Legends and Assorted Tales

There are many stories and legends of America’s past. Some give Wh hope while others inspire us to do great things. Some stories serve as a warning against our baser instincts. Then there are the unbelievable stories that cause us to tempt fate. Those are the ones that are better left alone.

Of course, by now, you must realize that I didn’t leave this one alone. I have always loved ghost stories and legends of haunted places. Many tales from the past have lessons to teach and truths to tell, even if they are complete fiction. However, the best legends are the true ones.

As an elementary school student, I first heard a legend about a soldier who lost his head during the Revolution. The teacher told the story adding the ghost sounds of a moaning man searching for his lost head and the cannon fire of the battle in which he lost it. She spoke with a frightened voice as she told of Ichabod Crane fleeing from his fiery sword. The Horseman closed in on him as he rode to the bridge and safety on the other side. She inflected a note of sorrow when she got to the part where old Ichabod disappeared, never again seen in Sleepy Hollow. Then she whispered about how the ghost of the Headless Horseman still to this day searches for the head of anyone foolish enough to cross his path on Halloween night.

When I was younger, I read the Washington Irving story and saw every movie version of the Horseman. To a child, that was the stuff of nightmares. I often lay awake at night after Trick or Treating and wondered if that story was true. So I decided in college that I would one day find out the legend’s truth. So, I went to one of the libraries on campus and started researching the story for myself. Indeed there is some truth to the legend after all.

The town of Sleepy Hollow is fiction, at least during the Revolution it was. In reality, Tarrytown is the actual location of the legend. During the Revolution, there were Hessen soldiers, who were mercenaries from Germany, in that area who did not get along well with the local population of Dutch inhabitants. I also discovered that one of the main characters from the book, Katrina van Tassel is buried in a cemetery in Tarrytown. Most interesting, though, is the local legend of a headless Hessen soldier found somewhere near the cemetery in Tarrytown. At last, I had proof that the legend has some historical truth. It was then I decided that I must visit there myself.

About five months after graduation, I decided to make the trip to Tarrytown during Halloween. I can’t tell you it’s a terrifying place. It looks more at home in the late 1940s or 50s than in colonial times. It’s a quiet and peaceful modern town, and the people were friendly. Most seemed more amused than worried when I told them why I was there. Most town’s people insisted it was all just a legend. They said they hosted a festival to honor the legend the weekend before Halloween. A few people said the tale gave the town a slight boost in the tourist business. Regretfully, I arrived too late to attend.

So there I was the night before Halloween, telling some locals about my plan to visit the cemetery on Halloween night at a small establishment in town. To most, it was just part of the town lore. Many laughed and said I was wasting my time. Others told me good luck, that I probably wouldn’t be alone, and that many had done what I planned to do before.

However, the Horseman was more than a legend to this older man at the bar. He came up to me when I was by and large alone at the bar. The older man looked around him, nervously trying to see if anyone could hear what he was about to say other than me. When he spoke, it was in a voice almost like a whisper. “They won’t tell you the truth about what you’re doing,” he said in a whisper. “Folks here know the legend better than anyone, and they hope a stranger will drift into town looking to do what you are planning on doing. And if no one comes in willingly, they try to force some poor, unwitting fool into being out at night on Halloween night just before midnight. They know the Horseman rides on Halloween, and some stranger should face his wrath than one of them.”

“Have you ever seen him?” I asked with curiosity that stems from knowing the answer before even asking the question. “What can you tell me?”

“The Horseman rides every Halloween night searching for a new head. You know that already or you wouldn’t be here. You think it’s just a myth, but he is real. You heed my warning. Stay away from there. The Horseman is our burden.”

That old man’s words rang through my mind as I relaxed in my hotel room late that night. Maybe I should have listened to him, but I remained committed to finding the legend’s truth. Honestly, I was more determined to go to that cemetery now than before. “He’s probably just trying to make it all dramatic and entice me to go there. Yeah, it’s some publicity stunt meant to arouse the curiosity in visitors.” There was no stopping me from going tomorrow night.

Halloween was seemingly like any other day until after school let out and kids started their rounds from house to house. Kids in costume filled the streets asking for treats, just like most places in America. As I watched, everyone seemed happy but a little rushed. Parents checked their watches and the streets started to empty around sunset. I took that as my cue to make my way to the cemetery.

I parked my car about a block from the cemetery. I had little trouble finding a spot, which struck me odd since it was Halloween. It was around 9:00 pm, and the Trick or Treaters had gone home with bags full of candy. With a flashlight in hand, I walked through the gates of the old cemetery, looking for the grave I had come to see. I wished I had taken the time to go to the cemetery during the day. Of course, I didn’t want to spoil the experience, so I decided against visiting before my adventure that night.

It took a while of stumbling around in the darkness to find the headstone of Katrina van Tassel. Finally, I located Katrina van Tassel’s gravestone in the back of the oldest portion of the cemetery. It was well aged by time and was difficult to read by the flashlight. I stared at it for a while and then began to look for the unknown Hessen’s grave. It did not take long to find because it was close to van Tassel’s. The time was about 10:30.

Almost an hour passed as I waited in the old cemetery. A cold chill filled the air as a mist began to creep in. It is upstate New York, and October is very cold at night. The sky was cloudy, and the moon was partly obscured by passing clouds. Just before midnight, I decided that my adventure was over. I started to rehearse the story I would tell those back home about how I braved the grave of the fabled Headless Horseman.

As I turned to leave, a slightly putrid scent flew past my nose. I thought a dead animal, possibly a squirrel or mouse, must be nearby. Yes, that’s it. I probably didn’t notice it until now. The scent took on a strong, musty smell. The putrid odor made me want to vomit as it continued to get stronger. The smell almost overcame my senses with the noxious odor.

Suddenly I heard a rustling noise behind me. I turned to see the outline of an animal, not a hundred feet from where I stood just moments ago. The beast seemed to look at me with the piercing eyes of a predator. I tried to calm myself. There were no predators that big in this part of the country. The animal must be a deer. Of course, that’s a deer; it’s the only logical explanation. What happened next sent a chill down my spine. The animal snorted, and the smell of death around me grew to be nearly overwhelming. There was no doubt that the animal was a horse. The animal began moving slowly and deliberately toward me, with the distinct sound of shoed hooves.

Then I saw the unmistakable silhouette of a man mounted on that horse. Slowly and deliberately, he pulled his sword from its sheath. In the pale light of the moon, the metal caught the faint light giving a sickening gleam. I knew it was the Horseman.

“This is a show. A joke played on strangers who visit the gravesite,” I said aloud. The dank smell of death continued to grow more potent as the outline of the man on the horse began to give off a sickly green glow. Both horse and rider appeared to be aflame with the eerily green light. Still not wanting to believe what I saw, I watched as the horse began to approach me, not attempting to hide its presence. Menacingly the horse and rider came as if they were stalking me, not wanting to spook their prey too soon. The horse’s eyes flashed a sickly red, and I could see the rider dressed in the uniform of a Hessen. His saber flashed, trailing the pale green behind it.

With a burst of laughter that came from some other world, he spurred his horse forward at last. Hooves sounded like thunder as they pounded the ground. There I stood, paralyzed with fear. I do not know whether instinct or reaction pulled me to the ground, but I ducked away just in time to avoid the saber aimed at my neck. The horse rode past and, many yards away, stopped. With almost impossible speed, it turned and started for me again. The Horseman laughed in a terrifying shriek as he raised his saber again as the green flames streaked behind him. This time I did not wait.

I ran as fast as my feet could carry me, dodging in and out of the headstones. The sound of hooves got closer and closer, and I fell to my stomach to avoid the menacing saber again. I don’t know how I made it to the gate alive. The laughter of the Horseman, tempered in anger and hatred, reverberated in my ears. Again, I heard the hooves bearing down upon me. I managed to get to my car and started the engine. Laying rubber through the town’s abandoned streets, I sped through the empty streets trying to make good my escape. I thought I was safe, but impossibly the Horseman rode after me still. His horse was unnaturally fast, able to keep up with the car even at high speed. The saber burned hot as the green flame melted the very paint and metal from my car.

The accelerator was entirely on the floorboard by the time we left town. Not another car was on the highway. In my panic, I suddenly remembered the story of how the river outside of town was the limit of the Horseman’s power. I remembered crossing the bridge on my way into town and knew it was not much further. Onward we both raced, me trying to survive the horrible night, all the while the Horseman slashed at the car, gleefully laughing at my fright.

Then I saw my salvation. The bridge on the edge of town lye just ahead. If only I could make it there, the Horseman could not pursue me. I kept the accelerator floored so hard I feared my foot might break through the bottom of the car. The bridge was so close that the Horseman finally pulled up. I felt both fear and relief when I saw him stop.

Suddenly three deer ran from the woods and across the road. I swerved to miss them on sheer instinct and ran off the embankment. The car crashed with a horrible sound onto the banks of the river below. How I kept from going into the river, I cannot say, but by some miracle, the car remained on dry land.

And so here I am along the banks of the river. My legs are shattered and pinned in my car. The realization of what just happened weighs heavily on me as I recall this story to myself. Yet, I am alive. I made it across the bridge. Looking down, I noticed that my phone was lying at my feet. In my fear, I forgot to turn off my camera. It’s a good thing I forgot to turn off the camera; otherwise, no one would believe this story.

Suddenly lights were surrounding my wrecked vehicle. Thank God someone must have seen my crash and called for help. I hear them coming now. They begin to cut my car open to get me out. I hear metal striking metal and realize my car is totaled. In all, that’s a small price to pay for surviving. Now they are lifting me out of the wreckage. I scream in pain to tell them to be careful and that I’m badly injured. The hands that raised me were anything but gentle. It’s only then that I realize I never actually made it across the river. That could mean this is not a rescuer. Oh, dear God. It’s the……………