In the heart of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river known as the Tappan Zee, there lies a small rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. From this secluded valley a small village can be found known by the name of Sleepy Hollow.
If the name of Sleepy Hollow sounds familiar to you, it may be due to that most profound tail of the dominant spirit said to haunt this enchanted region. An apparition of a figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of where a church once stood, now occupied by a small industrial building. Historians who have been careful in collecting the facts concerning this spectre, believe that the body of the trooper, originally buried in the churchyard, now resides under the foundation of that building. It is said the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being late, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.
Katrina waited impatiently for the copier as Bob moved around it to the other side. She was in a hurry and her father could not wait. The board meeting was about to begin, and she had to have copies for every member. He managed to fix it temporarily with the elastic band he used to keep his pant leg from the gears of his mountain bike. Bob road it everywhere with great conviction. He was determined to stay fit, and he found his mountain bike to be the perfect symbol of this oath. Unlike Larson, who routinely attempts to run Bob off the road with his Ducati Motorcycle.
BANG! WHIZZZ! TCHURN!! Cried the beast as Bob slapped the rear panel back on. “There, give it a minute to warm up and she’ll be as good as new”, Bob said as he rose from behind the machine. Katrina leaned over and kissed him on the cheek in gratification.
“You’re the best Bob!” she squealed. Slapping the thick stack of papers onto the copier she said, “I don’t have much time to get these reports copied and collated”. Pushing Bob to the side she began to work furiously.
“So, uh, are you going to the Halloween Party tonight?” Bob asked nervously.
Still wrestling with her mission, she grunted, “Uhuh”.
“Well,” Bob took a hard swallow on the forming lump in his throat and continued, “I was hoping to see you there”. Bob said.
With a final triumphant finger jab to the panel, the copies began to roll. Katrina turned to Bob with a smile on her face, patting him on the chest, she said, “Of course I’ll be there. We have some great games lined up, and we need all the players we can get. Everyone has to participate you know.”
Out of seemingly nowhere, Mike Larson shoved his thick frame in front of Bob, shoving Bob to the side. “Katrina! I’ve been looking for you babe!” He said with a big smile. “Where’s your old man?” He asked. “I’ve got some really hot news for him!”
Katrina looked up at Larson’s chiseled features sternly and scolded him “Mike, don’t you bug him with your practical jokes right now. He’s at a very important board meeting right now and can’t be disturbed.”
“Ah, common Katrina, just five minutes. You know he can use some cheering up,” Larson said.
Katrina gave him a sideways glance, then looked at Bob and said, “What do you think Bob, should I give him the five minutes?”
Before Bob could answer, Larson jabbed a hard thumb into the side of his ribs and said, “Sure! Bob knows I won’t let you down, isn’t that right Bob?” Larson slapped a bracing one-armed clamp around Bobs shoulders and shook him violently.
“Well, uh…” Bob started.
“See! Even Bob knows your old man could use the laugh!” Larson declared.
“Well,” Katrina said with a smile, “Okay. But only FIVE MINUTES!” She yelled after him as Larson raced down the hall.
The Halloween party was very impressive. The company owner, old man Baltus Van Tassel, really knew how to spoil his employees. Everyone loved him. He made work fun and challenging. He was one of those rare people that listened and cared about his employees, and his daughter Katrina was no exception. As head of H.R. she did everything she could for the employees, keeping moral high. As for Bob, Katrina was all he cared about. As shift supervisor, he was a tireless worker with an excellent work ethic. Long hours at the office allowed Bob and Katrina to spend a lot of time together. They had been seeing each other off and on for a few months and just as it was beginning to solidify into something, old man Van Tassel expanded the marketing group. Hiring on Mike Larson and his sidekick Mr. Parks to run things. Mike Larson, also a hard worker, was a tireless practical joker who also had his eye on Katrina. Because of Bobs no nonsense approach at his duties, Larson found him to be an easy punch line while showing off for Katrina.
So far, Bob had managed to avoid Larson’s shenanigans by running one of the party games. This particular game awarded prizes to the guest who could tell the best spooky story. However, Bob kept a watchful eye on Larson and Parks as Larson kept a watchful eye on Katrina. Larson could feel Bobs gaze on him throughout the night and did all he could to invite it. His every move and gesture a carefully choreographed dance to keep Bob occupied while Mr. Parks tried to work his way through the party to the pre-arranged spot Parks and Larson had setup.
“Bob!” Larson shouted above the crowd. “I’ve a story to tell”!
Bob knew Larson was up to something, but with Katrina nearby, he had to keep face. With a reluctant smile, Bob waved Larson over to the group.
Instead of joining the group, Larson stepped into the center of the group, causing everyone to spread out. Larson looked over at Mr. Parks “Mr. Parks, can you please dim the lights for me!” he said loudly.
Mr. Parks smiled, “Yes, of course”, and stepping over to the lights, rolled the dimmer switch to a darkened state. Various party lights gave the room an eerie feeling. The darkened atmosphere cause the ongoing party to quiet down and move closer to Larson as he began to spin his yarn of the towns renowned and favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the old churchyard. Larson, who made light of the Galloping Hessian as an errant jockey. He affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a “bowl of punch” Larson yelled gleefully as he dipped his glass into the punch bowl and gulped it down. “And should have won it too”, he declared, for upon his Ducati Motorcycle Larson was in the lead of the goblin horse, but just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of “FIRE”, Larson yelled into Bobs face, causing bob to jump backwards in surprise, stepping into a carefully placed box of cakes. Staggering back, Bob attempted to keep his footing by grabbing out at Katrina on one side and the table containing the punch bowl on the other. As if by design, Bob managed to only grasp a portion of Katrina’s shoulder and a fringe edge of the table cloth as he fell backwards. Pulling Katrina off balance, Bob managed to fling her into his lap as the punch bowl, which was flung into the air by the table cloth, landed on them both.
The laughter pounded in Bobs ears as he stormed out of the building. The sticky pink punch cold against his skin. Mounting his bicycle Bob started out for home. After that humiliating display, Larson had somehow come out the hero. Old man Van Tassel was laughing so hard at Bob that he was visibly crying. Even Katrina was laughing at Bob though she too was covered in punch. He felt like a broken man.
The wood planks of the old covered bridge made a rattling sound as he rode over it. Emerging from the bridge he turned towards home and the empty wooded road. The night seemed to close in on him quickly. There was scarcely any moonlight to light his way. The stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. Bob was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the center of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above the surrounding trees and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragic story of John André, the British Army officer whom was hanged as a spy. It was known as Major André’s tree.
As Bob approached this fearful tree, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree, on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan—he looked around sharply, trying to identify the noise. It was but the rubbing of one huge bough of the tree upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.
About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley’s Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured.
As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; the evenings previous humilities were like an ancient memory. Just at this moment, in the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he could just make out something huge, misshapen and towering. Without moving, it seemed to grow in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler.
The hair on the back of Bobs neck rose. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if that’s what it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up a little courage, Bob demanded, “Who are you?” He received no reply. He repeated his demand. Still there was no answer. Once more he cycled forward. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, the form could now be seen. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions and mounted on a large black horse. The horseman made no move towards Bob, but kept aloof on one side of the road.
Bob, who had no taste for this strange midnight companion, nor the adventure Mike Larson offered earlier with his story of the Galloping Hessian, turned back towards the town in hopes of leaving it behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Bob slowed, thinking to lag behind,—the other did the same. Bobs heart began to sink. As Bob continued to pedal, something in the moody and dogged silence of this companion was soon fearfully accounted for. As Bob travelled up a rise, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler into the dim light of the evening sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Bob was horror-struck on perceiving that his new companion was headless!—but his horror was still more increased on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was mounted on the pommel of his saddle appearing to be quite conscious! His terror rose to desperation; he stood on the peddles of his mountain bike cycling at a maddening pace, hoping by a sudden movement to give his companion the slip; but the specter started full jump with him. Away, then, they dashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks flashing at every bound.
They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Bob plunged headlong downhill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the infamous bridge; and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the industrial complex where the old church once stood. Just as Bob got half way through the hollow, an opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the old bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver moon in the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the Industrial building dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Mike Larson’s ghostly competitor had disappeared. “If I can just reach that bridge,” thought Bob, “I’m safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even thought he felt his hot breath. And still faster he pedaled as he sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Bob 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 hurling his severed head at him. Bob tried to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. Bob felt it hit his cranium with a tremendous crash, —Bob tumbled headlong into the dust, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind.