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 mare of Old Widow De Kloet, 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."
	"Widow Kloek's execution was well-documented," Crane brought out his notes, "dragged to the Wolf's Face out by the lake, her horse accused of being a familiar because it was both a mare and stallion."
	"Fascinating.  I would have loved to study its corpse if the tales were true, but was it as tame as a mare or as wild as a stallion?"
	"Who knows?  My steed is neither, tame as a frog and as wily as a pebble, lacks the will of either sex."
	"Hah, thank God we live in more civilised times or with a horse so unsexed you'd 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.  A raven hung above his head, the creaking gasp of her rope grated his ears and the smouldering charr of a thick bonfire came from nearby.  From the ashes rose an enormous shape, one horribly familiar to him as a black stallion with deep crimson eyes.  A scar throbbed on his face, a wretched burn stung his eyes and made him clutch his beak with a terrible scream.
Then he saw that grinning face, the devil's smile carved on a pumpkin in the hands of the hanging body.  She smiled at him and hurled the burning gourd, exploding his eyes with a dozen fragments and melting his skin with molten juice.  He clutched himself in howling agony, then stumbled through the mire where 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.  The neck is short and soft implying a mare, but the muscle is hard and thick implying a stallion."
	"A crossbreed of sexes," the crane shook his head, "perhaps it was cursed in the end."
	"Or an aberration of birth, I've seen plenty bodies with little oddities.  In fact I heard even tales of the Iroquois having robust ladies who fought in battle, and comely husbands who nurse the children."
	"But this creature is a mix of both, not one sex crossing to the other.  I had a dream the other night, of Old Widow De Kloek being hung at the bog."
	"Ohhhh?!" the mortician grinned, leaning in.  "Has the accused brought you something?"
	"Is there a churchyard near the lake?"
	"Yes, 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 her grave," Crane nodded, "her 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."
	"To protect the good folk, firstly.  And second, to build up a case against those such as Brandt, who put my verity on trial."
	"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, for just as we won against the mad King George, so too I shall not succumb to beastly wraiths."
	"And will you do battle with muskets?  Or gallop like Paul Revere?"
	"Tis not victory I seek, Edelmeyer.  Tis knowledge, which is power."
Ichabod took his leave with the horse's head restored, and made his way back through the coming dusk towards that ancient marsh with a shovel in hand.  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 almost entirely.
	"There you are," he whispered, "yes...K, L...K, this has to be you.  I hope you forgive me, madame, but I have come to return your beloved 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 an ancient raven's corpse, her glazed skull and moulted feathers filling the hole with all her flesh long-eaten away.  There also laid an enormous pile of ash that covered the skeleton, upon which he put the severed horse head still in its bag, 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 De Kloek's 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.
On his back, he 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 creature blacker than pitch.  A night mare in truest form that stood tall upon its back hooves, with long ghastly fingers that ended in claws.  For a brief moment, Ichabod's soul wilted thinking He had returned once more, but something was different.  There was no white stripe on the demon horse's head, and these eyes burned purple instead of red.
	"What death have you unwrought?" seethed a dark voice.  "Whomst has bound our souls once more?"
	"A-...a-a-are you Esther De Kloek?" he struggled to stand.
	"Once half we were.  But now interred together, we became one."
The flames kept burning from her open tomb, and the schoolteacher-turned-investigator stared upon the magnificent demon.  She lurched over him with a headless body, upon which a thick pair of melon-sized breasts hung upon, her talon-fingers grasped the bag with the horse's head inside, and a magnificent cloak of burnt feathers wrapped around her body.
	"For what purpose you brought me back?" the head spoke, pulled free from the sack.  "Who are you, and how dare you pity us with a simple cross?"
	"I...h-hoh God," he crossed himself again, "My name is...Ichabod Crane, I-i make no qu-quarrel, I am well aware of demons in this land, this is but a formality!"
	"An act of neighbourly kindness?" the creature chuckled bitterly.  "Such acts were rare in our time, when a widow was seen unfit to befriend a beautiful mare."
	"I learned of your tale and reasoned that, those such as you who rampage the land are but unsent, searching for peace for crimes against your self.  I cannot undo the verdict falsely made for having an abnormal beast, but-"
	"You decide to make us whole, in some form of amnesty?"  She thrust her head at him and still towered a foot higher.  "In hope that mine wrath has cooled quicker than my corpse, my beloved mare's ashes that they so profaned to scatter upon me, before they took her beautiful HEAD and sent it into the swamp so we would remain forever APART?!"
	"W-well...did it work?" Crane forced a cheerful grin.  "N-not many round here would go out of their way to appease you, a-a-and to be clear, I fear you greatly like any mortal should but not because I believe the verdict you received-"
	"SILENCE."  The head spat on him, still dangling from her hand.  "How long have we lain here?"
	"A-a-about, a hundred-and-fifty-seven years, give or take six months."
	"Does this land still reign beneath a king?"
	"No, madame," he wiped his eyes of her spit, "we shook off England's shackles quite recently, only twenty-six years hence."
	"Hmm, and you think yourself nobler for it?  If you seek our rest, then you shall not leave this forsaken cemetery until our request be fulfilled."
	"And what...request is that, Madame De Kloek?"
	"To sate our hunger."
The horse head licked her lips before it slurped over Ichabod's face, startling him with a shot through the spine as he wiggled back before the feathered cloak swooped round and clutched him like a living hand.  She pulled him close to her studly chest, her thick mammaries wrapped around his face as the tall strapping mare showed a hidden surprise between her legs.  Rising between them was a swollen horse's shaft, that thickened with a beastly throb and scraped over the front of Crane's body.  A monstrous pole that with each gentle thrust of De Kloek's otherworldly form, grew halfway to a rubbery 18 inches.
	"G-good...gods!" the bird gulped.  "That's bigger than Van Neumen's special baps."
	"Proffer this sweet pleasure to us, and you may leave with soul intact."
	"I'm rather concerned about my body being intact!"
	"You shall still walk free...perhaps a little bow-legged."
The horse smiled in a terribly unnatural way, frightening Crane all the more as the pulsing pillar reached up for his neck.
	"Let us see how skilled your tongue is, then we shall see your body.  We shall not wound you, for our accursed form hath given us greater access to ways of...accommodating size."
	"A-accommodating?" Ichabod gulped.  "S-surely not."
	"Were it our goal to take your life, we would not be speaking still.  One who survived the headless Hessian's wrath is more than worthy of our attention."
The throbbing sceptre brushed on his bobbing throat, and with trembling hands of trepidation he grabbed the girthy head and licked along the glans.  It tasted oddly flat, he expected far worse and 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 a beast of burden, even one from beyond, but the voice shuddering above him made it somewhat easier.
She stroked his head with gentle fingers that left ashen trails in his feathers.  His eyes closed 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 Esther's new power.  The mortal schoolteacher sucked her faster, bobbing his neck with a brief choking sound when she grew ever harder, more erect until her harpoon was thicker than a leather plate.  The cock swelled to its limit and she gripped Ichabod's neck, then thrust into him slowly as her feathery sleeve to get herself nice and plump.
	"Such a fine bird," she rumbled, "for an arsworm, you bring a thirst for study and an appetite for truth...we shall give succour to both."
	"M-mmmmrrrlk, GLLLLRK!"
Even with her 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 that soon kissed his stomach.  A few more thrusts and De Kloek would witness the cockshape formed in his neck, bulging out from his pale brown feathers when she bucked her hips smoothly to feel every inch of his slender throat.
Once she was fully hard, she pulled out with a hefty shlorp, leaving a trail of slimy pre down his neck and waistcoat before her cloak reached out to the pumpkin patch, with her head still in her other hand staring at him directly.
	"Bring us the largest gourds," her cape formed a feathered finger, "one round and strong, the other staunch and long."
	"Oh, a-are you hungry?" Crane gulped back some of the pre.  "I would not think demons still required food."
	"Tis not for our stomach, little beard-splitting worm."
Her smile grew and he shuffled over to the pumpkin patch, whose vines crept into the graveyard with long emerald fingers.  Testing the sturdiest of plants, he grabbed a hefty hardened pumpkin and the longest butternut squash, then offered them to Esther who turned herself round and presented her rear to him, showing a thick horse pucker beneath her singed-black tail, sweltering cunt lips of a luscious crimson, and an enormous sack that hung down between her muscular legs.  To the bird, they were the smallest cannonballs he had ever seen, but looked just as heavy.
	"G-good, gods," Ichabod stammered, "so the legend was true, your beast was both...mare and stallion?!"
	"A magnificent creature," she shook her rear teasingly, "were my neighbours not so feeble-headed, they would have looked past the aberration to her beauty."
	"It's a very um, fascinating body...but would she rather be a mother or father-URK!"
	"It matters not," the horse head shot up in front of him.  "Now, offer thine amber gourd to our crevice, and the pale length to our womb."
Her power smouldered from the mare's face, now floating by itself while wreathed in purple smoke.  The crane started with the squash, the more-easy object to grasp as he pushed it into her cunt, and caused her head to shiver with a delightful sound.  Her pussy parted with such ease that Ichabod was surprised he could fit it all in, and twisted the gourd deep like turning a giant's key.  Her folds rippled with delight and grinded on the firm plasticky texture, sucking it deeper inside until the base popped in like a knot.
A sharp whinny came from Esther with a rumbling moan underneath, two voices joined in lust as Crane tried not to touch her feminine parts whilst stuffing the squash in.  Then, to his surprise, he watched those powerful mare muscles pump the vegetable in and out to feel all the imperfections of its bulbous length.  A snickering giggle rang from the floating head, whose eyes of burning velvet rolled up in bliss at the odd sensation.
Then Ichabod pushed the pumpkin to her rear, which he was certain would not fit for the fact it was twice the size of the hole.  Then the pucker stretched wide like a worm's mouth, a sound like tanned leather cracking apart when it yawned around the girthy gourd, and crunched its sphincter down upon its voluptuous orange rim.
	"NNNNGH, h-haaah," she shivered, "a good voice to beg bacon, you have."
	"What do you mean?!" he heaved, pushing in.  "You ask to fit a camel through a needle!"
	"Fit harder then!  You alabaster knave, you belweathered sop, or you shall ne'er barketh again when we wear you for a sleeve!"
The schoolteacher pushed harder with a mighty heave, his legs quivered like cat-tails in the wind and his hands forced against the thighs.  The creaking shudder of her gape and the trembling of her lifted tail made him groan with distaste, before he managed to shove the pumpkin through its largest point, where Esther's phantom hole swallowed it slowly like a snake with its prey.  Crane had never seen such a sight, the black pucker squeezed round the pumpkin halfway whilst her cunt dripped through the squash.
	"OHHhhhh mercy," the wraith heaved with bliss, "now, for the main course.  Since our rear entrances are occupied, perhaps you would enjoy the front door?"
	"Well, I," he fumbled with his tongue, "twould not be an unsightly offer, on this lonesome night."
	"But why settle for this leather-mouth, when you can savour the throat itself?"
She spun herself round and bowed her headless body towards him, showing the thick horse neck with its gaping throat and cut-through spine.  All the blood had left her body, leaving a dry muscular husk that she lined up to his crotch.  Her head slipped behind and grabbed his pants with her teeth, then tugged them down to expose his twitchy pale staff that had already grown hard from this lurid encounter.  She bumped her snout on his rear to shove him forth, and stuffed his cock straight down the neckhole where Esther trembled from the strange insertion.
Crane panicked with fumbling arms and clutched onto the beastly neck, then found himself humping the undead throat and finding the strangest pleasure run through him.  With a guilty grin he plapped his thighs on her severed neck, grinding his paltry member around the sides of her thick oesophagus whilst she whinnied from her floating head.  Her cunt trembled in excitement and kept twisting the gourd inside her tunnel, whilst her tail flickered against the fat-pumpkined ass that groaned with a leathery sound.
De Kloek grabbed her breasts that swung underneath, whilst her massive harpoon swelled to its fullest and drenched the gravedirt in a fat milky puddle.  The teacher pumped her faster, his legs shivered like reeds in the wind and his soft little grapes smacked her neckhole with a meaty clip.  It was the oddest sensation he had ever known, tough and gamey like sticking his cock in an overcooked steak.  He gritted his beak and cried louder, not having the stamina to last too long despite his best efforts not to disappoint.
	"LIke a march hare," she tittered from her hovering head, "or rather a leveret with such a measly nail."
	"AHHH, H-HAAAH!"
	"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."
He made a giggling sound at her jibe but did his best to keep the rhythm, pounding her faster in her dry throat until precum bubbled from his stiffy.  He clenched his eyes and shuddered through his fingers whilst the mare licked his face, then slipped her tongue inside as he made out with the head itself.  Her lustful tongue pumped his throat as he did hers, a thickening ooze spewed down into her gullet when he reached his climax from overstimulation.
Esther slurped round the inside of his beak and sucked in his cheeks, feeding him a thick drool neither cold nor warm as he rattled a tender squeak.  He clapped his warbling thighs against her staunch neck, and fed her his seed straight to the gullet until the throat wound bled with a sticky white that dripped down his sack.  De Kloek rumbled at the filling in her body, then pulled her floating head back to swat him with her cloak, causing him to spin and fall on top of a gravestone.
The marebeast gripped his hindquarters and pulled down his pants.  The skinniest rear she had ever seen with its downy-feathers and fanning tail presented itself to her, much to the blushing whimper of the mortal.  His legs rattled like a xylophone, his soft vanilla plums dangled between and a tight little pink bud twitched frantically.  De Kloek stepped forth and grinded her monstrous meat on him, now a full 36 inches that caught the tip of his pucker.
	"AAAAH, p-please!" he jerked his legs.  "After I took the liberty of bringing your mare's head, be gentle with your flute!"
	"Cease yon prattle," Esther's head floated over him, "mooing little boer, our sturdy root shall make you blossom, make you fat with buttered milk as reward for this parley"
	"I-i am not opposed to a little rantum scantum," he shook his butt with a throbbing prick underneath, "but good madames should receive the invitation, not offer it first!"
	"HAH, and when were we ever a good madame?!  Now be a good buck-face and moan for your lady."
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 her gorgeous great girth, it managed to fit easily with very little pain thanks to her dark infernal magic, and much to Ichabod's confused relief when his body fell limp like a noodle from this new sensation.  Such a bizarre experience to him as the thick flesh grinded past his prostate, and when he gasped with open beak, he received a kiss from the floating head.
De Kloek suckled his tongue with a trembling snicker, her thick horse nostrils puffed on his face as he moaned at her lascivious skill.  The thick feral tongue sucked around in his cheeks and pulled the whole beak in her gullet to slurp and drool all over his head.  Crane briefly feared that he would be eaten alive as her tongue swirled round his face, and she pumped deeper inside his ass with a hefty creak.
His belly swelled with horsemeat that was surprisingly-hot, grinding in his depths and stretching his insides with demonic ease as he kissed her deeper.  The mortal was spitroasted by Esther alone, his swollen stomach grinded on the tombstone that he gripped for support whilst his twitching pecker dripped pre on its grave.  A terrible flush struck through his face, the cloth draped over both snout and beak before she pulled back her tongue, and saw the deep burning scar that crawled over the left side of his beak and stopped at his jawline.
	"Aaaah, a buffcoat in disguise?" she giggled with a soft lick.  "For such buffoon embodiment, your face speaks of resilience."
	"I-a-aaaah!  It takes a sturdy mind t-to teach the young of our future."
	"And the body of a buttock," Esther pumped him a little harder, "such a comely form you possess, yon caterwauling will be the new bell of the church here."
	"AA-AAAAH, H-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 her thick milkers grinded on his back, warm and juicy sacks that rubbed up to his head and smothered him in her breasts.  Her holes clenched with their gourded offerings, her pussy squeezed the squash and turned it like a dial to roll against her thickening walls.
The horse-fiend kept pounding, her thick balls slapped against his knobbly-knees that shook against the gravestone.  Ichabod panted in the headless throat, kissing the creature deep with a growing desire that he put down to some wicked force exuding from her, but truthfully he knew was just her bulbous lance hitting all the right spots.  Every suckling wall of his insides stretched around her 3-foot spear, so deep it burrowed that it creaked past his stomach and bulged close to his beating heart.
Despite the invasion, it never hurt him truly, only discomforted him with the bizarre throbbing sensation of an undead heart thudding stronger than his.  So great was her strength through her thicker veins that it overrode his organ, and he matched Esther's heartbeat in a brief cardinal symphony.  All whilst the fattened pumpkin in her ass quivered from such strength of her hindquarters, that a few cracks spilled across the sides and bled out the sweet chunky seed.  Back and forth she worked her beastly muscles, fucking her holes with such plump vegetables that stretched her walls with effort.
	"YES!  HAAAAH, y-yes, s-such a chafe ran rampant in our soul, that you become the balm which to soothe."
	"MMMMmmm, glllrrrk!" Ichabod shuddered between her licks.  "W-will that suffice your tortured self?"
	"For now, our little freak," she kissed upon his head, "but whomst can say that you shan't return?"
Her devilish grin widened upon his face, as the schoolteacher blushed with a giddy sound from too much cock stuffed up his rear.  Harder she pumped into his hole, stretching it all the more with a volcanic wrath that burned such a furious, wondrous heat, like a roaring fire on a midwinter's eve.  Crane could not stop himself from cumming 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 ghoulish gal came even harder, a savage neigh shrieked from her lungs as she proclaimed her conquest over this feeble mortal.  Her breasts shook in her roar against his back, her balls clenched against his rear and she blasted a deep fountain of spectral ooze inside his gut, that then swelled up to a hefty balloon.  Her 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.
	"Glorious," she whispered in his ear, "you have cleansed our spirit well, Ichabod Crane."
	"Haaaah, a-aaaah," he whimpered, "th-that was a...a betwattled experience."
	"And yet, you do not protest."  She pulled herself free with a juicy pop of her slimy dick.  "Remove the gourds and we shall speak no more this night."
After she stood back up, he stumbled against the tombstone and watched a thick drooling line of jizz trail from his opened rear, to the 3-foot shaft that swung between her legs.  Then she turned around and showed her rear where the gushing cunt dripped around the butternut squash, and the pumpkin cracked a little further in her staunch burly cheeks before he grabbed it carefully.  With a firm pull, he managed to extricate the gourd out of her well-opened sphincter, a black well of plump skin that puffed greedily for more in her viscous depths.
Likewise her pussy was just as thirsty, sopping wet and clenching tight enough to force Ichabod to pull hard and wrench the gourd out from her cunt.  The splash dripped on his mask from where his sodden beak could be seen through, leaving a well-satisfied mare who cupped her breasts with a delightful moan, all whilst her head floated around her form.
	"Good tidings to ye," she shook her rump and heavy sack, "should you yearn for a breast of burden, there are worse fussocks on a cold autumn night."
	"I...th-thank you," he bowed politely with a cum-soaked rear, "I am glad to put your spirit to rest, madame De Kloek."
She bowed in return and walked back to her grave, where she melted back into the pit with her floating head following last.  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 a ghost, but at least this one gave him a pleasurable tale that none would ever believe, nor want to hear.  His own little secret, of which he wrote down only the finer details to commemorate the truth, about Esther De Kloek's untimely death.