The Night The Cricket-Man Came
The Cricket-Man, bound by none of the inhibitions or pretensions of weakness he once had in life, leapt onto the roof from his steed, shambling across the shingles like a giant spider, hungry and deformed, towards Katrina’s window. I shouted again and both Franklin and Thomas fired off shots. Neither hit. We all ran for the house. As we made it onto the porch, I heard Katrina issue a single shriek, and then go silent. The door to our room was stuck, but the Franklin and Thomas kicked it down while I readied a pistol. Bursting in, I froze, awash in the hideousness of the scene that awaited me.
I have never seen so much blood. Even when I began to rot myself, when it pooled in my lower extremities and filled my consciousness with its weight, I had never seen so much blood. The air was hot and thick with its coppery odor. Even now, I find it hard to describe. He, it, the Cricket-Man, leapt from the window, laughing in the back of his throat, a hideous gurgling chuckle. Katrina, rapidly expiring, her lower stomach gaping open like a new, starving mouth, could barely speak; she mouthed a grim message.
“Ichabod… He… It was Ich— He took our…”
If I screamed again, I don’t remember. The window was still open, and I heard a horse begin to gallop away. Daredevil awaited me out front, and the Cricket-Man had not ridden too far away. He was out of easy reach, but still close enough to be heard. “I have it, Bones! The fruit of our loin-labors! I have it! I am not the burning man, Brom! Or the Hessian, the headless one! The children, Brom! They called me the Cricket-Man!”
I gave chase.
Somehow, memory fails me at this point. I followed and we came to the bridge and he stood on one end, jeering at me to come and get him. I dismounted and ran for him, all rage and fear and shouts, and he tossed something red and slippery and small at me. I knew what it was and I ran for it. I dove. And the bridge, that damned old bridge, its crossbeams. They cracked, and I fell, right through. It was in my arms, I think. I hope it was in my arms. I landed and tried to stand, but there was too much pain. I remained on my knees, cradling it, and I looked up, and one of the beams rushed towards me.
My chest hurt. It still does. He followed me down, gibbering and laughing, landing cat-like on his feet. His head flopped, like a doll, when he landed. I wanted to laugh and I was laughing and crying all the same, still cradling it. I hoped I’d caught it. I must have. After all, he reached over and took it away from me, but I couldn’t move. Something, the pain in my chest, held me fast to the ground, not far from where we had buried him. The Cricket-Man dangled it by its little ankle in front of me and tossed it into the bushes somewhere over there. He laughed at me. He laughed and laughed for a long time.
~*~
That explains why I’m here, far down here, under the bridge. Not much left of me, really. But I’m still here.
Ah. The sun begins to set. You’d better leave soon. He’ll be coming back, the Cricket-Man, coming back to sit in front of me. To eat and to gloat. He tells me we’re the only ones here. He tells me we’ll never die, even though I’m already dead. I wish I could join you, leave with you, if I could. But I cannot. This wound goes deeper than you know.
There’s a stake through my heart, in my soul. And it never comes out.
