The Haunted (19 page)

Suddenly Katy asked, “Would you like to see some of our keepsakes? We have documents and personal items.”

I said yes, and Nikolas pulled down a small wooden box from the top of the fireplace mantle. I sat in awe as they showed me Katrina’s birth certificate (an ornately hand written parchment dated
In the Year of Our Lord 1775
) and painted portraits. There was Katy sitting stiff and posed next to a table and vase, Nikolas proudly showing off his Hessian uniform, another of Katy as a baby in a bassinet…

It was amazing to be holding such historic items, and I handled them carefully, worried that the wrong movement would suddenly reduce them to dust. Then it hit me, a thought that went splintering through my brain like lightning. “Oh!” I gasped. “I have to get home! My parents are going to kill me.”

I hurried to my feet. How could I have lost track of time like this? I had to get back.

“I’ll come visit again soon,” I promised, rushing to the door. “Thanks for telling me everything.”

Katy called out a good-bye, and Nikolas followed me as I stepped across the threshold. I was stricken at how bright it was outside.

“Abbey,” Nikolas said. “Abbey, be careful. I know at the river that night I told you to go to Caspian, but you need to be careful. Perhaps… perhaps it would be best if you did not see him again.”

“I’m glad you care, Nikolas,” I told him. “Really. It means a lot to me. But I’ll be fine.”

Instead of looking relieved, though, he looked even more worried.

A
CTING
N
ORMAL

And then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course.

—“The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”

I ran home as fast as I could, but Mom was pacing the front hallway when I got in. “Where have you
been
?!” she practically shrieked at me. I padded into the kitchen, sweaty and out of breath, and made a beeline for the fridge.

“Abigail, I’m
talking
to you!”

I poured some orange juice and guzzled it down in one long swallow.

“Are you purposefully ignoring me?” she said.

“Mom, chill.” I sat the empty cup down and reached for more OJ. “I was just getting a drink.” She put both hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow.

I was
so
not in the mood for this right now.
She knows how
to turn everything into a bigger deal than it really is.

“You can’t just go… go… ,” she sputtered.

“Go where, Mom? For a walk around the same streets I’ve been walking up and down since I was eight years old? I’m seventeen. I’m allowed to go for a run, if I want to.” It slipped out before I had a chance to even think about it.

“A run?” she said. “You went for a run this morning?”

I pointed to my wet hairline. “Do you see the sweat? That’s generally what happens when you exert yourself.”

She was at a loss now, and we both knew it. I put the juice back in the fridge and grabbed my cup to take with me. “I’m going to go take a shower now. See ya.” She followed me out of the kitchen.

God, is she going to watch me shower, too?

But she only followed me to the bottom of the stairs.

“Next time, leave a note or something!” she said. “And you have a phone call to return. Dr. Pendleton called.”

“Fine, Mom,” I called down, slamming my door shut for emphasis. I’d call him
after
my shower.

An hour later, when I was clean and dry and dressed again, I sat down to call Dr. Pendleton. His phone rang twice, and my eyes wandered to a row of cobalt bottles lined up on my desk.
I reached for one marked
FALLOWEEN
and rolled it around in my hand to mix it up.

The receptionist picked up on the fifth ring. “Doctor’s office.”

“Hi, this is Abigail Browning. I’m returning Dr. Pendleton’s call.”

“One second, please,” she said cheerfully, and then flute music was playing in my ear. I twisted off the top of the bottle in my hand and inhaled deeply. The scent was warm and musty, with hints of dry leaves and crackling bonfires. I was instantly transported to October. Seeing the leaves turning colors in the cemetery, pulling my jacket closer around me, tucking my scarf against my throat…

This
was what fall smelled like.

I pulled back, studying the bottle, and then reached for one of my notebooks. Maybe I should add a drop or two of tart-apple fragrance oil. That would spice it up just a bit.

A deep voice interrupted my thoughts. “This is Dr. Pendleton.”

I fumbled with the phone and almost dropped it.

“Hi, Dr. Pendleton. This is Abbey, returning your call.”

“Yes, Abbey, how are you doing? How was the bridge ceremony?”

The ceremony. It had only been a couple of weeks ago, but
it felt like months had passed. “I didn’t throw up on anyone, so that’s good.”

He chuckled. “How did you feel afterward? Did it feel like closure?”

“Not really,” I admitted. “But I didn’t have any breakdown moments, so I guess that’s progress, right?”

“Any time we feel like we have transcended a moment, then we are moving beyond our limitations.”

So is that a yes or a no?
He never gave me a straight answer. “Okay, then.”

“And what about our other issues?” he asked. “Have you been back to the cemetery? To Kristen’s grave?”

“Yeah, I’ve been back to visit her grave. It was before the ceremony, just to kind of say hello.”

He made an
mmm-hmm
ing noise on the other end. “Any hallucinations?”

“No. I’ve been working with a classmate on some extra-credit school stuff, and taking walks. I even talked with my dad about my business plan for my shop, and I’m going to be working on that. It’s been a great summer so far.”
Please, please let that be a good enough answer.

“That sounds like excellent progress.” A door opened in the background, and the receptionist said something about
his twelve o’clock being there. “I’m glad to hear you’re adjusting so well, Abbey. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Okay, Dr. Pendleton. I won’t.”

He murmured a good-bye and hung up.

As soon as I put the phone down, I went over to my supply box and dug through my oils until I found the one labeled
MACINTOSH APPLE
. Then I pulled out a bottle of Burnt Vanilla and returned to my desk.

Flipping to a fresh notebook page, I jotted down the ingredients from the back of the
FALLOWEEN
label: one part cinnamon leaf, one part clove, two parts patchouli, and two parts Peru Balsam. Filling a new transfer pipette with some of the apple oil, I carefully squeezed two drops into the bottle. Then I grabbed a second pipette and added one drop of the vanilla. Re-capping it, I gently shook it again.

When I smelled it for the second time, it had a nice hint of apple resting on the edges of smoke and leaves. But it wasn’t quite where I wanted it yet, and I knew some aging would be necessary.

I placed the bottle back on my desk and glanced through my notebook. On one of the pages I had scribbled some notes for an idea to make perfumes based on “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”
Specific scents for Katrina, Ichabod, Brom, and the Horseman. It was actually a pretty good idea. Tourists could come tour the cemetery and town, and then stop by Abbey’s Hollow and take home a sampler pack of perfumes based on the legend.

I could design the packaging to look like old-fashioned apothecary bottles with medicinal-type labels, and set up a section of the store to mimic the Sleepy Hollow setting. I’d have vintage schoolbooks, and pumpkins, with scatterings of dried leaves. Maybe I could offer hot cider and pumpkin pie when people came in.

I tried to capture some of my thoughts, and suddenly my fingers were flying across the page. My mind was racing a mile a minute, and my handwriting grew wilder and wilder as I wrote down everything I could think of.
Pumpkin pie? Old books? Apothecary bottles? Nikolas?
But my pen stilled when I wrote Nikolas’s name. What would a scent for him be like?

Immediately, chocolate came to mind. Warm and sweet. And almonds. Something that added an edge. Leather was an obvious choice. Remnants of old boots and a horse saddle, worn with age. Maybe taffy, or cotton candy and caramel-covered apples. Sticky Halloween treats that made you sick to
your stomach and set your teeth on edge. Danger wrapped in a sugary coating.

But Katy… Katy was gingerbread cookies and lemon tea. Lavender sachets, or honeysuckle growing wild on the vine. And fresh peppermint, of course.

I wrote and wrote until my fingers cramped up and my eyes were crossing. I could feel the lack of solid sleep starting to catch up with me. And when I finally put my head down, I found myself dreaming of cemetery dirt and snickerdoodle cookies.

Several hours later I woke up with a pounding headache. It was probably due to the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything yet. I went downstairs and found Dad at the kitchen table, holding a newspaper.

“Hey, Dad.” I sat down next to him. “Watcha reading?”

“An article on greenhouse gases and produce. Scientists are starting to study the link between them. Some farmers have reported that mutant tomatoes are being grown.”

I looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Mutant tomatoes? How do they know that’s because of greenhouse gases? What if it’s due to water pollutants, or the fertilizers they use? Or maybe it’s the giant, unexplained asteroid that crash-landed near their fields.”

“That’s just silly,” he said. “This is a very particular study that they spent a lot of money on, and it’s their duty to report their findings.”

“It’s their
duty
not to spend so much money on stupid reports,” I mumbled. “How do they choose where to do these studies, anyway? If I grow a giant mutant tomato, do you think they’ll pay
me
to study it?”

“I’m sure they have their methods for choosing people and towns. They probably look for ones that are produce-y and… gassy.” He looked at me and cracked a smile. “Okay, I give up.”

Yawning, I leaned back in my chair. “You
do
know that you can find updated news online anytime, right? Instead of day-old articles. It’s called the
internets
.”

He looked aghast. “And not read the newspaper? But it’s tradition. Plus, online you don’t get that crinkle of paper and smell of ink.”

I shook my head and smiled back at him. Clearly, he was where I got my love of scents from.

Dad flipped over the page and scanned the weather report. “Looks like rain this weekend. Bring an umbrella with you to the picnic.”

My stomach grumbled loudly, and I got up to find something to eat. “Picnic?” I grabbed the bread bag and plopped it
on the counter next to the stove. “What picnic?”

“The Fourth of July picnic your Uncle Bob is having.”

Family get-togethers. I hate family get-togethers.
“Daaaaad, do I
have
to go? Can’t I just stay here?” After buttering two slices, I threw on a piece of cheese and put the sandwich on a plate.

He was already shaking his head. “Nope. Your mother wants you there. End of story. Besides, it won’t be so bad. A couple of hours with your extended family, and a potluck dinner.”

“Every teenager’s dream. Watch me as I leap around with joy.” I grimaced as I fished out a pan from the drawer and turned a burner on.

Dad stood up and came over to me. Kissing my forehead, he said, “Do it for your dear old dad, huh, Abbey?”

“Yeah, yeah, dear old Dad,” I grumbled. “Just remember,
I’m
going to be the one picking your retirement home.”

He smiled and turned to leave, then stopped and looked back. “I wouldn’t eat tomato soup with that grilled cheese, if I were you. It could have come from mutant tomatoes.”

I tossed a pot holder at his head. He just ducked and moved out of the kitchen, laughing the whole way.

After I ate, I changed into a pair of shorts and a cute black T-shirt, and slid on some red flip-flops. Thoughts of perfumes
and cookies were still floating around in the back of my brain, so I pulled out the scent I’d accidentally made last year that smelled like snickerdoodles. It reminded me of when I’d made Caspian the cookies and how he’d seemed to like them so much.

I dabbed some of the scent on my fingertips and stroked them over my pulse points; then I ran my fingers through my hair to add some there, too.
Now
I was ready to go.

I left the house quickly, but walked slowly toward the cemetery. It was another hot day, and I didn’t want to get all sweaty any sooner than I had to. Several cars were parked inside the cemetery, and people were standing around.
Must be for funeral preparations or something.

They seemed to be too busy to notice me, though, and I followed the path down to the mausoleum. Casting a glance around to make sure no one would see me go in, I slipped through the door and pulled it shut behind me.

Caspian was sitting on the edge of the black marble slab, hunched over a book, with a candle resting next to him. He looked up when he heard my footsteps. For a moment he just smiled at me, the black stripe of hair hanging in one eye.