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Everyone knew that Sleepy Hollow had a history, where strange events lurked in the boughs and whispering feet crept through the churches. Locals spoke at length of the many stories that grew from here to Tarry Town, of old Mohican guides whose faces were still worn by the trees, of bridges that echoed with a dozen hooves, and a bloody spot in the town square where John André had been hung only 15 years hence, an old friend of Benedict Arnold.

Perched alongside the great Hudson river, it was more common for boats than horses to stop over for the night, before making on towards New York City. Amongst all of its inhabitants, none was more known than its schoolteacher, Ichabod Crane. Once he had been a farce, trying to woo a family for money and being hounded by a rival. Then came that night of the dreaded Hessian, who left his mark on Crane to this day.

"I still don't believe a word," snorted a pompous owl, "he's trying to make a cat's-paw out of us for missing his boat with Van Tassel."

"He's never been unkind," a blue jay raised his winged hand, "what would he gain from such twistical tales?"

"He'll spare the rod to spoil himself on a child's mother's meal, and yet none the fatter he'll be except for his head."

"I think you too egregious, Brandt," a jade mallard shook his head, "his worst crime be that he eats like a horse, gut-foundered to hell and back."

"I trust not anyone who tarries with superstition, any god-fearing soul is decent, but he throws so much salt over his back that Lot harries him to retrieve his wife!"

Laughter rang across the table, the birds clutched their beaks and shared tales of other sorts. In a homely tavern near the market square, under the old elm tree that never showed its leaves, a flock of avians corralled over pints of ale one cold autumn eve. Twilight fingers crept over whorled windows, the gnarled wooden tables shivered with the coming cold despite a roaring fireplace in a stone nook. Quails trembled in their waistcoats, ducks straightened their tricorner hats, and a coot snuck beef to a mangy dog at his feet.

Then the door opened, and a shudder rang through the place. Long, gangly legs with shovel-sized feet reached halfway across the room before the body would join it up, draped in a green overcoat that hung on blade-thin shoulders and brown-feathered wings. The crane's serpentine neck reached up to a small head with a long beak, upon which a baby blue kerchief was draped beneath his glass-green eyes. A twisted ponytail thin as a reed hung with its ragged pink ribbon on the braid, as he marched like a loose scarecrow to the counter.

"Glass of water, my good cock," said the looming voice with a curtsy, "and, I do believe you have something else for me?"

"Ahhhh yes," the rooster at the bar filled a glass of clear, "grandmother'll be smiling in her grave, someone reads her letters at last."

"With age comes experience, and with experience comes wisdom."

The bartender handed over a few letters wrapped with string, whilst the crane gulped down his water beneath his mask and his throat bobbed like a stuck pendulum. It resembled a paper strip on a comb, the way it rattled in his drinking before he pored over the scripture and brought out a notepad. As he scribbled down details with his long-feathered hands, the tawny owl lurched from his seat.

"How's the business, Crane?" he waddled over with a snort. "Chasing widows instead of maidens?"

"Don't addle him, Brandt," the rooster shook his head, "he's closer to God than you are, and sings better too."

"I would make him sing a different tune, one without this nonsense of ghosts."

"Believe it or not," said Crane, still writing, "if all you listened to were your eyes, you'd never have become a lawyer."

"And what is that supposed to mean?!"

"I thought you had to hear witnesses, unless you learned to read beaks as well. There are more things in heaven and earth than one-"

"Don't quote the bard at me," the owl nudged him harshly, "we've all had to deal with your bottle-headed tales, tell me, do you fill our children's heads with these phantom fables?!"

"Brandt, that is enough!" the blue jay cried from his table. "Mr. Crane has always been studious in his job, my son speaks highly of his candour."

"Is this about the Aesop book?" the duck shook his winged hand. "You've been chuffy all ever since, it does not behoove you to-"

"QUIET!" Brandt swivelled his head 180 degrees. "Book or no book, I have every right to question this churl ever since his so-called haunting, which was nothing but an arsy-varsey accident! And if you disagree with my campaign, you can take off! Now, Crane, let me tell you-...oh, DAMN YOU, you slippery rink!"

When his head snapped back without moving his body, the owl saw not a trace of his target as the rooster shrugged. The door creaked shut with the crane's passing, and Brandt shuffled back to his table to drown his rage in another pint.

Sloping across the village square, the lanky teacher examined his notes to find a common thread in his research. All signs pointed to a bog in the northeast, a runoff from Pocantico Lake, for what he hoped to find was his nemesis. At his home was his old horse, a sleepy beast of addled grey who puffed his lips at his rider.

They rode off at a gentle pace, taking the old roads and sticking close as they could to the river. Running water was his shield for these cold nights, the lonesome trees raked the darkening sky with wooden talons as the sound of church bells was swallowed in the mist. Since that dreadsome night, something had changed in Ichabod Crane for better or worse, his spine grew straighter and his face a little darker.

An hour passed until they reached the old lake, where a wretched mire dribbled off to the side with a cacophony of frogs. Their croaks seemed to mock him, always repeating his name in the half-light of dusk, from which dozens of beady eyes glinted in the depths, like sirens of the deep. Crane searched around for the tree in his notes, The Wolf's Face that many letters repeated seeing.

When he saw that twisted visage of a long-snouted oak, it startled him for how the wind passed through its gaping knot, a whistling howl that made his knees knock when he pulled out a small crucifix from his necklace. With courage in faith, he searched around the mangled roots of the soft marsh and dug his hands deep, parting the mossy loam to find something hard. His eyes widened, a lump of hair brushed over his fingers when he carefully pulled it free.

"Is...is this it?!"

Out from the swamp, he had found his grisly treasure. A horse's head, mostly preserved by the peat down to its glassy eyes and well-cut teeth. A giddy grin came from beneath Crane's mask, which hung long like a shirt upon a washing line, his knobbly knees wiggled in excitement as he bundled the head into a sack, and raced straight back to Sleepy Hollow where he knocked on the mortician's door.

"Edelmeyer! Edelmeyer, I need you this instant!"

The door creaked open to reveal a black abyss, which suddenly moved with sharp pearl eyes and nightly wings. Few birds were taller than Crane, but the black vulture dominated every room he stood in, even without his floppy-rimmed top hat and immaculate suit.

"Ichaboood!" he grinned wide like a jackal. "Come in come in, what ghastly trick have you come to regale me with?!"

"I bring more than a trick," Crane stepped inside, "I have a veritable treat for you to examine."

"You...you found it?!"

"The head of the Galloping Hessian's steed, right where the letters said."

The mortician's house smelled like death, a tense cold staleness that permeated every room, especially the long slab where he worked on preparing bodies. Jars of fluids sat dusty in the corners, cupboards with medical supplies stood council all around them as Ichabod brought out the horse's head.

"Incredible!" gasped the mortician. "Perfectly preserved, down to the eyes."

"Since that night, it has possessed me," Crane brought out his notes, "by the Wolf's Face, the scene of battle was said to be. If I find his horse's head, so too I may find his."

"Fascinating. But what makes you think you shall succeed where historians before you fail?"

"I know not, good sir. The first shovel may not find gold, but the seventh in the same place may."

"Thank God we live in more civilised times, skulking in the fog you may well have been burned at the-...s-sorry."

"Tis fine," Ichabod shook his masked beak that resembled a cloaked musket, "I saw Brandt earlier, still flustered about that book."

"I told you not to bring salt into his study!" Edelmeyer brought out some grisly blades. "You know he loves that book, now he calls you a gollumping sky farmer!"

"It hardly damaged the text, he could do with some salt in his life."

"You should put a lock on your bone box. Now I believe your words from that night, but Brandt can only feast on what he can scranch."

"Then show him the head," Crane tapped it, "make him see this gift horse's mouth."

"Hah, very well!" the vulture started to pick the hairs. "I will finish this work the morrow, sleep well Ichabod!"

They said goodnight and the crane sauntered back home, to his little house with a single bed and a few cupboards all in one room. Whilst he slept a cold night dreary, with his long-taloned feet hanging weary, something crossed his vision bleary. The window shuttered quiet, despite whispers of a riot and his brain heard something conspired, within the depths of his imagination. He tossed and turned and rumbled in his lanky chest, the crackling of flames burned in his ears and the smell of burnt flesh scraped his nostrils.

In his restless dreams, he stood at that ancient moor beneath the wolf-faced oak. Behind him was the long wooden tunnel over the river, the world crunched down in half to bring these places closer. Across the riverbank, he saw the smouldering charr of a thick bonfire, from which rose an enormous shape, one horribly familiar to him. A black stallion with deep crimson eyes, whose presence made a scar throb on his face and a wretched burn sting his eyes.

Then he saw that nightly armour, sat upon the beast with a violet cape and a headless chiselled body. The roar of the beast shook through his soul, he clutched his beak with a terrible scream and saw a burning mass in one of the fiend's hands. The smiling pumpkin, once so innocent and fey, came hurtling like a comet towards him and burst his eyes with a dozen fragments. His flesh melted with molten juice, he howled in agony and stumbled through the dark to leave a black trail in his wake. There he saw an old churchyard, from which one grave was burning constant. As his skull turned to blackened ash, the morning light crept in, and he lurched from his bed with a terrible shiver.

The next evening, after he finished his schoolhouse duties, Crane returned to Edelmeyer's place to retrieve the ghastly horse head. Cleaned up in now-immaculate condition, the gunk had been wiped to leave behind a russet-brown complexion.

"Well," the mortician began, "there's credence in the story, I've learned. After consulting through some records, I have learned that through the thickness of its mane and neck, this is a Black Forest stallion, bred in the vicinity of St. Märgen's."

"A draft horse?" the crane cocked his head. "In the field of battle?"

"That's why I thought it unusual, but being raised in the woods, they make immaculate travellers through the forests here."

"No Englishblood would have a German horse, nor a colonial. He brought his steed here to fight in the war."

"Most certainly!" the vulture wagged his claw. "Not the only screw-jawed Hessian out there of course, but a better start than most!"

"Indeed," Crane rubbed his kerchief. "I had a dream the other night. That dastard haunts me still, mocking his victory."

"But is it a victory if you lived?" the mortician grinned, leaning in. "The legends say he always takes the head of all who see him, and yet here you are unbeheaded!"

"What is the nearest churchyard to the lake?"

"Let me show you!" He brought out a map from his cabinet and pointed to a lonesome site. "Two miles west of the bog, the church is long abandoned since no one wants to lose parishioners in peat, there's some very nice gourds growing wild by themselves."

"If I can just find his grave," Crane nodded, "his name in fiery lights, and once more truth shall brighten the eyes."

"If I may pry a little under the coffin, why the promotion from superstitious to investigative? I would not think hunting ghosts offers much pay."

"Firstly, to build up a case against those such as Brandt, who put my verity on trial. Second, because even in my dreams he hounds me, and I am so very tired of running. Perhaps if I show willingness to help put his spirit to rest, he may be appeased."

"Rumours did abound you were rather dicked in the nob," said Edelmeyer, tapping his head, "but I've always thought you as Simon Pure, no good bird would be made a schoolteacher otherwise."

"I know my rituals may seem odd, but the Lord taught us to be wary of unnatural temptations in the wild earth. This world inhabits both demons and mortals, every day is but a fight for territory, but even beasts know the method of parley."

Ichabod took his leave with the horse's head restored, and made his way back through the coming dusk towards that ancient marsh. His notebook guided him with what he copied from the vulture's map, and he turned west at the junction towards the old churchyard. A small decrepit chapel stood without its bell, the hallowed steeple wilted over wrought-iron fences that circled a dozen graves in its rusted fingers. A pumpkin patch grew untamed with butternut squashes, large juicy lengths thickening from the dirt.

"Stay here," he patted his horse, "not that a queernab like you needs urging, eh Gunpowder?"

The steed snorted with bow-legged stance and leaned against an old brick post. Almost nothing fazed him except for that one night, and though he barely showed it, he twitched anxious in this odd night. The dream still burned in Crane's mind as he searched over the graves, recalling the one that had been burning constant as he roved his fingers across the stones. There, he saw a slightly-darker headstone than the rest, whose name had been scratched out entirely.

"There you are," he whispered, "and still you remain nameless. But you brought me here, yes? You want to see me again, just as I must meet you. This may not be your head, but it belongs to your steed, so you hound me no longer. Selfish, my motive may be, but I at least made the effort."

He carefully dug open the grave to find nothing. An empty pit with not a shred of bone left behind, which frightened him all the more. Regardless, he put the severed horse's head still in its bag into the grave, then filled the hole in once more. As he made the sign of the cross and took his leave, something trembled beneath his feet causing him to stagger and almost break his head on a nearby tombstone.

His horse shivered with a newfound fear and backed away instinctively, hiding between the trees to watch something rise behind Ichabod. The crane felt a heat surge up his back, he turned and stumbled with his shovel in hand as the grave crackled with embers. A muffled roar came from beneath the stone, the church shook with mortal peril and the dirt exploded with such force, that it sent Ichabod backwards over a grave.

[b][i]"Es war ein angenehmes Land des schläfrigen Kopfes,[/i][/b]

[b][i]der Träume, die vor dem halbgeschlossenen Auge vorbeiziehen;[/i][/b]

[b][i]und der fröhlichen Schlösser in den Wolken,[/i][/b]

[b][i]die für immer einen Sommerhimmel umspülen."[/i][/b]

A song rumbled through the ground, a gravelly Germanic voice sang from every stone, every tomb and every branch of the bending trees. On his back, Crane looked up towards the twilit sky now wreathed in furious flames. There he saw the rising shadow of a monstrous familiar wraith, a towering 9-foot-tall horse blacker than pitch. A night mare in truest form, who reared up high with a shrieking neigh and whose mane of rich ebony blotted out the moon. Upon its back was the grand black armour of the headless fiend, wielding a machete in one hand, and the other was wreathed in flame.

[b][i]"NOCH EINMAL KOMMEN SIE ZURÜCK, UM MEINE FLAMMEN WIEDER ZU SCHMECKEN, STERBLICH!"[/i][/b]

"I...I-i-i-i," he stood up with trembling knees, "I know you s-s-summoned me here! I c-c-came of my own will, I know wh-wh-what happened to you! I know you speak my tongue, and I did not come to seek...t-t-to seek-

[b][i]"HÖR AUF ZU STOTTERN, JUNGE!"[/i][/b] His neckwound bellowed to crack the trees nearby. [b][i]"Wenn Sie es wagen, standhaft zu bleiben, dann halten Sie Ihre Zunge im Zaum."[/i][/b]

"I came to put you to rest! I found your horse's head, what remains of him, I seek parley for you!"

[b][i]"Hmph...is that so."[/b][/i] His voice suddenly dipped and he trotted close. [b][i]"You dare address me as an equal, you who stand with traitors of the crown?"[/i][/b]

"Which...which crown, King George or Prince William? I-i-i know that, y-y-you are a Hessian!"

[b][i]"Of course I am."[/i][/b] The Horseman swelled his muscular chest. [b][i]"Do you think this body could ever be equalled by English stock?"[/i][/b]

"Your horse cannot, certainly," Crane strengthened his back and tapped his beak, "I know your steed came from the Black Forest, b-blessed by St. Märgen. I know you search for your head, to be whole again, but I thought at least your stallion, beautiful as he is, deserved he laid to rest."

[b][i]"Are you a soldier?"[/i][/b]

"I am a schoolteacher. I shan't give my name, for I know not yours and you have no imperative to share it."

[b][i]"Hm."[/i][/b] The monster chuckled deep. [b][i]"Weise unehelich."[/i][/b]

His burning hand clenched to suddenly produce a demon's lamp, a smouldering thick gourd with a ghastly grin and flaming eyes that dripped with froth.

[b][i]"To think a scholar of youths would survive this. I wonder if fortune favours you twice."[/i][/b]

"I...I will not run." Crane stood as tall as he could. "Otherwise you will just haunt me again, you wake snakes in your path to drag me back, and for what?!"

[b][i]"To make a POINT!"[/i][/b] His horse suddenly snapped for his beak. [b][i]"None shall escape my wrath, especially not traitors to the crown."[/i][/b]

"Again, I ask, which crown did you serve?! Because I recall that William I was most unhappy to serve the English, enough to become Catholic! Surely you would not shackle yourself even in the next life."

[b][i]"I had my orders."[/i][/b] He swung his blade close to Crane. [b][i]"Were you a soldier, you would understand."[/i][/b]

"B-but I know that all soldiers yearn to render themselves obsolete," the bird flinched from the machete, "the war is over, your services null. All you do now is take flight, gollumping through the glen screaming wicked murder, no more than a harridan would!"

[b][i]"You DARE disrespect me, mortal?!"[/i][/b]

"Only because you d-disrespect yourself!" Crane squeaked with a brittle snap. "Why else did you bring me here?!"

The stallion snorted with thick ash in his face, causing the teacher to twist his face and struggle not to cough. The rider whisked away his burning pumpkin, then pulled himself off his horse and stood to his full height of a still-terrifying 8 feet. His black armour was sculpted with beautifully-chiselled abs, his solid greaves of rich ebony shuddered when he walked, and his royal purple cape whispered with a life of its own.

"Oh, m-m-my goodness you are tall," the teacher shivered, "was that, um, w-were you that height during-"

[b][i]"You wish to parley?"[/i][/b] The soldier smiled through his voice. [b][i]"Kneel."[/i][/b]

"I, s-sorry?!"

[b][i]"Do not make me repeat myself."[/i][/b]

His sword pressed to Crane's neck, and with fear rattling through his legs, the mortal went down on his knees before the wight unbuckled his pants. Ichabod's eyes widened from the sight of a black swollen shaft, that thickened to a hefty-but-flaccid 8 inches above a plump pair of balls.

"G-good...gods!" the bird gulped. "That's bigger than Van Neumen's sausages."

[b][i]"Mine is far more fulfilling,"[/i][/b] he thrust towards him, [b][i]"if you can sate this weary soul, then you may depart with yours intact."[/i][/b]

"I'm rather concerned about my body being intact!"

[b][i]"You shall still walk free...perhaps a little bow-legged."[/i][/b]

The headless gave a fiendish laugh and crossed his arms, frightening Crane all the more as the pulsing pillar reached up for his neck.

[b][i]"Let us see how skilled your tongue is, then we shall see your body. I shall not wound you, unless you cross me, for this accursed form has given me ways of accommodating...certain sizes."[/i][/b]

The throbbing sceptre grew a little harder, and brushed on his bobbing throat before he grabbed the girthy head with trembling hands of trepidation. He licked across the glans, it tasted oddly flat and he was pleasantly surprised by the salty-beef flavour that he started to lap at it more, arching his long beak that was still under the kerchief. The top part of his beak had cloth hanging off of both sides, that lightly draped around the twitching flagpole. Never did he imagine pleasuring this wretched phantom, and his more logical mind struggled to ask how his body remained so tangible.

The Hessian stroked his head with gentle fingers that left ashen trails in his feathers. Crane's closed his eyes and he pushed the spear into his gullet with a testing gulp, admiring the thickness of this bizarre creature. He likened it to how geologists would taste rocks for their salt quantity, keeping a researcher's mind and a studious disposition, yet something about Esther's infernal physique made him shiver in his loins. He stretched his beak wider, and he felt the demon feed an odd essence through his scalp that made his throat gape a little further.

Soon the glans was stuffed in his gullet, but he could still breathe through it all as he swallowed further. Ichabod had always been a voracious eater, but even this would have tested his limit if not for the Headless Horseman's new power. The mortal schoolteacher sucked him faster, bobbing his neck with a brief choking sound when the rider grew harder, until his harpoon was as thick as a fist. The cock swelled to its limit and he gripped Ichabod's neck, then thrust into him slowly as his feathery sleeve to get himself nice and plump.

[b][i]"Such a fine bird,"[/i][/b] he rumbled, [b][i]"for a withering schoolteacher, you bring a thirst for study and an appetite for truth. If you are good, we shall give succour to both."[/i][/b]

"M-mmmmrrrlk, GLLLLRK!"

Even with his intrinsic powers, Crane managed to keep his neck slack by his own natural gift, controlling his breaths and gag reflex to work through the bobbing pace of that fat flaring head. A few more thrusts and the Hessian would feel the cockshape formed in the neck, bulging out from Crane's pale brown feathers when he bucked his hips smoothly to feel every inch of his slender throat. Once he was fully hard, he pulled out with a hefty shlorp, leaving a trail of slimy pre down the neck and waistcoat.

[b][i]"Very good,"[/i][/b] his hand sparked with flames, [b][i]"now, let me offer you some relief."[/i][/b]

"Glrrk, wh-what?"

[b][i]"I may not have a head, but I can offer you a place to sheathe your paltry blade."[/i][/b]

He bowed his headless body towards him, showing the deep black abyss from which his voice echoed through. Ichabod saw no blood nor flesh, a creature in absentia as he felt uncertain what to do. The Hessian grabbed his pants and jerked them halfway down, then his cloak swept behind Crane to shove him forth and stuff his twitching meat into the neckhole. A sharp wind seethed from inside the creature, spiralling gales caressed his cock and fluttered beneath his balls like the breath of dragons.

Crane panicked with fumbling arms and clutched onto the beastly shoulders, then found himself growing hard enough to start humping the undead throat. He found the strangest pleasure run through him and plapped his thighs on the muscular torso, grinding his paltry member around the inside of his armour that was strangely warm. Every breath the demon took fogged like ash on his member, a rancorous snarl that grinned with satisfaction.

The horse snickered with a wraith-like sound, staring down Ichabod with cruel crimson eyes to keep watch over his master. The threat of being trampled by such infernal hooves that left trails of sulphur in his wake, frightened the crane more to start fucking faster, until his loins stung against the rim of the rider's collar. The Hessian stroked himself to full hardness, forming a milky puddle that turned the gravedirt to mud.

Ichabod pumped faster, his legs shivered like reeds in the wind and his soft little grapes smacked his cavernous neck with a meaty clip. It was the oddest sensation he had ever known, like brushing his hand through fields of wheat and he gritted his beak with exertion.

[b][i]"NNNNGH, h-haaah,"[/i][/b] the Horseman shivered round Crane's cock, [b][i]"harder, little worm, I thought you wished to live!"

"I-i am trying!!" he heaved, pushing in. "You ask to fit a needle in a wagon spoke!"

[b][i]"Fit harder then, you belweathered bastard, or you shall ne'er barketh again when I wear you for a sleeve!"[/i][/b]

"AHHH, H-HAAAH!"

The schoolteacher pushed harder with a mighty heave, his legs quivered and his thighs hurt from banging against the steel pauldrons. Precum bubbled from his stiffy, he clenched his eyes and shuddered when he reached his climax. Ichabod fed the phantom his seed straight to the gullet, where not a drop of his cum bled out of the wraith's armour. The Horseman rumbled at the filling in his body, then pulled himself up with a raspy chuckle.

[b][i]"Like a march hare,"[/i][/b] he dusted his suit, [b][i]"or rather a leveret with such a measly nail."[/i][/b]

"Ahhhh...h-haaaah."

[b][i]"But then what else can we expect from a malkin, how fitting you chased this crow, when you are thin enough to stand over fields."[/i][/b]

The spectre swatted Crane with his cloak, causing him to spin and fall on top of a gravestone. The rider then gripped the bird's hindquarters and pulled down his pants fully, showing the skinniest rear he had ever seen with its downy-feathers and fanning tail presenting itself. His legs rattled like a xylophone, his soft vanilla plums dangled between and a tight little pink bud twitched frantically. The Headless Horseman stepped forth and grinded his monstrous meat upon him, now a full 20 inches that caught the tip of his pucker.

"AAAAH, p-please!" he jerked his legs. "After I took the liberty of bringing your steed's head, be gentle with your flute-AAAH!"

[b][i]"Silence!"[/i][/b] he slapped Crane's rear to make it jig. [b][i]"Mooing little colonial, my sturdy root shall make you blossom, make you fat with virtuous seed as reward for this parley."[/i][/b]

"I-i am not opposed to a little rantum scantum," he shook his butt with a throbbing prick underneath, "but I should receive the invitation, not offer it first!"

[b][i]"HAH, and when were we ever a good madame?! Now be a good doe and moan for this stag."[/i][/b]

The halberd grinded on his rear and squeezed inside with a sudden pop, causing Crane to yelp with a fervent squawk that rang across the empty churchyard. Despite his gorgeous great girth, it managed to fit easily with little pain thanks to his dark infernal power, and much to Ichabod's confused relief when his body fell limp like a noodle. Such a bizarre experience to him as the thick ghostly flesh grinded past his prostate, and when he gasped with open beak, a gloved hand wrapped round his neck strangely tender.

The Hessian pumped deeper inside his ass with a hefty creak, making Crane feel like his belly had swollen with a surprising heat from the headless wight. It grinded his depths and stretched his insides with such demonic ease that Ichabod moaned in rapture, his tail twitched and he bucked against the soldier's hips that clapped on his cheeks. His sturdy armour made everything sting against Crane's flesh, his heavy balls whacked the teacher's sack and made him squeak with each clap, the weight of his metal form hung down and almost crushed the measly mortal.

Crane's stomach grinded on the tombstone that he gripped for support whilst his twitching pecker dripped pre on its grave. The cloth draped over his face before the Horseman lifted his mask, and saw the deep burning scar that crawled over the left side of his beak and stopped at his jawline.

[b][i]"Aaaah, a buffcoat in disguise?"[/i][/b] he snickered. [b][i]"For such a buffoon embodied, your face is proof of survival."[/i][/b]

"I-a-aaaah! It takes a sturdy mind, t-to teach the young of our future."

[b][i]"And the body of a buttock,"[/i][/b] Esther pumped him a little harder, [b][i]"such a comely form you possess I must say, your caterwauling will be the new bell of the churchyard!"[/i][/b]

"A-AAAAH, OHHHH! H-HESSIAN, HAVE MERCY, OHHH!"

Despite his protests there was a clear trembling moan of joy, something he had only done when a new almanac came to his hands. The devil fucked him harder as his thick steel abs grinded on his back, his hole clenched with a shiver as the Horseman kept pounding. His thick spectral balls slapped against those knobbly-knees that shook against the gravestone, Ichabod panted beneath the creature's throat that growled with some wicked force exhuding from his form. Every suckling wall of Crane's insides stretched around his spear, so deep it burrowed that it made his hips creak.

Despite the invasion, it never hurt him truly, only discomforted him with the bizarre sensation of a phantom's shaft touching every part of his lower body. Sometimes it fucked through his walls and tickled other depths, giving him the coldest shivering sensation in his organs. Other times it phased out of his belly to grind against the tombstone, causing its half-solid vibrations to rattle through Crane's body. But always was the panting snarl, the deep croak of the Hessian whose headless throat rumbled in his ear.

[b][i]"Haaaaah...what is it about you, a demure bottle-headed bookworm that enthralls me to you?"[/i][/b]

"MMMMmmm, glllrrrk!" Ichabod shuddered between thrusts. "Y-you are the one who chose to haunt me!"

[b][i]"And yet, you lack an answer. For all the tomes you read, here you are submitting to me, little freak."[/i][/b]

"I-i...I am not against it. If you wish to keep it this civil."

He reached up a hand to stroke down the Hessian's arm, a tender rub as he felt the rhythm subside. The phantom shook a little strange, and the giddy sound of his partner gave him an odd tick where his heart had once been. He picked up his speed once again, his pulsing sword driving deep into Crane's rear with such furious, wondrous heat. Ichabod soon came with a tremendous shiver all through his legs, his beanpole body rumbled with elation and spurted a hot drench of shameful need all over the tombstone.

But the ghoul came even harder, a savage shriek ran from his throat as he proclaimed his conquest over this feeble mortal. His chiselled abs shook in his roar against his back, his balls clenched against Ichabod's rear and he blasted a deep fountain of spectral ooze inside his gut. His otherworldly cum seeped through every part of his insides, a fiery warmth like heated whisky that made Ichabod crumple, with a smile of drunken reverie.

[b][i]"Glorious,"[/i][/b] he whispered in his ear. [b][i]"That...was quite the exorcism you performed upon me."[/i][/b]

"Haaaah, a-aaaah," he whimpered, "th-that was a...a betwattled experience."

[b][i]"And yet, you do not protest."[/i][/b]

He pulled himself free with a juicy pop of his slimy dick, a thick drooling line of jizz trailed from the opened rear to the 20-inch staff between his legs.

"I...th-thank you," he bowed politely with a cum-soaked rear, "have I put your spirit to rest, Hessian?"

[b][i]"Perhaps."[/i][/b] The soldier bowed his headless form. [b][i]"But I am vastly powerful, filled with untold rage that may require several future sessions. One might needs return to make certain that I am truly cleansed."[/i][/b]

"Ah...well," Ichabod pulled the mask free from his burnt beak, "if these sessions are as fruitful and courteous as this one, I would be remiss to leave this job unfinished. I swear to you, Hessian, I will help you find your head. So long as it takes, I will do all I can to put you to rest and let you leave this world."

[b][i]"Very well."[/i][/b] The fiend leapt back onto his steed. [b][i]"I shall see you again, when nights grow weary. Perhaps one moon, we shall know each other's names."[/i][/b]

He snapped the reins as the horse reared, then galloped off into the woods and across the mire. The darkness swallowed him with hands of mist, wrapping fingers round his form and separating his body into wispy tendrils of black, like smoke from a burning house. The night felt colder somehow as he whistled for his horse, who snorted from the woods and shuffled shamefully forth to his master.

"I ought to oil you with gladness," he shook his fist, "but I was out here waking snakes, I am as guilty as anyone. Well, anyways, shall we return home, boy?"

The horse snickered with relief as Crane hiked up his trousers, then mounted his bumbling steed and cantered back to Sleepy Hollow. The second time he had been molested by this ghost, but at least this time gave him a pleasurable tale that none would ever believe, nor want to hear as he continued his quest for the Hessian's head. The Horseman continued to roam the glen, searching to be whole once again, but for that brief moment with his quarry, that strange mortal who answered his call, he felt something close to it. Something...warm.