The Cursed Hollow (Return to Sleepy Hollow Book 1) Read online

  The Cursed Hollow

  Return to Sleepy Hollow, Part 1

  Candace Wondrak

  © 2019 Candace Wondrak

  All Rights Reserved.

  Book cover by Manuela Serra at Manuela Serra Book Cover

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  Books by Candace Wondrak are only available at Amazon. If you are reading elsewhere, please note it is an illegal, pirated copy, uploaded without my permission. I, the author, nor the distributor received payment for the copy, and if prosecuted violation comes with a fine of up to $250,000. Please do not pirate books.

  Chapter One – Kat

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty – Crane

  Chapter Twenty-One – Kat

  Chapter Twenty-Two - The Horseman

  Chapter Twenty-Three – Kat

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Not Kat

  Chapter One – Kat

  Out of all the reasons for me to come back to this miserable, boring, quaint town, I never thought it would be because of my dad’s death. Like all kids, I assumed my parents would stick around for a long while yet, even though they were divorced and on different sides of the globe. Yes, at twenty-four years old, I was back for the absolute worst reason possible.

  The town, on maps, was technically called Tarry, but everyone always called it by its spookier, folktale-esque name.

  Sleepy Hollow.

  Yeah, that Sleepy Hollow. Headless Horseman, Ichabod Crane, and all that shit. My dad loved it. It’s why he wanted to move there, why my parents got divorced. His obsession drove Mom away, and she took me with her. I did spend far too much time in Sleepy Hollow myself, however. My summers growing up were spent wandering the cemeteries and going to all their festivals and outdoor get-togethers.

  You’d be surprised how many people in Sleepy Hollow believed in the stories. Personally, I found them ridiculous, because they were written by some guy while he was abroad. Sure, he might’ve based some of the details off of things that actually happened, but a headless dude roaming around in search of his head? Don’t make me laugh.

  And don’t get me started on my name, either. I went by Kat, but that’s only because my full name reminded me of my dad, which in turn reminded me of his obsession. I was their only child, and, shocker, Dad had begged my mom to name me after the famous chick in the stories. My full name was Katrina.

  I sat in the backseat of the Uber, watching as the houses rolled by. I held my phone against my ears, listening to my mom talk, “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, honey. If I could’ve dropped everything and flew back into the States, I would’ve.” Mom was currently off in India or some other country, doing whatever it was she did. Collecting art? Buying art? Something important and useless, all the same.

  “It’s okay. I’m just going to have a look at his will, see how he wanted to be taken care of, and then…” I trailed off. “Then pack up the house, I guess. Put it on the market.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’m sure he left everything to you. You can pay off your loans with that money.”

  Oh, yeah. What a bright side to look at there. My dad died, so I got to pay off my student loans years ahead of time. Whoo-hoo.

  The Uber pulled to a stop before the address I’d given him. “I’m here. I’ll text you later.” After saying my goodbyes and hanging up, I tipped the driver and got out, moving to get my luggage from the back. I’d guessed I’d be here for a week, maybe two, depending on the arrangements he wanted and how much crap he had packed away in the house.

  As I shut the trunk, the driver poked his head out of the window. “Remember, don’t cross the bridge at midnight.” With a smile and a wave, he was off, driving away and leaving me with a bad taste in my mouth.

  Don’t cross the bridge at midnight. What did I look like, a newbie? Of course I wouldn’t cross the bridge at midnight, mostly because someone would inevitably see me doing it and then start to spread rumors that I was cursed. This town and its damned ghost stories; I’d rather avoid it all entirely.

  Heaving a sigh, I turned to the house. Beyond a short, black iron fence sat a two-story house. Its siding was painted a dark grey, the trim a bright white. Gables and arches; it was a beautiful home, well taken care of, gothic in design. If I wasn’t so against this town, I would think about moving here and taking the house as my own. It wasn’t like I had a great job back home. I rented a studio apartment and worked as a retail associate. That lovely college degree hard at work.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the breeze whip through my brown hair. The weather was never too hot here, even in the summertime. It was either somewhat chilly or perfectly pleasant, the kind of weather you could wear a light jacket in and not sweat.

  Once I’d gathered up my courage, I headed past the wrought iron gates and headed to the front porch. I set my luggage down and went to the rock I knew held a key. It was so obviously fake too, not even matching the color of the rocks it was around.

  I walked inside the house, dropping my luggage at the base of the stairs. I knew he had a room for me, even though I’d stopped coming during the summer after I’d turned eighteen. I hadn’t seen or talked to my dad in years. I wanted to forget about him like Mom did.

  That sounded bad, but I swear, he was obsessed with the legends surrounding Sleepy Hollow. It was all he talked about. My dad practically breathed Sleepy Hollow, and I was sure he dreamt about it, too.

  Annoying. There was no other word for it.

  I checked the house. Everything looked untouched, messy in the way I knew he liked. Dishes were piled up in the sink, the trash can full and smelly. The living room held a couch, a table, and a TV. It was where he ate his meals and watched his favorite sitcoms—the few hours of the day when he wasn’t drowning himself in his work.

  Setting my hand on the trim around the archway that connected the living room to the hallway near the stairs, I sighed. This definitely wasn’t what I wanted to be doing. None of this was going to be fun.

  Pushing off the wall, I grabbed my luggage and headed up the stairs. I went straight past my dad’s room—that would be the last room I went through, purely because I knew everything in it he loved, from his worn, stained shirts to his magic 8 ball which he refused to get rid of, even though it had lost a lot of the liquid inside it. My childhood room, the room I crashed in during summers growing up, was right beside his. His office and the bathroom were on the opposite side of the second floor.

  My room was mostly bare, save for a few stuffed animals I’d won at the numerous carnivals this place had during the summer. The walls were a boring white, no wallpaper, nothing hanging on them. Nothing fancy, because even when I was younger, I hated being here. Sleepy Hollow was never my home; it was Dad’s.

  I sighed for about the millionth time today as I set my luggage on the foot of the twin bed, sitting beside it. I hadn’t packed much, because I didn’t want to be here for longer than I had
to. Plus, the bills at home would only keep piling up. Since retail in America was such a lovely thing, I got no paid vacation time, no sick days, no personal days. All of this was unpaid. I was losing money to be here.

  After sitting there in silence for a while, I dialed the number that had called me to tell me my dad had passed. His lawyer, Mike. He had Dad’s will, and hopefully could help me figure out how to arrange a funeral and stuff. Being only twenty-four, I’d never even been to one before. The only funerals I’d seen were on TV and in the movies.

  At least, I hoped he could. Maybe he would simply give me a copy of my dad’s will and be off. I didn’t know how these things worked.

  Mike didn’t pick up, so I let it go to voicemail. “Hey, Mike. It’s Kat. I’m here, ready to meet whenever you are to go over the will. Give me a call back when you can, thanks.” My thumb pressed the red button on the screen to end the call, and I heaved yet another sigh.

  This place was going to be the death of me.

  I got up, used the bathroom, and went back downstairs. I still wore my shoes, not knowing when the last time my dad had actually cleaned his house. His nose was always so deep in books that he forgot to bathe.

  Yeah, ew.

  I wandered in the kitchen, peeking in the fridge. I kept the lights off, for there was plenty of daylight streaming in through the windows. He had a bit of food, but not much. I’d probably have to make a run to the store, or do a lot of eating out. The diners here did have good food…

  The sounds of a key sliding into a lock alerted me to someone else’s presence. I quietly closed the fridge, waiting as I heard the front door to the house open. Someone was here, but who? They might’ve had a key, but I wasn’t aware of anyone who knew my dad well enough to have a key to his damn house.

  I grabbed the nearest thing to me—the dirty frying pan on top of the dishes in the sink, tiptoeing quietly to the end of the kitchen. Footsteps headed up the stairs, apparently knowing precisely where to go.

  My teeth ground as I trailed after him. I found him in my dad’s office, bent over and digging through the drawers in his desk. Lifting the frying pan, I said, “Who the fuck are you?” He seemed thin enough; I could probably take his ass from here to the damned bridge no one wanted to cross at midnight if I tried.

  The man jerked up, nearly tripping over his own feet when he saw me. Behind his thin-rimmed glasses, I realized he wasn’t that much older than me. Maybe thirty, at the most. He was at least a foot taller than me, but that wasn’t hard to do because I was so short. His slender frame wore a button-down shirt tucked into a pair of dress pants.

  He wasn’t exactly what I would imagine if I pictured an intruder or a thief. Then again, he did have a key to the house, so he must’ve known my dad. My dad must’ve trusted him. Personally, I’d never seen the guy before, so I wasn’t sure whether to hit him with the dirty frying pan or not.

  I was leaning toward the former, especially since he wasn’t answering me.

  “I said,” I spoke, over-enunciating my words to make sure he understood them, “who the fuck are you?” My fingers gripped the frying pan’s handle tighter. He might’ve been kind of cute, but I was not above whooping some cute ass.

  “I worked with your father,” he quickly said, extending his hand to me. “Or I did, before he…” He quieted, genuine sorrow flashing in his green eyes, eyes a similar color to mine. The man bent his head, his wavy brown hair falling over his forehead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here. I didn’t think…well, I didn’t think anyone would come.”

  “I’m his daughter,” I replied, glaring.

  “Yes, he did mention you often, but I…well, you never came.” It sounded almost like this guy was judging me. Who the hell did he think he was?

  “I came here during the summers growing up, and not once did I ever meet you,” I growled out. This guy might look like the nerdy, cute type, but he had insulting someone down pat.

  He blinked, his back straightening. His jaw was thin, angular. If he was a few shades paler, I would’ve called him a vampire. A shame I used to love those pale, blood-sucking guys in the movies. “Your father found me a few years ago…I’m sorry. Were you about to hit me with that frying pan?”

  I met his incredulous and slightly worried stare. “I’m still thinking about it, honestly.”

  The man shut the drawer he’d been searching in, giving me a tiny smile. “Why don’t we go downstairs and talk? I can make us some tea.”

  What a nice and disgusting offer, for someone who was trespassing on my dead dad’s property. I mean, just because he had a key didn’t mean he was welcome to waltz in whenever he wanted, right? And with my dad dead, this house was mine anyway. I didn’t know this guy. He could be a serial killer for all I knew.

  “Maybe after we talk, you can finally set down that pan,” he added, obviously uneasy.

  I stepped aside, letting him out of the office. As he went down the stairs, I threw a look around the room. Even though I hated my dad’s obsession with Sleepy Hollow, it didn’t feel right to let someone dig through his stuff like that. How was I to know whether or not this guy even knew my dad? Maybe he stole those keys. Maybe he was a liar.

  I kept the frying pan by my side as I followed him into the kitchen. He seemed to make himself right at home, telling me to sit in the living room while he made the tea. Maybe I’d seen too many movies, but all I could think was poison, so I declined. Instead, I stood there watching him.

  Wait a minute. I wasn’t even going to drink the damn tea, so all of my posturing was pointless. Apparently if you wanted a badass, you shouldn’t come to me.

  Soon enough, we were in the living room, my frying pan on my knees, the tea the man had made me sitting on the coffee table before me. He sipped from his own mug before meeting my eyes. The more I looked at him, the cuter he became.

  I wanted to smack myself. Now was not the time to be checking out possible men to date. I was here to do my dad’s final arrangements, nothing more.

  “So who exactly are you?” I broke the silence of the room, watching as he shifted his weight and looked uneasy. He did not like questions about himself, did he? “You were working with my dad?” I chuckled. “I’m surprised he had money to pay you.”

  “Oh, he wasn’t paying me, just like he wasn’t paying the bills to live here. I was.” When I glared at him, he quickly said, “But everything is in your father’s name, so feel free to do whatever you want with it.”

  “What are you, some kind of Richie Rich?”

  He sipped his tea again, his emerald eyes falling to the floor. “I do come from old money. It is how your father found me.”

  “He was looking for a sugar daddy?”

  My words caused the man to blush. A thirty-year-old man was before me, sipping tea and blushing. What in the world… “He was looking for someone who believed him, in his work. When he showed me what he was working on, I had no choice but to join him.”

  “You still never told me your name.”

  “That is because I know you’re not a fan of all of this. Sleepy Hollow, the legends.”

  The longer he stalled, the weirder this became. I only glared.

  “My parents named me Irving, because there were already a dozen Ichabods in our family. I like to go by my last name, though.” His lips parted slightly as he paused, as if I should already know what it was. And, I supposed I did. “Crane.”

  Irving Crane.

  My heart felt…heavy, strange in my chest. The man before me was a Crane. Of course he was. This wouldn’t be Sleepy Hollow if someone didn’t have the last name of Crane.

  I let out a laugh, but the laugh sounded fake, so I stopped it instantly. “I’m surprised my dad never tried to set us up. I’m named after—”

  “I know,” Crane said, touching the middle of his glasses to push them up farther. “Katrina Van Tassel, but your father always called you Kat. You do look like him, a bit. You also look like the paintings in town of Katrina. You’ll
be popular around here.”

  Ugh. Being popular for looking like a lady from an old urban legend was not on my list of things to do. “I’m not staying,” I declared. “I only came to set up arrangements for him and to pack this stuff up.”

  “Right. Of course. Why would you stay?” Crane let out a sad smile, and even though we were strangers, I didn’t like the expression on his face. He looked much better when he wasn’t so damned sad. “Before his…death,” he paused, letting the word sink in, “we were working on something very important. I was hoping to grab the research before…” Again, he stopped himself, almost like he didn’t want me to know what he and my dad were doing.

  It was stupid, but I was curious. What could my dad have spent his whole life working on? What was more important than staying married to my mom? So I asked quietly, “What were you working on?”

  “I don’t think you really would want to know,” Crane said, setting his empty cup on the table.

  I hated when people told me what I needed, what I thought, or what I wanted. No one was in my head but me. “I asked, didn’t I?”

  “Sleepy Hollow is not like anywhere else,” Crane went on, looking uncomfortable. “The veil between earth and the otherworld is thin. It is remarkably easy to hold seances here—” At the words otherworld and seances, my blood grew hot and I frowned, which he didn’t notice, for he went on, “And possessions are more frequent here than anywhere else. We were working on something to change that.”

  “Ghosts,” I muttered the word. “You’re talking about ghosts.”

  “I don’t like to use that word, because not everything that lives in the otherworld is a ghost. Spirit is more well-suited—”

  I stood, still holding onto the frying pan. “Get out.”

  “What?”

  “Get out of this house,” I said, using my frying pan to point towards the door.

  “But I—”

  I grabbed his arm, pushing him out of the living room and to the front door. “Keys,” I demanded. Crane sputtered, and when he made no moves to get his keys, I turned my hand, reaching into his back pocket, grabbing them myself. I’d seen the indentation when he was making the tea.