“Holy shit,” Jacob said, but Dee didn’t look at him. He couldn’t look anywhere else.
The galloping grew louder and the wind that had vanished came back with a vengeance. Dee felt blown backward, as if it was moving ahead of the rider in a wave. The branches on the trees above him bent backward and he had trouble breathing.
“Shit, shit,” Jacob said.
For a second, Dee tore his eyes away to look at Jacob standing on the road. It appeared he could not move either. He just stood there, almost directly in the horseman's path.
Dee looked back at the rider. He had crossed the distance in remarkable time. Dee clenched his hands and felt sweat gathering on his forehead. He felt the urge to run but was rooted to the ground.
“Holy shit,” Jacob said.
Dee looked at Jacob to see what was the matter, but could see nothing.
Looking back at the rider, he knew.
The horseman coming at them-his cape billowing-had unsheathed a sword. And there was a second, much more urgent problem-the rider had no head.
Both boys started screaming then.
The Headless Horseman came full tilt at Jacob, never slowing or pausing. As Dee watched, the Horseman moved to his left side, letting his blade down on a perfect level for Jacob’s neck.
Dee wanted to scream or run, but could do nothing.
Instead, time seemed to slow down and he watched as the Horseman blew by them both, his sword clearly going through Jacob’s neck.
And then he was gone, riding off into the distance. Dee watched him go, still yelling at the top of his lungs.
When he looked at his friend, he wasn’t sure what he expected. But whatever it was, he was in for a shock.
Jacob stood there, in the center of the road-his head still firmly attached to his body-screaming.
Dee moved over to him and was immediately hit with a foul smell. Looking down, he could see that the other boy had wet himself, or maybe something worse.
“What was that?” Dee asked.
But Jacob didn’t respond, his lungs gasping for air and then screaming again. Dee looked for a sign of the blade, some cut or scratch.
But instead there was nothing.
All around them, everything had returned to its former shape.
It seemed like the horseman had never been there at all.
Dee ran to his car and got moving. He didn’t care about Jacob. He just wanted to get very far away.
Blackwell| Rob
A Soul To Steal
LH File: Letter #3
Date: Oct. 8, 1994
Investigation Status: Closed
Contents: Classified
Mr. Anderson,
The article on Weissman was a vast improvement. Even I wanted to cry after reading it. Such promise! Such talent! Such a tragedy!
Your article made his death sing, it really did. ‘Bob Weissman stares at a photo of his son, who will now be 16 forever.’ Have you been saving that one up? ‘All they want to know is why.’ Well, you could have told them that, couldn’t you? Their son died because he is a sign of the rot that is eating this county from the inside.
Bob Weissman should never have moved here. He’s not a farmer, he’s not even working class, like most of the Sterling residents. No, he’s just another suburbanite.
They will take over LoudounCounty, I promise you that. They will overrun us like a plague of locusts, tearing down everything in their path so they can put up rows and rows of shiny, metal boxes with no artistry and less personality than a concrete block. I know them, Mr. Anderson. They did it to FairfaxCounty already. Falls Church was once a small little town. Now, what is it? Just rows of street lights with tacky stores and sub-par restaurants.
Can you imagine what Leesburg will look like in 10 years, or 20? It will be just another suburb of Washington, D.C., a lifeless carbon copy of Fairfax or Reston. Think of all the history that will be destroyed. Union troops marched through this town, did you know that? They fought with their Confederate enemies at Ball’s Bluff. Over in Waterford, there was actually a Union regiment from Virginia. Many of them died, holed up in WaterfordBaptistChurch yelling for their mothers as their Virginia brothers shot lead into the building.
Weissman and his ilk will destroy this. They won’t mean to and that just makes it worse. They’ll come because they want a bigger house, and they won’t care about the added commute, or the acres of farm land that are plowed over to make their new dwelling space. Did Bob Weissman see his son much? Of course he didn’t. He had a 35-minute commute to RBS Industries in Rosslyn.
That’s the tragedy here. He grieves for a son he barely knew. He worked so hard to “provide” for his family, he never truly had one at all. Did his son think of that, as he bled to death, slowly dragging himself away from me? He didn’t say much, I can tell you that. He just stared at me, whimpering.
Will I stop the Bob Weissmans of the world? I can’t. I’m one person and the battle to save this land has not been joined. By the time others figure out what is happening, it will be far, far too late. But I will exact a price to pay. There are real ghosts here, specters that lurk just beyond the streetlight. I am their voice.
Here I am ranting again, I’m afraid. I’m giving your police handlers lots to think about. Maybe I’ve joined a preservationist organization? I could even be a Civil War reenactor! What do you think?
I’m glad you finally thought to use my name this time. I would have been so very displeased if you hadn’t. Of course, no mention of the letters-are you planning to save them? Maybe write a book when this is all over? And your description of me is so dry, so impersonal. “Police attribute the murders to a serial killer who calls himself ‘Lord Halloween.’” That’s it?
But I shouldn’t complain. It’s a start and we have some time left. I promise this will be a month that no one around here ever forgets.
Yours Sincerely,
Lord Halloween
P.S. The next body? Just look around. I made sure even the idiots at the police force could find it quickly.
Chapter 7
“ Robert Crowley is hard to quantify. As a poet in his own right, he was mediocre at best. His poems tended to be overly-symbolic with a poor sense of pacing. And yet it would be unfair to leave him out of a discussion of British poetry during the 19 ^th century. Other poets at the time considered him bold and innovative, and later, better masters of the art were influenced by him. But it seems his real claim to fame unfortunately comes from the rather bizarre circumstances surrounding his disappearance. That-if nothing else-assured he was unlikely to be forgotten.”
— Ross MacFarlane, “Scottish Poetry Through the Ages”
Monday, Oct. 9
Quinn sat in the early morning darkness staring at his living room wall. He was not really conscious of being there-his thoughts had drifted somewhere else-and it was only with a sudden start he realized he had been staring at the same spot for over an hour.
He supposed it must have been some manner of dreaming, though he knew he was awake.
Maybe this will be enough sleep today, he thought grimly.
He could not be surprised, or even too disappointed. After Saturday evening had gone so well, it was only natural that the night would go badly. The nightmares, always intense, always realistic, had been worse than ever.
So bad, in fact, that sleeping on Sunday night did not appear to be much of an option. Instead, he had stayed up-at first by watching the TV-and then by reading. He had not nodded off-though he felt incredibly tired-but his mind had wandered.
Quinn stood up abruptly and crossed over to the window. Sometimes he thought he could still hear the sound of hoof beats out there. But he heard nothing this morning. He tapped his fingernail against the glass and then turned around to get in the shower.
He was at work by 7:00 in the morning, far ahead of everyone else. He had three goals for the day: the first, and most important, was to talk to Kate again. He wondered if her brief kiss on his cheek had felt the same to her-the electric impulse that had spread through his body. He doubted it. Then he smiled at himself. This is what it was like when he was depressed and running on no sleep. He doubted everything.