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The party was excellent. I was so, so charmed by all that I saw that day. The guests - each and every one - was as dashing as any other in great Virginia... Save poor Ichabod. He arrived to the event looking like a man haunted. The poor sod had the manner of a mule who'd been working the mill for days without rest, but I *knew* he got the rest of any other man, and hardly lifted an arm to help the young men around town with physical labor. But still, a man didn't look that way with no reason. In those days, I'd considered him a friend. Our repour was a charming one. We played with each other in those days like young men do, pranks and soft jabs. He was perhaps my most favored man in the whole town. It was on that assumption that I approached him, teeth gleaming to perhaps shine some light on his dark demeanor.
He was always a grim man, so I thought to perhaps cheer him up with a tall tale. Some of the worker boys told me about some ghost or other earlier that day, so I related the story to him. He kept glancing around the party as I spoke, then suddenly, he began to walk off. It was with shock that I took his curt dismissal of my kindness. He stormed by with little more than a word, marching through the hall directly towards my Katrina. I wasn't so dense as to not know he held affection for my lady, but... Well I thought he'd known we'd been engaged since before he arrived in town. Perhaps I should have told him.
He proposed. She declined. He ran. The night was dark, but worse, I knew the weather was growing harsh. I couldn't allow him to simply ride through the woods of rural Virginia in the height of wolf season with a storm brewing, so I quickly got to my own steed and followed him. We raced through town like shades of the night, he was shouting curses and his manner was frantic. The poor man was delirious and so stricken with grief over his lost love.
Then we approached the great bridge. The rain began to fall and his horse galloped unto the paving stones. This I remember clearly: A shine of orange in the midst of the bridge. There was a pumpkin, obviously fallen from a nearby cart, in the middle of the highpoint of the stone arch. When Ichabod's equine steed's foot crunched into the plump vegetable, the crack sounded much like that of lightning. It reared to it's feet and it's rider - my dearest friend Ichabod - was flung from it's back! I could hardly believe my eyes. The horror of it all was so stunning. He flew through the rain, illuminated by the slivers of the moonlight, in suspended motion. I believe for an instant we saw each other's faces. He was so scared, terrified.
I could do little but scream as he sunk into the river, goaded by storm waters, and was swept away. For the remainer of that night and into the next week, I rode down that dreadful river... But I could never find my poor friend Ichabod.