Page 36 of 13 Nights

"I've been through the full observation record," she says. "Two hundred years of manifestation data, and the pattern is consistent until this October. The delays, the resistance, the physical marks. None of it has ever happened before." She taps the timeline. "You're an outlier in your own dataset."

"Flattering."

"It's evidence." She closes the laptop and reaches for her coat. "Walk with me. I've been in this kitchen since you left."

We walk into town on a night when Sleepy Hollow is operating at the manic pitch that makes the final week before Halloween feel less like a festival and more like a siege. The rain has softened to a mist that catches the light from carved pumpkins, projections, and strings of orange bulbs lining the streets.

Sleepy Hollow at peak season is a spectacle I've watched from the margins for decades. I've always stayed close enough to observe but careful enough to hold the distance where witnesses see the Horseman rather than the man. Tonight Ashley is beside me, and the distance has collapsed.

A performer in a tricorn hat and theatrical bloodstains crosses the street ahead of us, dragging a prop sword. Three more occupy the corner by the bridge, posing for photographs with tourists who've paid for the privilege of pretending to be terrified.

The Headless Horseman is available in foam, felt, and fiberglass from storefront to storefront. A banner above the visitors' center reads EXPERIENCE THE LEGEND in letters dripping painted blood.

A sandwich board on the corner advertises HEADLESS HORSEMAN ESCAPE ROOM — CAN YOU SURVIVE THE RIDE? with a cartoon pumpkin and a queue time estimate.

"That's new," I say. I've overheard enough tourists talking about these attractions over the years to understand the premise. Pay to be locked in a room themed around my death, then congratulate yourself for escaping it.

"Two years ago," Ashley says.

I stop in front of the window display. Behind the glass, a mannequin wears a Hessian uniform with brass buttons and a jabot made of something that has never been near a loom. The placard beneath it reads: Authentic Reproduction Hessian Soldier Costume—As Worn by the Headless Horseman.

"The cut is wrong. That coat is tailored for a man who's never carried a musket or slept in a field. And the buttons are decorative. The originals were functional, because a soldier who can't fasten his coat in the dark is a soldier who freezes to death."

"You're correcting the costume accuracy of your own legend."

"Someone should. Any soldier who wore the real thing would be offended."

"I would point out you're the only one here who could make that claim to fame."

I snort as a couple passing on the sidewalk slows to look at me. The man nudges his wife and points, and she claps twice, delighted, the way you'd applaud a street performer who's committed to his bit. "Amazing," she calls. "You look so authentic."

I incline my head because the alternative is explaining that the authenticity stems from having died in the actual uniform, but that would dampen the festive atmosphere.

A boy, eight or nine years old, stops in front of me. He's carrying a plastic jack-o'-lantern half-full of candy and wearing a cape that drags the wet sidewalk.

"Are you the Horseman?" he asks.

The question is cheerful and uncomplicated.

"No," I tell him. "The Horseman lost his. I've still got mine."

The boy considers this with the grave logic of someone who hasn't yet learned to be embarrassed by earnest questions. "Then who are you?"

"Just a Hessian soldier who got lost."

"Cool," he says, and moves on.

Ashley watches me. Whatever she sees in my face after the boy leaves, she's wise enough to let it pass. I turn back toward the street.

We pass the gift shop at the bottom of the hill. Inside, plush Headless Horsemen line the shelves beside scented candles labeled Pumpkin Spice of Doom and coffee mugs reading I Lost My Head in Sleepy Hollow.

A woman in a quilted vest steps out of the doorway, sees me, and her face lights with the eager delight of someone who's found a performer willing to pose.

"Oh my God, your costume is incredible." She holds up her phone. "Can I get a selfie?"

"No," I say.

"It'll just take a second. The lighting is great right here⁠—"