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An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones’s ghostly competitor had disappeared. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash—he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind.
The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast—dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no school-master. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.
The brook was searched, but the body of the school-master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes, full of dogs’ ears; and a broken pitchpipe. As to the books and furniture of the school-house, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather’s History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawls were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper; who from that time forward determined to send his children no more to school; observing, that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter’s pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his disappearance.
The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others, were called to mind; and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him. The school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead.
It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit several years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept school and studied law at the same time, had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones too, who shortly after his rival’s disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph 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.
The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. The school-house being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the ploughboy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.
* * *
She had reached the end of the book. The infamous fable of Washington Irving was both a classic literary tale and a Halloween favorite. She would read nothing else during this time of year when children had already finished their beloved 'Trick or Treat' for the night. When she wasn't reading her book it was usually due to her watching another Halloween favorite; Ghostbusters. Closing up the leather-bound tomb she climbs up off her couch and rests the delicate volume back into it's glass-sealed case. The book was old. An antique given to her family; supposedly by Irving himself after the book's first publication. Her family had obviously taken very good care of it as the pages--though yellowed with age--were still firm and intact. She had done the research and even enquired about it to many a antique dealers, as well as pawnshop owners. None could give her a straight answer as they themselves simply did not know how to date it, let alone estimate it's value. Money was non-existent when it came to such an heirloom and was always the furthest thought from her mind. She only wanted to know how old it really was, and weather or not it really was a gift from the actual writer. There was no signature and no other means of identification--on or within the bindings.
After locking the glass case she hangs the key behind a picture of one of her relatives. The black and white photo was of an elderly women sitting with her grandchildren. As a child she would often ask her Mother who the old women was in the portrait. The only reply from her lips was "That is your Great, Great, Great Grandmother, Katrina." and that was all. Since her Mother's explanations did not satisfy her curiosity she began to search on her own. Finding of course, nothing. It wasn't until after she became a detective in the NYPD that access to more confidential information was finally available to her. It was a good job. Paid well enough to let her live without worry. But not enough to make her a detestable aristocrat of the wealthy society that plagued the city of New York. As before, money wasn't important. It was the past that mattered to her. History through forensic evaluation of the world, people and objects around her.
Walking away from the glass case she sits on her couch once more and stares out the large decorative-framed window. An unfinished glass of red wine rested beside her on the table stand and a comfortable gas-lit fire to her right. Below her balcony the continued construction of the new World Trade Center was still active, though mostly completed, save for one or two new sky scrapers. She was only a lowly patrol officer during 9/11, but was nevertheless important to what had transpired on that day. It was also where her uncanny skills in deductions would make her future as a detective come to fruition. Helping to uncover, analyze and meticulously document over 30 corpses gave notice to her superiors. Unlike some she wasn't immune to things like cadavers. Seeing a dead body often made her guts twist and she would get jumpy at even the tiniest distractions. Apparently this reaction was a long-time family trait. As disgusting as the task was however, her mind would press on and get the job done. With flying colors. It was shortly after 9/11 that she had been granted a promotion. In fact her boss was expecting her to take the job as a detective and not look back. And that's exactly what she did. Her boss didn't mind because he knew her well enough and they needed good detectives nowadays. It was obvious from the beginning that local police grunt work was no promising career for her. It was all about solving the mystery. She was no Daphne Blake or Velma Dinkley, but then again they were only cartoon characters and not real. Nicodemus Crane was real. And she made real discoveries and solved real mysteries.
Once more she left the couch and this time, took her wine glass with her to the kitchen. Dumping the rest of the contents down the sink she washes up the empty glass and puts it on the drying rack. Afterwards she goes back to the living room and closes up the wine bottle. Carrying it back to the kitchen, she stores it in the liquor cabinet. When all's said and done she stops and thinks; Why didn't I just bring both the wine glass and bottle to the kitchen at the same time?..
Giving her head a light knock and wearing a comedic look of annoyance on her face, she continues on her way to the bathroom. Turning on the light she finds her black-haired, blue-eye cat asleep on the cushioned toilet seat lid. It was his favorite spot in the whole apartment. That is until she went to bed and took him with her. With a slight giggle of amusement and shaking her head Crane turns on the faucet. Ever since she was little washing her face in frigid cold water had become a bit of an odd habit. Maybe to her parents it was a way of keeping the elasticity of her skin intact for as long as possible. She even took cold showers in the mornings as a means of waking up fast. And in her line of work there was no sleeping in till high noon. Unless of course it was the weekend then she could do as she damned-well pleased. After drying off her face she takes out her toothbrush, applies some paste and scrubs the life out of her teeth. Spitting out the soap, rinsing and cleaning her brush, Crane turns the tap off as well as the light, picks up her cat and leaves the bathroom.
"Come on Cheshire, bedtime." the cat answered back in his usual reply; with a meow and purring all the way.
Once in her bedchamber Nicodemus closes the door and puts down her cat. Cheshire then wanders off to his other favorite sleeping spot and plunks himself down for the night. Taking out a match she strikes it and lights some white candles situated in front of her vanity's antique embroidered mirror. Pulling off all her attire she looks into the mirror and at herself: A very beautiful, shapely, full-on hourglass bodied 31 year old woman. Nicodemus was very well endowed. With a sporty build and strong frame she felt right at home in the NYPD's athletic department. Her measurements weren't all that far off either; Wide hips, thunder thighs, broad shoulders, and her bust size seemed to hover around the latter double D area. Her hair was a shiny black color that contrasted well with her pale white completion. Her height however was not so kind to her. She was only 5.6 feet tall. Average to others but not to her, unless she was from Asia. There was one single feature that separated her from most women. Her eyes; Silver in pigmentation. Her particular eye color was very rare in the chart of known eye variations. Some would think it part of the blue spectrum while others believed it wasn't. No matter the reason they did for her she needed them to do; intimidate. Those around her would be caught off-guard from her hard, silvery gaze, and she would use this to her advantage when things needed to get done.
Putting aside her random thoughts Nicodemus takes in a few deep breaths and enters into a relaxed state of mind. Easy for her to do since she'd had a lot of practice with regards to eastern meditation techniques. When her mind felt quiet enough Nicodemus let out her usual prayer. To her this was a sacred act. White candles, a relaxed mind, and her body unencumbered by clothing. All the while standing in front of her antique mirror; A mirror that had been rumored to show anyone that gazed into it the truth. Evidently an old Wiccan spell that was to serve the purpose of letting those know whether or not they strayed from their chosen path in life. Since Nicodemus saw only herself in the mirror she knew that her life was on course. Cheshire had heard his master pray many times since he was a kitten and knew she was nearing the end of her entreaty.
"..and to guide me and keep me from harm. Dear Azna; sacred Mother of the Earth, and Om; almighty Father of the sky, keep me healthy and happily evermore."
Once finished she put out the candles one by one with a wick extinguisher. After turning out the dimmed bedroom lights she lifts off the silk covers of her bed and slips beneath them. Tomorrow was another day and the first of the new month of November. Cheshire examined Nicodemus as she drifted off to sleep. He always kept a vigil for her during this time of year; when the veils of the Earth and Heavens were at it's most thinnest. Sensing nothing out of the ordinary he hops off his perch and bounds over to Nicodemus. Once beside her Cheshire curls up and drifts off to sleep as well.