Page 4 of Hollow

“What is it?”

“Not sure.” Astaroth cocked his head. “Too many stupid peasant mortals to discern, but I suspect treachery is afoot.”

“Well, tardiness is about to be afoot, so let’s get going.” Jack gestured ahead, and the pair continued their walk through downtown.

Shortly thereafter, they arrived at a small amphitheater with wooden benches stretching into a long half-circle facing the small stage. The platform itself was kept simple enough for a handful of people. A vibrant white curtain covered the rock wall behind the stage.

“What you all don’t seem to understand is the Headless Horseman left these lands a long time ago,” Daxter Winston said with a boisterous voice.

The old man had a way of captivating audiences, holding their attention. Jack had seen him tell stories to tourists for nearly fifty years, selling his trinkets, peddling his phony witchcraft, and offering anyone foolish enough the opportunity to speak with the lost souls of Sleepy Hollow. Observing Daxter helped Jack create his own online persona, and when he started playing the role of the less popular Horseless Headsman, it was Daxter who dusted off the legend and shoved the Headless Horseman off the stage.

“So, you see, the real story is that the Headless Horseman came from Hell itself,” Daxter explained, peering down at the audience as he walked across his stage. “He was a demon with an unspeakable name, one so foul it still haunts the souls of this very land. He haunted the townsfolk here for nearly a decade, tearing through anyone who dared step out at night.”

Jack stayed at the back of the crowd, eating up the story he’d heard a hundred times already. Hell, he almost started mouthing Daxter’s next lines.

“But one night, the Headless Horseman met someone far more wild and wicked than even himself. A witch most foul had sought him out. And you see, I know a thing or two about witches.” Daxter conjured a flame in his hand, a simple trick that had originally piqued Jack’s curiosity a half-century ago. It turned out Daxter had no talent for magic, but he was a brilliant magician all the same.

Astaroth scoffed. “Don’t you get tired of this blatant pandering⁠—”

“Shush. You’re gonna ruin the best part.” Jack side-eyed his dog, who huffed in protest and lay down on the ground.

“This wicked witch seduced the Headless Horseman. Not to tame the monster, but to bring a new creature far more horrifying into this world.”

The audience stood entranced, staring at the shifting shadows on the backdrop behind Daxter. They showed the story of a man riding a horse, a woman bringing him to a stop, chaos and carnage. Jack tossed in a few of his own shadows to amp up the fear, show just a bit more gore, and do what Daxter’s hidden projector couldn’t pull off. It was enough to cause a few gasps, but nothing so frightful as to send audience members fleeing.

Jack had learned that while fear sells, scary coupled with sexy sells far more, so he kept his horror a bit tamer than in years past.

“For you see,” Daxter continued, “the witch bore a child. A haunting monster who used his first breath into this world to slaughter his demonic parents.”

Jack rolled his eyes. That part of the story always annoyed him. He didn’t kill his mother, and the Headless Horseman wasn’t his father. Jack’s father was nothing more than an average, boring human who’d passed away so long ago, Jack barely recalled the man’s face.

“That is how he earned his name,” Daxter said, gesturing to the crude shadows of a monstrous baby beheading the witch and attacking the Headless Horseman. “After defeating and devouring his parents, the Horseless Headsman went deep into the woods, seeking refuge.”

Someone in the audience snorted. “Horseless Headsman? Seriously? I mean…seriously?”

Daxter didn’t miss a beat, letting the shadows behind him weave in menacing ways as he leaned out, staring ominously at the man who’d laughed.

“You see, they call him that not merely as an homage to his father, but as a warning to all those who cross his path. He rides no steed, but the shadows carry the gallop of a thousand horses forged in Hell itself. For his mother wished to create a monster so foul, he would lead Hell’s army onto this world.”

Astaroth tsked. “As if any demon would follow you around.”

“You follow me.”

“No, I merely allow you to serve me,” Astaroth corrected, sitting up and puffing his chest. “It’d be far too much work to retrain a new mortal every few years. Such tiny lifespans they possess. And far too breakable. It’s almost boring.”

Jack shook his head, ignoring Astaroth, and focused on the soft patter of hooves that started to feed the ambiance. Shadows shifted into a terrifying pumpkin head.

“If you hear the stride of a horse,” Daxter said with a wicked lilt, “then chances are, that’s the approach of The Horseless Headsman. For you see, he comes to claim anyone who dares step foot into his forest.”

Daxter eyed the edge of the forest where the audience stood far too close to now, especially with the fog rolling in to add a hint of eeriness. This came from one of Daxter’s little machines. Jack wouldn’t waste the forest’s magic just to add a bit of flair.

“He haunts these lands, hiding in the shadows that he controls. If he finds you, he’ll take your head. There are over a hundred cases of decapitation in the woods of Sleepy Hollow.”

Okay, that part was true. Mostly. Over two centuries, Jack had decapitated quite a few foes, though he didn’t exactly keep a head count, so to speak, on the number of humans he’d slaughtered. Silly townsfolk who wanted to burn away the evil. Incompetent monster hunters who thought they’d become legends. And a slew of other fools with zero redeeming qualities. Beheading people was quick and easy and tended to end conflict relatively fast.

Jack hadn’t realized that by making that his calling card, he inadvertently set himself up for the name he’d be stuck with forever.

“And here we have it—our very own Horseless Headsman,” Daxter announced, gesturing dramatically to Jack, who stood at the edge of the audience.