist in the village. I often heard Katrina and other ladies clucking over what they ought to do to assistance the family unit, before deciding that Alida wouldn't have their assistance in whatever instance.

These conversations always left Katrina with pitiful eyes, and me with an unaccountable demand to condolement her—unaccountable because nosotros were at odds over every other thing.

"In the meantime, the family has a right to mourn and bury him," Janssen said.

At that place were nods all around the circumvolve from everyone except Brom, who scrubbed his face with his hands, a gesture that meant he was irritated, and doubly irritated on superlative of it considering he wasn't allowed to express that feeling.

I felt my grasp slipping and gasped before quickly recentering myself, pushing my knees into the branch to keep steady. I was worried that the men might take heard me, but at that moment Brom unbuckled his saddlebag and pulled out a blanket for Cristoffel's remains. All the men'due south attention was focused there, and none of them looked around at me.

Brom knelt beside Cristoffel and carefully rolled the male child's trunk onto the blanket before tucking the edges then that none of Cristoffel was actually visible. All that was left of him—that boy who bullied other children and who was so poor that he couldn't afford shoes—was a sad little lump wrapped in cloth. None of the other men spoke, or moved to help him, and I felt an unreasoning anger at that moment. Whatever Cristoffel'south failings, he'd been a person, and simply Brom was bothering to treat him like i. Every other human simply thought of Cristoffel as a problem to be solved or explained.

I wondered why most of them had bothered coming along. Then I wondered why the men had rushed out to this spot in the wood to begin with. Someone else must take discovered the body and reported it—but who? I causeless it was one of the men in the party, who would have been on horseback. Why wouldn't that person have washed just as Brom had and wrapped the body up to return to the Hollow? Why had that person left Cristoffel on the trail?

A few moments later Brom mounted his horse, Cristoffel's body cradled in one arm. The other men followed adapt and they slowly filed abroad, their horses walking at a respectfully wearisome step.

But Diederick Smit lingered, his gaze fixed on the place where Cristoffel's body had lain. He stood staring and then long that it seemed like he'd fallen into a trance. Finally, he turned his horse and followed the others.

My hands were cramped from property on to the branch for and so long and my back was covered in sweat, even though I'd been very still.

"Ben!" Sander said. He spoke in a whisper, every bit if he were however agape of being heard by someone. His confront was a pale blotch against the fallen leaves.

"I'm coming," I said, easing astern until I reached the body of the tree. Then I carefully swung down, my hands clinging to the co-operative, and grabbed the trunk with my knees and then I could shimmy down. I dusted the bawl off my breeches.

"Cristoffel van den Berg was killed by the Horseman!" Sander said, his optics the size of Katrina'due south teacups.

"No, he wasn't," I said, trying to summon up the same contempt that Brom had used on the other men. "Didn't yous hear what they were saying? Opa said it was nonsense."

Sander gave me a hundred-to-one look. "Just because Mynheer Van Burden says it doesn't mean it's true. I mean, anybody in the Hollow knows near the Headless Horseman, and what else could have killed that male child? It'southward not as if there are people roaming effectually taking heads for no particular reason. Just the Horseman does that."

I would non admit to Sander that what he said made sense. It was the outset thought that had occurred to me, as well, when I saw Cristoffel's body without a head. But if Brom said it wasn't true, then it wasn't truthful.

---

HORSEMAN: A Tale of Sleepy Hollow is published by Berkley Books in the United States

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