Wake the Hollow

Chapter One

Lela, please come home. It's urgent.

*****

"A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere..." 

— Washington Irving, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"

*****

Follow me, please. The woman's smoky silhouette hovers over me again. 

Leave me alone. I cover my eyes, though I can still see her swirling shape through my fingers. 

She floats closer, wringing her misty hands. You mustn't ignore me, Micaela. You must come with me. 

Stop, I won't go with you! I hate that I can never see her face clearly. Why won't she leave me alone? Wake up! 

A long screech rips me from the hazy dream. My eyes fly open, and my hands grip the first thing ahead of me for balance. Seats. Plastic. Brakes hiss to a stop. A drunk old man asleep in a window seat opposite mine stirs. Where am I? The Metro-North train...that's right. We've pulled into Tarrytown station. 11:28 p.m. I almost slept through my stop.

Hurrying, I stand to gather my bags, try to shake off the haunting image of the faceless woman. But her voice rings through my brain fog one last time...need to face the inevitable...

She got that right. 

As difficult as this is for me, I have to do it. For my mom. And my sanity.

The train doors slide open, and I stumble through them onto the platform. The sweet smell of the river mingled with cold, fresh air hits me. I'm transported six years back, waiting for my southbound train to the city, for my plane out of this forsaken place to go live with Dad in Miami. Don't think about it, I remind myself. Just do what you came to do, then get back home. 

The valley hasn't changed much in six years. The station is still the same old cabin from when I was twelve. Boxy, old houses still sit across the street, and behind me, power lines still ruin the view of the Hudson's palisades.

Lumbering into the station with all my stuff, I see the building is empty except for a woman using the ticket machine, in a hurry so she won't miss the train. Her little girl has a teddy bear in the crook of one arm and a jacket in the other, all while trying to play a video game on her handheld. "Let's go, baby." The mother tugs her child by the elbow clutching the teddy bear. The bear drops to the ground without the girl noticing, and the two move on. 

I reach down to grab it, my bags slipping off my shoulders and hitting the ground. "Ma'am." I run over and hand the mother the little girl's bear.

"Oh, thank you so much! She would've freaked." The mom smiles at me. 

The little girl takes her bear, gives me a shy glance with big brown eyes, and together, they hurry across the platform, jumping onto the train just in time. 

The doors slide closed. The train slips into the night. 

She almost left her bear. 

The very memory I told myself to avoid at all costs comes barreling in—my last day here six years ago. The station's honey wood paneling, the lines on my mother's face, how she looked so worn. She'd held a tissue to her stiff lips. 

Then the worst part—I'd pushed Sofia, the doll she'd made me when I was little, into her hands. "Take care of her for me," I'd said, though I knew she wouldn't. Just like she hadn't taken care of me.