Home Of Mystery, Murder, Mischief & Make-Believe
In horror stories, seldom do we have protagonists to root for. Often, it’s just insidious evil, its victims and survivors. A motley assortment of characters led by fate to a seemingly set conclusion. The evil is within. It’s an entity to be vanquished only to later reappear in the sequel. Far more cruel, far more resilient leaving much more destruction behind in its wake. It doesn’t leave us with a sense of desperation or even a desire to have things get better. It leaves us with a sense of despair and despondency. The hope we have crushed. The little that’s left behind flows into crevices in our hearts that we didn’t know existed. Always too far out of reach to be drawn out again but for those willing to plumb unfathomable depths. Fighting not only every monster and creature en route to the bottom of the abyss but the urge to retreat back up to the surface. Back to shallow waters that merely perturb rather than menace us. Yet, hope’s beacon forever bleeps away on life’s sonar. Lost treasure in need of finding. A distant clarion call for courage and a call to arms. As with every horror setting, the only weapons we can wield are our minds, wills, wit and whatever crumbs of residual courage left in our hearts. The shadows, once a source for comfort and a hiding place betray us as they are allied with darkness. Dead silence no longer a source of solace but an oppressive suffocating presence. Time stands still as the seconds tick away. Clock faces giving audience to our seeming demise.
Naturally, there are those who show fealty to darkness. As innocents suffer the evil dead rise. An army of the undead inflicting terror upon unsuspecting civilians.
As with any good horror story, chaos and confusion reign supreme. Every acquaintance a potential foe and each hiding place a potential nesting place for even greater evil. Naturally, there are those who show fealty to darkness. As innocents suffer the evil dead rise. An army of the undead inflicting terror upon unsuspecting civilians. Even when the damage inflicted on the populace is obvious many remain oblivious to the far reaching effects of the terror. Light falls as would be destiny becomes a malleable substance. Fates partially formed become contorted as longed for futures once inevitable become unobtainable. Lives cut short in macabre fashion. Sadly, to the glee of the crooked men who reside on that crooked hill with that crooked house. A den of thieves and cowards. Conjuring up anarchy often through apathy. Nonplussed by the haunting of hill house. Spectres of the departed and departing kept at bay by wilful ignorance. Boogeymen turn out to be nothing more but mere distractions. Fairytales woven whole cloth out of invisible fabric sprinkled with fairy dust find life amongst the general populace. After all, the emperor has no clothes or in this case, no sanity. Each horror story usually has the evil that has befallen the victims and survivors trapped in a particular setting. A unique locale where this particular evil is strongest. Whilst in horror films the evil often escapes some way or the other, this is a dumbing down of actual reality. Evil is universal. Its not trapped in pandora’s box or some basement in Romanian convents. Evil visits all. A quiet whisper, a gentle nudge in the wrong direction or the encouragement to cheer for the downfall of our fellow men. As crooked men are caught in Thucydides trap the folly of hubris blinds them as they think themselves gods. In reality, there were always evil’s concubines. Loyal foot soldiers to a cruel master who mistook themselves for generals.
Their lives nothing more but fodder for this perpetual war against the inhabitants of this fabled village. Willing to have their memories re-rewritten and have non-events canonised as more significant than others.
Strangely enough, in sleepy hollow many seem to be half asleep or at least caught in some sort of trance. A powerful delusion from which they seem incapable of breaking free. However, there are many who are also cognisant of the evil that has turned this village into its stomping ground. They gladly welcome it because they think of it a tool to be bent to their whims and desires. Mistaken fools turned tools. Battering rams made out of wood that shatters overtime through repeated usage. Their lives nothing more but fodder for this perpetual war against the inhabitants of this fabled village. Willing to have their memories re-rewritten and have non-events canonised as more significant than others. The gaslit streets of sleepy hollow cleaned out by perpetual floods of inaccurate print paper mixed in with the tears of the suffering. Those who revel in evil gladly wash their feet in these shallow waters. The apathetic their hands. As the clouds roll in and thunder claps many a heart tremble with fear and loathing. Fearful for the future, fearful of their fellow men. As lightning streaks across the night sky each flash illuminates the inhabitants of sleepy hollow. Some monsters, some just mere men. Others men in cahoots with the monsters. This is a town where legend and myth intertwine. Old wives tales intermarry with reality birthing confusion and fear. Welcome to sleepy hollow.