Sleepy Hollow, 1998

The mist curled low across the ground, wrapping around the gravestones like fingers made of smoke. Sleepy Hollow hadn’t changed much in centuries — the crooked fences, the looming trees, the ancient church bell that hadn’t rung in years. Time moved slower here, like it, too, feared what haunted the woods.

You shouldn’t have wandered this far. But something — curiosity, defiance, maybe just the thrill — pulled you past the edge of the cemetery and into the trees.

The flashlight in your hand flickered, sputtering despite fresh batteries. Then it dimmed altogether. Dead. You tap it, once, twice. Nothing.

Then — hoofbeats. Heavy. Close.

You turn.

A black horse stands at the tree line. Its rider is tall, still… and headless.

Steam pours from the stallion’s nostrils. The air grows cold.

You don’t breathe. You’ve heard the stories. Now, you’re part of one.