Page 3 of Hollow

Jack tapped the side of his pumpkin head, making a metallic clink.

“It’s just a fancy helmet, ma’am, and the shadows bouncing around are nothing but a bit of fun stage lighting,” Jack lied, finding most people would believe anything without doing a lick of their own research.

Jack didn’t know the first thing about crafting a helmet into the shape of a pumpkin, and he certainly didn’t know the mechanics of shifting shadows to mimic his facial expressions underneath. Thankfully, the shadows moved of their own accord, always mimicking his face beneath the pumpkin to the best of their ability.

“That’s really cool,” the husband said, approaching Jack in a very size-him-up kind of stance.

He stood a few inches taller than Jack, but most people did since he only stood at 5’6. Sure, his black combat boots offered him a bit of a lift, and the pumpkin head added about an inch or two, but Jack never concerned himself with being short.

“I always assumed the Headless Horseman was taller,” the man said with a snort, then let his gaze fall to the bloodhound. “Maybe you should’ve brought your steed instead.”

“Perhaps I should condemn your soul to the deepest depths of Hell for my minions to devour you for all time.” Astaroth’s telepathic echo sent a shiver through the man, but he shrugged it off, likely assuming the words were an intrusive thought.

Then the man continued his short jokes, playfully jesting how his wife should get a photo of him with the little Headless Horseman.

Jack’s round shadow eyes furrowed into angry little triangles, and his jagged smile curved into a sour frown.

“I’m not the Headless Horseman,” he scoffed. “That fool’s been dead for ages. Keep up with your lore, tourists.”

Jack handed them a flyer on the bullet-point history built around his monstrous origin. It wasn’t as catchy as the campfire stories, but it got the gist across to those who’d never heard of him before.

“The Horseless Headsman?” the man asked, a bit bewildered. “That’s kind of…lame.”

Astaroth growled, eyes glowing red as heat swelled from the bloodhound. Jack quickly patted Astaroth on the head, giving him scritches so he wouldn’t unleash his hellish wrath in front of so many witnesses.

“Hey, I didn’t come up with the name or the legend,” Jack laughed. “I just put on the best performance for it.”

He pointed to the time printed at the bottom of the flyer for a shadow performance he put on in the town square the last Saturday of the month, which happened to be this weekend.

“Be sure to pop on over,” Jack said, strutting away from the couple and continuing his way downtown.

Anytime someone’s eyes landed on Jack, he mesmerized them with shifting, shadowy expressions. He wowed them with the sinister realism of the stitches across his flesh. He impressed them with the quality of his gray makeup from head to toe. No one ever suspected Jack was anything other than an impressive cosplayer. So, he handed out flyers and encouraged tourists to attend his upcoming performance.

Jack had spent the better part of two centuries hiding away in the neighboring forest of Sleepy Hollow. As a horrifying monster, life didn’t offer him many other options…until he stumbled onto social media.

It turned out the monsters lurking deep in the darkness of the world captivated people—so much so that many would dress up as hideous horrors for fun. So, Jack did the sensible thing and turned his horrifying appearance into a trending thirst trap online.

“Oh, cute doggy,” a woman said, kneeling in front of Astaroth with her hands outstretched. “Is he friendly? Can I pet him?”

“Human peasant, I am the furthest thing from friendly, and if you touch me with your ill-scented hands, I shall eviscerate you and your entire feeble bloodline.”

“Ugh, he’s a bit shy. Let’s not.” Jack intercepted, shooting the woman a giant grin, then handed her a flyer for his upcoming performance.

After making their way to a less crowded street, Jack turned his attention to his demon dog.

“Why must you always threaten torture?”

“I don’t always threaten torture,” Astaroth clarified. “I threaten mayhem and destruction in equal measure, too.”

“Well, if you can’t be nice to the tourists, then you can’t join me on the walks.”

“How dare you?” Astaroth growled. “You speak of threats, then threaten to remove my W-A-L-Ks?! Oh, yes, I have mastered the simple art of your pathetic alphabet stew. And let it be known that if I am not granted leave for my daily walks, then I shall cast a curse so horrid upon the lands that all who are born here will weep from their first breath until their dying day. Agony will befall all mortals who dare⁠—”

“All right, Christ, you’ll get your damn walks. But we’ll be sticking to the woods if you keep trying to kill people.”

“Fine. If you’re going to insist on such outrageous demands, I shall stick to the woods.” Astaroth sniffed the air. “Better scents anyway.”

Astaroth continued sniffing around, pressing his snout to the ground and letting out a gruff little huff before whipping his head back up and turning his attention to a distant crowd. He growled softly and glared.