Beneath Hoof and Hollow: A Dark Monster Romance Reimagining, page 1
Beneath Hoof and Hollow
Violet Taylor
Contents
Content Warnings
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
More from the Author
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Also by Violet Taylor
Stay In Touch
About Violet Taylor
Beneath Hoof and Hollow is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2025 by Violet Taylor
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: authorviolettaylor@gmail.com
First edition October 2025
Cover Art by Valentaine
Cover Design by Wild Love Designs
Editing by Michelle Dacus: https://fictionedit.com
(eBook)
Content Warnings
Beneath Hoof and Hollow is a dark romance containing graphic violence and sexually explicit content that some readers may find disturbing. For a full list of content warnings, visit violettaylorauthor.com
Dedication
To all the spooky little readers who would rather save a horse, ride a headless horseman…
Chapter One
Emeline
“The moment he pulled the wolf skin over his head, he transformed. His body twisted and bent, becoming a terrible monster. All night he tore through the town, claws shredding skin, teeth feasting on flesh. In the morning he awoke in a field full of sheep, covered in blood, guts, and—”
“Stop, please,” Fran interrupts. “Why is it your monster stories are so gory? I cannot fathom why your made-up tales must always have such a torrent of blood and guts.”
Edmund stands from the hay he’s been resting on. The huge barn has been repurposed and decorated to create a rustic, yet romantic wedding venue. Hay bales line the walls. Wildflowers bloom in an intricate woven arch above the doors. Barrels of peach cider sit piled atop one another in the corner. It’s the perfect end-of-summer wedding.
“They are monsters, Fran. Gore will always surround them. Hast thou forgotten what makes a monster a monster? What is it you think monsters do?”
“Monsters aren’t real,” I chime in. “Though, your imagination always keeps us fully entertained.”
Edmund scoffs. “Like fuck. The stories are real. The Wolfman was put to death for his crimes. An entire town believed him to be a wolf, transforming into a literal monster. You’re saying dozens of people hath gone mad? That our justice system lost its mind when they convicted him of being a werewolf and put him to death?”
“It’s just hard to believe.” I shrug.
“Maybe you should start believing, Emeline. I hear the Wolfman has a particular fondness for blondes.”
My sigh coincides with a yawn. “I’ll be sure to keep a stick on me for my walk home.”
A wedding in Sleepy Hollow means a guest list that consists of the entire town. There’s not much excitement here. Events like these bring us all together for fun and festivities. They often continue far too late into the evening. It must be near two in the morning already.
“The night is young, Em. Have another mead.” Leed holds out a mug to me.
I decline his offer, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “You stay. I’ll meet you at home.”
Edmund laughs. “You’re going to walk alone? Keep an eye out for monsters in the tree line. A lone woman is the perfect late-night snack.”
I wave him off, stifling another yawn. “If I see a Wolfman, I’ll call for help.”
“A crack of twigs, a growl in the darkness. Beware,” Edmund taunts. The others share a round of laughter at my expense.
“Goodnight.”
With the entirety of our community currently attending the wedding reception, the town is eerily quiet. I walk, my thoughts growing more irrational by the minute. A fog has rolled in. All surroundings farther than four feet in front of me are hidden within a blanket of ever-moving white.
Edmund’s story sinks deeper into my psyche. I have heard of the trial of the Wolfman. It took place only a few years back. The town really did believe him to be a monster and put him to death for it. But monsters aren’t real.
Even as I tell myself the words, my anxiety grows. It’s so quiet. So much fog. A sharp crack from the woods draws my attention. My home backs up to the last row of houses before the vastness of the forest.
“An animal,” I mumble.
There are many nocturnal creatures. Raccoons, foxes… A shadow shifts in the fog before me. My steps falter. Is someone else out here wandering alone in the dark foggy night?
The swirling blanket of whitish-grey grows even thicker. If any more rolls in, I won’t be able to tell one house from the next.
After standing still for several moments, I push onward. Get home. Get inside. Lock the door. Then wait for Leed to return home.
My pace quickens. Three houses. Two. One more before I reach my—
A scream rips from my lungs when I slam into a tall figure. A hand shoots through the mist, gripping my shoulder.
I struggle, terror shattering my calm composure. The figure steps closer and a familiar face comes into focus.
“Reverend Statton?” I mutter, peering up at the most important man in town as he stares down at me.
“Emeline . Good eve. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
My breathing calms at the sight of his familiar and trusted face. “No, it’s my fault. I allowed myself to be wound up by a scary story.”
He gives me a gentle smile. “Our imagination thrives in the darkness.”
“It does,” I agree.
From somewhere aloft, a whispering disrupts the quiet night. What was that? Looking around, I suppress a shudder. “Would you mind escorting me home, Father ? I live just a few houses down. I think. This fog is so thick.”
In a move that’s oddly uncharacteristic of our Reverend, he hesitates. His posture is tense as he shifts on his feet. “Of course.”
We move through the fog in silence. I was only one house away after all. I turn from my door when I finally reach it, intending to thank Reverend Statton for his help. It’s the first time I’ve gotten a proper look at him this evening. His clothing is stained. Hands dark, fingernails caked with dirt. A layer of sweat shines across his face and his usually neat brown hair is mussed. He clutches a parcel beneath one arm.
“Are you well, Father?”
“Quite. Goodnight, Emeline. I’ll see you at service.” His hasty retreat leaves me feeling even more curious.
Reverend Statton performed the wedding ceremony. I don’t remember seeing him at the party that followed. Where has he been all these hours? He seemed to come from the direction of the woods. It’s a little late for gardening, and everyone knows not to venture into the forest alone after dark. What business would he have, and why is he covered in dirt in the middle of the night?
And what was he carrying?
The answers I seek don’t come to me. Perhaps I’ll ask him at church. I shake my head. What has gotten into you, Emeline? It is not my place to question Reverend Statton.
Crawling beneath my covers, I let dreams overtake my thoughts. The slightest sound outside my window has my heart rate spiking.
“Monsters aren’t real,” I remind myself, tucking my covers tightly around me.
Even if they were, they surely wouldn’t choose to carry out their wicked deeds in our small town. Would they?
Chapter Two
Emeline
Two months later
The signs of Samhain fill the streets of Sleepy Hollow. We’re a little over a week away from my favorite holiday. Pumpkins perch on every porch, awning, and gate from the town line to the Blackwater Mansion. We grow some of the largest and most colorful varietals here.
Shop fronts spill steady streams of caramel and candied scents. Dipped apples and pumpkin cakes line the bakeries’ festive displays. I soak it all in, strolling through town, bathing in the crisp autumn air and steady rain of red and orange leaves.
Our little town thrives this time of year. Sleepy Hollow is known for its bounty of freshly grown fall produce. We have fields and fields of pumpkins. Giant and orange, tiny and white, squatty and covered in deep green warts, even some that are pink.
Our apple orchards are renowned as well. Farmers here prune the trees such that they grow low and wide, making most of the apples readily available and within arm’s reach. Walking through the fragrant apple trees is like disappearing beneath the sugar-sweet canopy of a storybook land. The branches brush up against one another, blotting out the sun and creating a secret world beneath the treetops.
This late in the season, many of the fruits have fallen, and the trees remain heavy with the last round of fruit. If you want the sweetest of the apples, boots covered in rotten mush is the late-autumn tradeoff. I picked an entire bag full of tart green apples this morning. They’re not as good for eating, but they’re great for baking.
The strap of my satchel digs into my shoulder with the weight of the fruit. I should have dropped these off at home first.
I spot Estie and Fran approaching from across the square.
Estie finishes braiding her strawberry-blond hair and flips it over her shoulder. “Sorry we’re late.”
“Where’s Alesia?” I ask.
They exchange a look. “Oh, you know,” Estie says. “She’s assisting Reverend Statton again today.”
Again? I’ve barely seen her in the last few weeks. “What does she help him with? Fran, you’ve been asked to help before. What is it you do?”
There have been a great many shifts in our small town and its routine in the past couple of months. Reverend Statton announced that he had a religious revelation, but did not expand further. Since then, he’s taken to bringing the townsfolk, or maybe just the town’s girls, in as assistants to help with his religious duties. I’ve never been invited to his study. A bit of envy hooks beneath my friendly smile.
Fran’s dark bangs fall across her eyes as her gaze shifts to the ground. Her voice is unusually quiet. “The Lord’s work, of course. Reverend Statton says it’s to be kept between us, him, and God.”
Estie lays a gentle hand on Fran’s shoulder.
“I didn’t realize it was a secret,” I say to Fran. “I was only curious—”
Estie grabs my hand, pulling me toward the bakery. “Forget about Reverend Statton. I am craving something sweet. Pumpkin pie? No, pumpkin cake. Or maybe some caramel corn. It smells heavenly.” She glances behind us. I follow her gaze and see Fran leaving the square.
“Did I say something wrong?” I can’t shake the feeling the two of them know something I don’t.
Estie inhales deeply, then gives me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just leave it be, honey. Let’s you and I grab her a treat for later. One for Alesia, too.”
My stomach is growling uncontrollably by hour four of our Sunday service. I’ve always claimed to be devout in my relationship with the Lord, but today my mind is wandering. Glancing out the colored panes of the church’s decorative windows has me eager to step outside.
It’s hot in here. It was a brisk autumn morning on my walk to service. The coolness of fall beckons me as I watch the breeze rip several orange leaves from a nearby tree and spin them away. There are too many bodies crowded together in the pews. I’ve been sweating so long that my dress feels glued to my body.
I’m to meet with the girls after Sunday service. Glancing around, I spot them sitting throughout the church with their husbands and families, most fanning themselves. Alesia is not in church. Her absence will be noted.
Reverend Statton seems to come to the same conclusion within seconds of my noticing. “We’ve a missing lamb from our flock today. Has anyone seen our faithful Alesia? Let us pray she has not gone astray.”
An uneasy weight settles in my stomach. I need to check on her.
I slip out right when the cinnamon buns are served. Perhaps she’s sick in bed. My pace quickens as I step out of the church and directly into the town square. I slow when I find Alesia standing in my path. What in the world?
“Where were you? ” I ask her. “Reverend Statton asked about you in front of the congregation.”
Alesia doesn’t reply, just moves to the center of the square and ascends the small wooden platform used for musical performances.
“Alesia?” I prompt. “Are you ill? Alesia,” I repeat, more sharply.
The look in her eyes when she finally turns my way gives me chills.
“Alesia?” I say her name yet again, softly, the worry inside me growing stronger by the second . Why is she being strange?
“I won’t stay quiet anymore ,” she says. “He can’t do this to us. It’s not right.”
“Who? Lessy”—I gaze up at her on the platform—“what do you have planned?”
“Everyone passes by this spot on their way out of church. I’m going to tell them the truth about Reverend Statton.”
“What truth?”
Her eyes narrow. “I know you’ve heard the rumors.”
My throat tightens. I have heard the rumors. We all have. But we’re taught that continued blind faith in our religion is the only thing saving us from burning in hell for all eternity. If I believed even half of what I’ve heard about Reverend Statton’s actions since his revelation, I would lose my faith too fast to fathom.
“Lessy. They won’t believe you. You know the sway he holds over the town.”
“Then I’ll make them believe!” She raises her skirts, revealing a sight that sickens me to my core. The shape of his gem-encrusted cross has been burned into her inner thighs. The outline is unmistakable. No other cross is as large or ornate. His initials have been branded beneath them.
“When?” I can’t conceal the horror in my voice.
“Does it matter? He has to be stopped.”
“He—he wouldn’t.” Years of religion-induced fear wriggles up my throat. “Even if he did, you just…you must be careful. His influence is powerful.”
She studies me, and in her empty gaze, I find no trace of my former friend. The one who would race through the sunflower fields and dance naked beneath the midsummer skies.
“How fortunate it is for you, Emeline, to have been spared his touch. He’s always favored darker hair. I wonder, is it your golden locks that keep him at bay? Does he think you a gilded angel and I a dark-haired demon?”
“Lessy.” I reach for her hand. She steps away.
“Maybe I should shave my head or carve up my face. Surely he won’t want me anymore if I’m bald and disfigured.”
“I—” Her words shock me into silence. I don’t recognize her.
She stares, disappointment collecting beneath her brows. “Leave if you don’t want to watch.”
Finally finding my voice, I plead with her, “There must be another way to resolve this.”
Her vacant eyes still hold fragments of accusation. I’m not confrontational. I’ve never been good with verbal arguments. Every time I try to stand up for myself, I get trampled by someone more gifted with the spoken word.
Even now, the right words escape me. The truth? It’s cowardly, but I don’t want to be here when she tells them of those horrible things.
I’m waiting for the perfect words. For the moment of clarity to ring through my thoughts and grant me just the right things to say, to handle this uncomfortable situation. They don’t come.
“Just go, Emeline.”
My stomach is knotted, throat swollen and tight.
As I turn to leave, she calls out, “You know I’m not the only one.”
I pause.
Alesia’s hand on my shoulder startles me into spinning back around. I didn’t hear her descend the platform. Her eyes are wide and wild. “He’s a demon, Em.”
The shaking of her palm can be felt even through the thick fabric of my sleeve. I nod. “If the rumors are true, he truly has acted like a demon.”
“No.” She shakes her head, lip quivering. Fear bleeds into the emptiness in her eyes. “He’s a demon. I don’t know when it happened, but he changed. Surely you must sense something is off about him as of late.”
Her words bring unwanted thoughts to the forefront of my mind. There have been changes, shifts in the way our town is run beneath the watchful eye of Reverend Statton. “He had a revelation—”
“You can’t possibly be so naive,” Alesia snaps, her face blooming red with frustration. “Haven’t you ever caught the moment his eyes shift? Can’t you see what he has become? He found that book and everything changed.” Her speech is too fast, almost manic.
“What book?” I ask.
Her voice drops to a whisper. “The spell book. Dark magic.” She wraps her arms around herself. “There were times I was in his office, before he changed, for innocent reasons. I liked to help him prepare for his sermons. Maybe I’ve always had a crush on him. He’s wise, well spoken… But I saw it. The book. He said it called to him from within the earth. He worked his way through it, page by page, making notes and crossing out spells that didn’t work. He became angry and different. I barely recognized the way he treated me and the others.” She swallows, eyes brimming with tears.
