The Mystery of the Headless Horseman

on his face.”
    “I don’t believe you told him a story anything like that, Mart Belden!” Trixie declared. “You know it would give Bobby nightmares. Oh, listen, please, both of you. Talking about nightmares—”
    Mart built himself a towering sandwich, one layer of which was peanut butter and potato chips. Then, as he began to eat it all, Trixie told them what had happened.
    When she had finished, Mart chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Now I’ve heard everything,” he said finally. “A headless horseman? But that doesn’t make sense.”
    “I know,” Trixie said. “Honey thought it might be a real ghost. She said there is a real one. It’s a Hessian soldier.” Trixie shivered, even though the kitchen was still warm and fragrant from her mother’s baking.
    Mart shook his head. “Even if there is such a ghost, I’ve never heard of it haunting our woods.”
    “That’s what I told Honey,” Trixie said eagerly. “And the only other story I remember about a headless horseman is ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,’ about the schoolteacher named Ichabod Crane.”
    “Ah, yes,” Mart mumbled through his sandwich. “Skinny Ichabod, who used to whip his pupils. His troubles began when he decided to woo a fair damsel named Katrina Van Tassel. But she had another chap after her, too. His name was Brom Bones, and he wanted the lady all to himself.”
    “We all know the story, Mart,” said Trixie impatiently.
    Mart ignored her and dropped his voice to an eerie whisper. “Late one night,” he said, “Ichabod was on his way home from a quilting party. He was plodding along through the spooky woods, on an old horse, when all at once, a horse and rider appeared in the gloom. The rider was 108
    huge, misshapen, and as black as the night itself. And”—Mart’s voice rose dramatically—“it had no head! The terrified schoolmaster dug his heels into his horse’s sides and galloped away as fast as he could.
    “The headless horseman came after him— closer and closer. Then, just as old Ichabod thought he was safe, he looked back over his shoulder.”
    “And?” prompted Brian, enjoying Mart’s theatrics.
    “And there was the phantom standing up in his stirrups. He held something in his hand— something horrible and round—and he was getting ready to throw it! It was his head!”
    “His head ?” exclaimed Brian in a suitably horrified voice.
    “The ghost hurled it straight at the schoolteacher. It hit him squarely on his cranium. Ichabod tumbled headlong into the dust. And in another instant, the black horse and its headless rider rushed past like a whirlwind and were never seen again!”
    “For pete’s sake,” Trixie said, “you’re going to give yourself nightmares, Mart. Now finish off the story. It’s getting late.”
    Mart looked disappointed. “I like it just the way it is, but all right. The next day, the townspeople went looking for their schoolteacher. They found his horse, and they found a shattered pumpkin.”
    “A pumpkin?” both Trixie and Brian obediently echoed.
    “But they never found Ichabod Crane. Some folks thought he had run away. Some thought the goblins had got him. Jolly old Brom Bones led the fair Katrina in triumph to the altar, And forever after, he laughed when anyone mentioned the pumpkin, so you can draw your own conclusions.”
    Trixie sighed. “What the story is really saying is that Brom Bones dressed up like a headless ghost to scare old Ichabod out of his wits and out of town. Well, Washington Irving certainly made up a better story than the one you supposedly told Bobby.”
    “Not really,” Mart said loftily. “It’s just that I’m an excellent storyteller.”
    Brian broke in to change the subject. “I’ve been thinking about that cellar door, and I think maybe Mrs. Ward was right. It was a practical joke.”
    “Some joke!” Trixie exclaimed. “Harrison could have been badly hurt in that cellar.”
    “But the person who locked him in wasn’t to know that, Trixie,” Brian pointed out. “I’m not trying to make any excuses for whoever it was. It was a really dumb thing to do. But when Harrison fell and hit his head, he did that himself.” Trixie yawned. “Well, I think there’s something going on that we don’t know anything about. Anyway, Honey said she’ll have Jim stop by here in the station wagon early tomorrow to take me back to Sleepyside Hollow.”
    “But the bazaar is tomorrow,” Brian objected. “We’ve still got plenty