Disclaimer: Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

Summary: Events as they might have happened if Ichabod had left Katrina's book behind. Take two - I decided to take a different approach with this fic. :)

Note: In this scenario, Lady Van Tassel did not kill her sister, so the crone will appear.

Chapter One

"It was an evil spirit possessed you. I pray God that it is satisfied and that you find peace. The evil eye has done its work. My life is over, spared for a lifetime of horrors in my sleep, waking each day to grief. Goodbye, Katrina."

These were the last words he spoke to her, pressing her hand with his own as he bid her goodbye. Ichabod had never credited the existence of spirits until he came to Sleepy Hollow; and it was the only explanation for Katrina's behavior, now that he'd concluded that she was the one who had been controlling the Headless Horseman, manipulating him to kill. He could not believe that she was evil herself; he would never believe that.

She wasn't conscious and did not hear him, nor was she aware of his presence. With a heavy heart he turned and left her bedroom.

The Burgomaster had sent him to Sleepy Hollow to discover and apprehend the assassin who was beheading the residents of the town. Ichabod didn't know what he was going to say to his superior upon his return; but he was determined to never utter a word to a soul about Katrina's guilt. Standing in the parlor before the fire now, he threw his ledger containing the notes related to the case into the flames. As he stared into the hearth, watching the flames consume the book, he became aware of the weight of his vest pocket. He reached in and removed the book that he'd kept close to his heart since he'd received it from Katrina's hand. A Compendium of Spells, Charms and Devices of the Spirit World. It was a gift from her and he had cherished it despite the fact that he didn't believe in such nonsense. It was proper to return it to her, since he had no use for it now. He set it down on the table just as the coach pulled up before the house to take him back to the city.

Young Masbath met him at the front door. They stood together on the porch as Van Ripper took his bags to load onto the coach.

"You think it was Katrina, don't you." The boy's voice was laced with subtle accusation.

Ichabod rounded on him quickly. "That can never be uttered."

"A strange sort of witch, with a kind and loving heart. How can you think so?"

"I have good reason."

"Then you are bewitched by reason," he retorted.

"And beaten down by it!" Ichabod cried angrily.

The boy looked stricken and Ichabod took a deep breath, regaining his composure. Masbath was still young and had not learned many of life's harshest lessons yet.

"It is a hard lesson for a hard world, Young Masbath, and you had better learn it. Villainy wears many masks. None so dangerous as the mask of virtue."

Young Masbath's eyes were glassy with tears and Ichabod placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing it.

"Farewell."

He climbed into the carriage and shut the door. As the coach pulled away, he looked out of the window and glimpsed Young Masbath standing on the porch watching. Ichabod craned his neck to look up at the window of Katrina's bedroom; one last glance. A part of him hoped to find her standing in the window; to see her one more time. But she wasn't there.

As they rode through town he saw a coffin cart pulling up in front of Doctor Lancaster's office. Lady Van Tassel's arm protruded from underneath the blanket and the cut on the palm of her hand was plainly visible. He had seen her inflict the wound on herself the night he followed her and discovered her fornicating with Reverend Steenwyck. There were so many illicit goings-on, so many secrets, so much fear in this small town. It would be a relief to return to the city and its anonymity.

Ichabod sighed and leaned back in his seat, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing the thaumatrope that his mother had given him as a little boy. He began to twirl it back and forth absently as the coach ascended the road leading out of the town of Sleepy Hollow.

The grief over the loss of what he thought had been happiness gained would never leave him. He couldn't leave the painful memories of Sleepy Hollow behind, no matter how far away he went.

oooOooo

The vivid red door stood out against the pristine sparkling white of the church interior. His heart began to race as he hid in one of the back rows among the pews, for he knew where he was and what was in the room beyond that door. And that she was in there.

Minutes later it opened and his father emerged from that room. With dread Ichabod sank lower toward the floor, attempting to make himself as small as possible, and watched from his hiding place as Reverend Crane's dark figure moved solemnly down the center aisle of the church, coming toward him. Once he had passed by Ichabod rose just enough so that he could see. The reverend's collar was drawn up and when he glimpsed his father's back it seemed that he was staring at a headless man.

He felt the weight of a scream in his chest; yet somewhere in the back of his mind a rational part of him realized that he was dreaming.

Suddenly he wasn't in Reverend Crane's church that he'd attended in childhood, where his father had murdered his mother. He was inside the prominent white church of Sleepy Hollow, the place where he'd discovered Katrina's treachery. But he was walking along the same red carpet that ran down the aisle of Reverend Crane's church and the same red door stood before him.

Ichabod didn't want to open the door, for he knew what he would find; he'd already seen it, had already remembered it. But before he knew it he was standing in front of that terrible cabinet, compelled by a force that he couldn't resist. A moment later he had opened the door to the iron maiden, where he knew his mother's bloody body was.

Only his mother wasn't the one in the cabinet. It was Katrina…

He was sitting up in bed crying out in horror when he came to himself. Realizing that he was awake now, he quieted down and remained where he was, gasping for air. His body was drenched in sweat.

Much time passed before he finally caught his breath and gained some control over himself again. It was already dawn. He swung his legs over the bed and stood up, sticking his feet into the slippers before the night table and stumbling over to the bench at the end of the bed. His robe lay across it as he had left it and he slipped it on hastily. Anna his maid had left a glass and a covered pitcher of fresh water on the low bureau near the window.

After lighting a candle and pouring himself a full glass of water he took both and left the bedroom, climbing the stairs to his laboratory and settling himself down at his desk.

More than a fortnight had passed since his return from Sleepy Hollow and he was still haunted by the events that had occurred there, plagued day after day with bittersweet memories, night after night with terrible dreams. His nightmares had grown worse; but now the horrors of his past overlapped and became hopelessly blurred with the tragic, heartbreaking events of the present. He shivered at the memory of the nightmare he'd woken out of mere minutes before. What did it mean?

Ichabod remained at his desk, sipping water slowly and reading through the notes he'd made in his ledger about an ongoing case; rational activities that he hoped would bring equilibrium to his temper. His duty shift started in just a couple of hours.

Right now he still had his job as a New York constable. Obviously Ichabod couldn't tell his superiors that a witch was manipulating a headless ghost, forcing him to murder the victims that she chose, nor could he tell them that she had been possessed by an evil spirit. They would have locked him up if he had. Instead, upon his return to the Watch House he had explained the basic nature of the crime; a man committing murders at the bidding of his beloved, a woman scheming to lay her hands on her father's property and all properties that he would have inherited from Peter Van Garrett.

"Where are the two culprits then, Constable Crane?" the Burgomaster had asked him.

His facial muscles began to twitch at that moment. He knew he had to lie, something he loathed, for he had devoted his life to seeking out the truth. This was a necessity that went against his grain.

"They are both dead," he replied after taking a deep breath. "It's all in the report that I've handed up to you."

It still tore him apart, though in a way, she was dead to him.

He didn't know whether his superiors credited the account of events that were in his report; he did know that the Burgomaster found it difficult to believe that a woman could be responsible for such brutal murders. So far he hadn't been dismissed from his duties however.

These things mattered very little to him now. He woke every morning with a heavy heart after a night filled with horrible dreams. The world was grey and bleak around him. He still believed adamantly that the justice system had to be changed, that the courts needed to cease relying on torture and the constabulary needed to start building their cases based on facts discovered by scientific and logical means. But he no longer advocated for it with the same fervor.

Often, as he worked at home in his laboratory, he would suddenly come to himself, finding that he was staring fixedly at nothing, that he had unwittingly stopped working and his mind had drifted far away. There would be tears streaming down his cheeks.

Glancing at the clock on the shelf in the laboratory he saw that it was drawing near seven o'clock. He snuffed out the candle, rose from the desk and left the laboratory, bringing the empty glass and his ledger with him. He returned to his room and donned his uniform quickly. Then he went to the kitchen, where Anna would be readying tea and breakfast for him.

Today would be another long day, he thought with a sigh, one in which he numbly went through the motions of his life, straining to keep his grief and his nightmares at bay until he returned home, where he could convene with them in private once again.

oooOooo

Anna was a short, slender woman with straight dark hair and a pale, angular face. She was in her early twenties and had married at a very young age. Her husband died during the first yellow fever epidemic in New York. Left with very little money and no property, she rented a room in a boarding house near Lispenard Meadow, run by a respectable matron and which catered to young, single ladies who needed a safe and clean place to live, then sought out employment. She came to work as a maid for Emma Thackeray, the widow who owned the house and where Ichabod had previously resided as a tenant. Anna left the boarding house then and settled into the servant's quarters in Mrs. Thackeray's home. She had been working there for two years already when he rented the upstairs attic that now served as his laboratory. Previously it had been his bedroom as well.

Mrs. Thackeray had been a kind woman, almost like a mother to him. Understanding that he made very little money she charged him a lower monthly fee than she might have asked for. After a time she caught on that he often skipped meals. Promulgating that he was too thin and undernourished, she often invited him to dine with her. The few details that he knew of Anna's life he'd learned from her.

She had passed away about two years before, leaving no kith or kin. He learned then that she'd had a son, but he'd been killed fighting in the War for Independence. Ichabod was stunned when her attorney summoned him for the reading of her will; and he was speechless when he learned that she had bequeathed to him her home and a stipend of money to keep Anna employed as his maid. He'd felt blessed. Finding his paths crossed with this magnanimous woman had turned out to be one of the few strokes of good luck in his life.

Anna was setting a bowl of oatmeal and a plate of sliced apples on the table as he walked into the dining room.

"Good morning," she greeted him.

"Good morning."

She turned and walked away, disappearing into the kitchen as he took a seat at the table.

Ichabod frowned into his bowl of oatmeal. It was hard to have an appetite before working. Inevitably he would be looking over gruesome, bloody crime scenes and a full stomach was a hindrance at those times; especially one as weak as his. He picked up a slice of apple and took a bite.

"Did you sleep alright, sir?" Anna inquired, returning with a cup and saucer and a pot of tea. She filled the teacup then set the pot down on the table.

Her voice was laced with genuine concern and he stiffened, realizing that she must have heard him cry out during the night. It was a wonder that he didn't wake up the entire neighborhood.

"Yes, thank you," he answered hastily.

"It may be bold for me to say, sir, but you have not been yourself since you returned from that place."

"That is not your affair," he snapped harshly.

Anna averted her eyes. He had never raised his voice to her.

"As I said, sir, I am too bold. I apologize." She hesitated. "I'll leave you to your breakfast."

Ichabod took a deep breath. "Thank you for your concern, Anna," he replied apologetically.

She curtseyed hurriedly and returned to the kitchen.

Turning back to his breakfast, Ichabod forced himself to eat a few spoonfuls of the oatmeal. Feeling weak from hunger wouldn't do him any good either.

A half hour later he was walking to work. He was immediately ordered to go before the Burgomaster, for a reason that the High Constable would not divulge. He appeared to be smirking almost and Ichabod examined his face, attempting to read his expression more closely. But there didn't seem to be self-satisfaction in his face, as if he knew Ichabod was in trouble and was glad for it. The man merely appeared sour as usual. But Ichabod was still filled with dread when he reported to the Burgomaster.

"Constable Crane."

He shuffled a stack of papers before him, searching for something.

"I received this letter from Sleepy Hollow," he told him, holding it up. "Your presence there has been requested again. You may have solved the case of the murders in town, but it appears that there are other problems. Two people have disappeared."

Ichabod's heart sank into his knees. He would go anywhere they asked, but he did not want to return to Sleepy Hollow under any circumstances.

"Disappeared?" Ichabod echoed, swallowing nervously.

"A young woman of the town and a boy," he replied. "There was a letter included with the dispatch to me, addressed to you. They have asked for your assistance."

He handed down the letter and Ichabod approached the bench to retrieve it.

"You leave tomorrow."

"With all due respect, I should like to remain here," he began, but the Burgomaster cut him off.

"You are the man for this job. The people in the village know you now and you successfully solved the first case. It is fitting that you should be the one to return to help them."

Left with no choice, Ichabod nodded and reluctantly answered that he would go.

The Burgomaster dismissed him then and he went back to advise the High Constable that he was being sent away again. Ichabod was not surprised to learn that he already knew.

For the first time now he looked at the letter that the Burgomaster had handed him, the one addressed to him. It was sealed with red wax. He broke the seal and opened it gingerly, and his eye sought out the end of the narrative and the name of the person who'd sent the letter. It was signed by Hans Van Ripper, the coachman who had driven him back to New York. Ichabod began to read the letter from the beginning.

They had buried Baltus and the other casualties of the fight that had erupted in the church that fateful night. About ten days or so after Ichabod left it came to the town's attention that both Katrina Van Tassel and Young Masbath appeared to have completely disappeared.

There was paperwork to be done after the burial in order for Katrina to inherit Baltus' property, but she did not keep her appointment with Samuel Philipse Jr., a lawyer and the late Magistrate's son. He went to the Van Tassel home, thinking that perhaps she was ill and could not venture out. When he arrived and knocked on the door no one answered.

Finally, after she didn't appear for a few days, some men of the village removed the front door from its hinges and went inside. They searched the house, but she was nowhere to be found. In the parlor, however, one of the men spotted a trail of dried blood on the floor. A search of the neighboring houses revealed nothing; a search of the surrounding woods proved fruitless.

At around this time, some of the townsfolk realized that they hadn't seen Young Masbath either.

Van Ripper implored him to return and help them. Although there had been no more sightings of the Hessian and no more headless corpses had been found, they feared the worst.