Ichabod was sick and tired of fog. Cold, wet and blinding, it obscured the forest trails and left weary travellers to roam in circles, until they lost their will or became part of the forest as he had.
Day after day, night after lonely night, he wailed and haunted the forest to the best of his ability, but he had been doing it for centuries and his heart just wasn't in it any more. His routine felt stale, much like the pumpkin he wore, and he was so very tired of the smell of pumpkin.