A little ambiance while you read. Songs curated by the authors.
A Boy Named Pink:
The Fairy Magic
by Arla Jones
As the evening cast its gentle shadows, Percy found himself seated comfortably in the kitchen, savoring a cheese and tomato sandwich. As he relished each bite, his thoughts fluttered toward the mystery of the pumpkins.
Throughout the summer, Percy had dedicated himself to the diligent care of those pumpkins, nurturing them with devotion. Tirelessly, he had ensured that the summer heat didn’t parch their roots and that insatiable bugs didn’t feast upon their dark green leaves and sprawling vines. The task had become more than a mere chore; it had evolved into a passionate pursuit, and Percy had unwittingly transformed himself into a skilled and caring gardener.
As Percy chewed on his sandwich, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. His toil and devotion had borne fruit – or, in this case, pumpkins. Yet, anticipation washed over him as the night grew darker and the stars twinkled. What if, just maybe, these pumpkins harbored a secret, waiting to reveal itself on a night like tonight, on All Hallows’ Eve, as his grandfather had promised him?
With each passing moment, Percy’s curiosity deepened. He couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight, something exciting might happen, and his life might take a bewitching turn due to the fairy magic that he knew floated in his veins just like his grandfather had told him.
Percy stood up and walked to the kitchen window. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the moon ascended. This is the time when the pumpkins should show their magic, he thought.
Even though he wasn’t there to see the pumpkins, their enchantment stirred, causing them to emit an eerie, luminescent glow from within. This ethereal radiance was a signal that they had awakened, ready to weave their ingrown fairy magic upon the residents of the houses where they were delivered.
As the evening continued and the darkness deepened, the magical pumpkins emitted silver-tinged gas, which swirled through the air like a spectral mist. This gas carried a potent fairy magic that affected the people who came into contact with it. Those who inhaled this mystical vapor found themselves succumbing to a series of vivid hallucinations that would make them see supernatural and eerily realistic creatures like spectral witches, werewolves, ghosts, goblins, and monsters and overwhelming all their senses.
As Percy stared outside, he saw one of his bullies, the same sturdy boy with long black bangs who had pushed him down to the ground on the first day at school, running out of his house, looking scared and screaming for help. He kept glancing over his shoulder as if he thought someone was following him. The bully boy was dressed like Dracula for Halloween, but now he looked pale as snow as he ran along the sidewalk. “Help! The monsters are chasing me! Anyone, please, help me!”
A couple of adults stopped him, trying to ask what was wrong, but he just pointed behind him and said, “Don’t you see them? They are right there coming after me! I will be dead if they catch me!”
As the adults didn’t see anyone nearby, they were convinced that it was just the boy’s imagination in play. They shook their heads and walked away.
Curious, Percy kept watching the events folding outside.
The next one of his pumpkin victims appeared panting and puking on the side of the road. He also asked for help from the adults he met. He explained that witches with glowing eyes and flowing robes stirred cauldrons of shimmering potions in his front yard, and they had forced him to eat bats’ legs and moldy cabbage from her cauldron. The adults laughed. “Funny story! Keep at it,” they told him. They believed that he was acting because it was All Hallow’s Eve.
None of the adults noticed anything extraordinary, even if both boys swore ghosts and monsters were around.
Percy went outside to see the pumpkins at work. He walked along the street, checking up on the houses where he had delivered the pumpkins. At each home, he saw the bully emerging outside, crying, screaming, pleading for help, or curling up in their yard, fearing the supernatural powers working around them.
The next victim came running out and explained that he saw ethereal processions of ghostly figures, all shrouded in mist, parading through the walls of his home. They had wanted to take him with them to the other side, to the land of the ghosts. He had run out when he figured out what the ghosts wanted.
One bully sat on the sidewalk holding his head as terrifying monsters emerged from the dark corners of his mind, their growls and roars shaking the very foundation of his sanity.
As Percy strolled ahead, viewing the power of pumpkins, his grandfather appeared next to him. He hadn’t heard him coming, but suddenly he was there.
“Are you pleased with the pumpkins’ power?” Grandfather turned his head to Percy and stared at him with his eyes shining with fairy magic.
“Yes, I guess,” Percy replied. “I don’t know if this will stop the bullying.”
“It might. And if it doesn’t, then we’ll work out something else. If these bullies don’t want to lose their sanity, they will stop what they have been doing,” his grandfather replied. “Fairy magic is powerful; you have only given them a tiny taste tonight.”
The pumpkin-induced hallucinations were petrifying as they blurred the line between the normal world and the supernatural. The bullies found themselves caught in a tormenting dilemma, their hearts torn between the intoxicating allure of fear and the instinctual urge to flee from the nightmarish apparitions that haunted their senses. The supernatural visions were both tempting and repellant, beckoning them further into the abyss while urging them to retreat from the unknown.
Their transformation was palpable. No longer did they swagger down the school hallways with the same arrogance. The once-feared bullies, who had reveled in their dominance, now hesitated to venture anywhere alone, haunted by the memories of the paranormal visions that had left their minds scarred. They refused to be the first to enter a dimly lit room or explore shadowy corridors.
Their newfound anxiety and vulnerability were apparent to all, and the bullies were now objects of pity rather than terror. As the shadows continued to dance in the corners of their minds, the bullies’ once-mighty careers as tormentors faded into obscurity, forever altered by the magic of that unforgettable All Hallows’ Eve.
***
Percy’s life unfolded in the human realm, where he lived with his mother and attended school like any ordinary child. However, hidden beneath the facade of his everyday existence, a yearning dwelled within him—a secret wish to journey to the enchanting fairyland and reunite with his fairy father.
In the quiet moments, when the world was still and his heart whispered dreams, Percy would confide in his grandfather. “I didn’t know the pumpkins would be so powerful. The bullies have changed. I can live now with my mother without being afraid of them. It’s the first time in this world this has happened.”
The old fairy would listen to him. “That’s what I hoped. Fairy magic is powerful. Maybe someday you will visit your father with me and learn more about the magic we can create.”
“I’d like that.” Percy’s smile brightened his face.
“It’s not the right time. We’ll both have to wait. For now, the fairyland is out of our reach, but it won’t be like that forever.”
Percy nodded. “I can wait.”
His grandfather advised Percy. “You’ll have to grow here and learn the ways of this human world before you can enter the fairyland. And that moment has not yet arrived.” Patience was the virtue Percy would have to master, for the clock of fate ticked to its rhythm, and the fairyland would remain beyond his reach for now.
Undead Pumpkins
by J. Louise Powell
The server walked to the door and flipped the sign, alcohol could now be served. They had a special permit that made the other businesses crazy. As the owner explained, it was no different than any restaurant that served breakfast, except they mainly had drinks. And pastries, all pre-packaged, so easy to serve a skilled food staff was unnecessary.
In this post-pandemic society, Tina saw it as an advantage. She was tired of hearing the “no one wants to work” narrative. In reality, few people wanted to give up the potential to make quick money online, even if it was just pennies on the dollar for grunt work. Who would want to toil as a dishwasher in a commercial kitchen when they could spend time creating internet content, hoping for a viral video or two? Or maybe they’d figure out how to flip houses or even get injured at a mall and sue the owners for lifetime wage losses. The possibilities seemed endless.
This generation wasn’t lazy, Tina realized. They simply didn’t want to ruin their bodies chasing dollars the way their parents had. Luckily, some still pursued careers in medicine, or as a society, we’d really be in trouble, Tina thought.
She stepped back behind the ‘bar’, the area that she served caffeinated drinks from in the morning, to alcohol in the afternoon and evening. There was usually a 3-6 hour overlap time, when customers wanted the one normally consumed on the opposite side of the day, but the sign was flipped when it was legal to begin the PM beverages.If they served too early, they were threatened by a loss of their special license.
Stepping back, Tina almost tripped over the large box behind her. She forgot she had been asked to decorate today. This in-between time was usually the quiet time of the day, though anyone who has ever worked in retail could relay nothing could be planned, there was always the unexpected visiting group, or the local business that forgot to book the staff room, so they’re ‘stopping by’.
No time like the present, she told herself with a sigh. The box was huge because the owners loved this time of year. August 1st the Augoween decorations were supposed to go up, remaining for 3.5 months. It made sense, the name of the business was “The Undead Cafe”, after all. She was lucky they gave the turkey a few days before moving straight into Christmas. Grabbing her box cutter from behind the bar, Tina smelled cinnamon and nutmeg and couldn’t believe the time was already here. Returning to the box, she sliced the tape and began to unpack it. These, shockingly, were all new decorations. She unfolded a few skeletons, vampires, bats, spiders, ghosts, and, surprisingly (not!) a plethora of zombies. Zombie cheerleaders, zombie football players, cemetery workers, a gardener, r grave digger, zombie men and women, a few children, and, what was this, a zombie minister and nun? Tina sighed. Some of these were just too tacky for words. She set aside the zombies, looking around the space in the cafe. She could do an AM/PM theme, dead and alive, or….
She was surprised by the next level of decorations, witch hats and a series of cauldrons. She began to feel claustrophobic by the thought of all of it around her for the next few months. She envisioned the scenes… witches stewing brew near the cemetery, as the zombies interacted with the vampires and others. Did zombies interact in ways that weren’t just brain eating? Did ghosts have brains? Did she need a new job? What happened to fall, and the great pumpkin, she thought glumly.
Almost as if it were fate, or she had seen it from the corner of her eye and had the thought of the large squash, she saw a bag of pumpkin seeds in the cauldron in front of her. As she glanced at the other cauldrons, they held bags of pumpkin seeds. Taking one out, she saw a layer of bagged gardening soil at the bottom of the box. This box must weigh a ton, she thought. But, she already imagined how she could move a couple tables and make a little pumpkin patch by the cemetery.
Tina smiled, feeling inspired by the pumpkin seeds. She opened the bags and carefully planted them in the soil-filled cauldrons around the cafe. “This will be perfect,” she thought, picturing the pumpkins growing and the spooky Halloween theme coming together.
Overnight, the pumpkin vines exploded in growth, the large orange gourds swelling to an impressive size. Tina arrived early the next morning to find the cafe transformed. Tendrils of vines crept across the floors, while towering pumpkins sat clustered around the central “cemetery” area she had created. Tina had arranged an elaborate graveyard scene, complete with gothic-style headstones, a wrought-iron fence, and a large gnarled tree in the corner. Skeletal hands seemed to be clawing their way out of the soil around the graves.
Tina arrived at The Undead Cafe early the next morning, excited to continue decorating for the Augoween season. As she pushed open the door, she was surprised to find the cafe’s owner, Derek, already there admiring her work.
“Tina, this looks fantastic!” he exclaimed. “I’ve got to hand it to you, you really have a knack for this spooky stuff.”
Tina smiled, pleased with the compliment. “Thanks, Derek. I put a lot of work into it. Oh, and I planted those pumpkin seeds you gave me yesterday – they’re already huge!”
Derek nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, those are special ‘Undead Pumpkin Seeds’ I got from a new vendor. I have a good feeling they’re going to take this Augoween theme to the next level.”
Suddenly, a cracking sound came from the pumpkin patch in the corner. Tina and Derek turned to see the large gourds bursting open, spilling out a horde of moaning, shambling zombies.
“What the-?” Derek exclaimed, but before he could finish his sentence, he took a swig from the flask in his pocket. The moment the alcohol passed his lips, the zombies turned on him, dragging the cafe owner into their ranks.
Tina watched in horror as her boss was consumed, but to her surprise, the morning coffee drinkers seemed unaffected by the undead outbreak. The zombies ignored the caffeine-craving patrons, who in turn became captivated by the grisly scene unfolding before them.
“This is amazing!” one customer exclaimed. “It’s like dinner theater, but with zombies!”
The other patrons murmured in agreement, delighted by the unexpected entertainment. Tina stood by, dumbfounded, as the zombie horde prowled around the cafe, but did not attack anyone else.
As the morning wore on, an occasional lunchtime patron would wander in early, drawn by the commotion. Tina watched helplessly as each time someone took a sip of alcohol, the zombies would pounce, dragging the unlucky customer into their ranks.
Tina shook her head in disbelief. “This must be the work of those crazy permitters the owner was always complaining about,” she muttered. Despite the horrifying scene, she knew she couldn’t just abandon the cafe – she needed this job. Steeling herself, Tina continued serving her morning coffee customers, praying the afternoon alcohol crowd would stay away until she could switch the sign back to ‘allowed’.
J. Louise Powell writes a multitude of genres under a variety of pen names. Mysteries are her favorite. You can find more at https://linktr.ee/booksbywaterchemist
Too Late
by Dom Sabasti
“Hold it steady, you fuck-tard!”
Ghen immediately dropped the knife, stood up, and smacked Bhot on the side of the head, knocking him off balance.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Ghen just stared, and trembled, then turned and huffed off toward the eastern pumpkin field.
“Pffff! I didn’t need you anyway! Fucktard.” But, inside, Bhot knew the ritual needed at least two. “Goddess dammit.” Bhot trotted off to search for Ghen. “I fucking hate walking.”
Ripe pumpkins as far as the eye could see glowing in the golden radiance of a perfect autumn sunset. It was a time of magic that was becoming increasingly rare in this realm. Bhot was well aware of the diminishing energy. Harvesting was nearly done, all that was left were the endless pumpkins.
The further he walked the darker it became. The golden radiance gave way to shadows that reached out to him. Bhot knew better than to tread on shadows. Even getting close to the darkness caused a ripple of moans that crawled up his back and shot out his mouth with an audible gasp. The gasp was echoed across the field by the mockers.
Bhot’s eyes darted from shadow to shadow, pumpkin to pumpkin, a manic distress taking the place of the cold chill. The gasps elevated to a hyperventilating that caused him to stop, bow forward, and wretch.
This was a new, and unexpected, sensation for Bhot. “No. No no no. It’s too soon.”
“No, Bhot, it’s too late.” Ghen’s voice seemed to bounce and reverberate against every shadow, which were now converging into total twilight, a breath away from night. “And there is nothing either of us can do.”
“No. The ritual will work. It has to! Where are you, brother? I don’t want to be alone in the dark.”
Silence, mostly. A distant moan from one direction, guttural groans from another. Whispers carried on a wayward breeze. And then the smell of rot. Everywhere.
Too late brother…
Dom Sabasti, proprietor of The Dread Nosh Cafe, The Vella Lounge, and Stotogam.
This link encapsulates most, but not all: https://beacons.ai/domsabasti
Mister Jack-O-Lantern
by Dr. Thomas Davison, author
Jack: The good people and townsfolk of Autumnsville, Ohio, gave Mister Jack-O-Lantern his nickname. The moniker was well earned, for Mister Jack-O-Lantern was the most incredible pumpkin carver anyone had ever seen.
Jack’s creations were so intricate and lifelike that they drew people from all corners of the country to the annual Autumnsville Festival. The anticipation would build every year as the townsfolk could hardly wait to see the master carver’s latest creations. People would smile when they recalled the happy, cartoonish witches, black cats, spiders, ghosts, and many other characters.
The pumpkin carver was a man of slight build who lived alone in a tiny home on the outskirts of the village. Mister Jack-O-Lantern was happy and content because he was making a living doing what he loved best: creating fantastical creatures with his carvings.
Whatever Jack’s mind could dream of- his hands could replicate into carvings. The carver had a gift he was sharing with the world and counted himself as a fortunate man.
One evening, Jack’s good fortune changed overnight.
********************
Johnny: Johnny Waite Junior was a seventeen-year-old high school student who was a sadistic bully and constantly in trouble with the law. The young teen was the only spoiled child of Autumnsville’s mayor, Big John Waite. Johnny Junior and his father despised each other. The son would cause mischief and pain, and the father would bail him out—a continuous cycle of failure.
One fateful early autumn evening, Johnny and two of his cronies were driving past the little house of Jack-O-Lantern when the the bully was struck with an inspiration. Johnny Junior slammed on the brakes, lept from his car, popped the vehicle’s trunk release, and removed an aluminum baseball bat.
Johnny Waite’s two (less-than-average intelligence) followers shouted, “Whatcha doing, Johnny?” and: What’s with the bat, dude?”
Johnny declared eagerly, Come on, guys! Let’s smash some pumpkins.”
******************
Jack: From inside his living room, Mister Jack-O-Lantern heard the car come to a skidding halt in his driveway. The carver listened to the sound of a car door slamming and voices.
Jack thought, “It’s too late in the evening to visit someone’s home.”
The master pumpkin carver heard the familiar creaking sound of the large door to his workshop being opened and instinctively reached for his phone. The small Sheriff’s Department 911 operator didn’t
answer, and the call went to a recording. Jack sputtered, “Sheriff, this is Jack-O-Lantern. Someone just broke into my workshop. They’re here now. Please, hurry!”
Jack began pacing nervously. He couldn’t bear the thought of intruders handling his creations. Most of the carver’s older pieces were sealed under double-paned, strengthened glass filled with a gas that kept the vacuum free from rot. The master carver was worried about his newest work, which was exposed to the elements and the burglars. He couldn’t stand it a moment longer.
******************
Johnny: Johnny Waite Junior was winded and sweaty. The teenager and his friends had made quick work of destroying the fresh carvings on the worktable. However, most of Jack-O-Lantern’s collection was sealed in some weird sort of special double-paned glass to protect the contents. It took Johnny and his friends half a dozen swings with the heavy bat to break open each box.
The young Waite looked around the workshop. Almost half of the boxes had been breached. He had to admit it was hard work. Johnny needed a break and handed the bat to one of his friends to continue while he took a breather.
Johnny Waite heard the anguished cry, “No! Please, stop. What are you doing?”
The teenager smiled evilly, “Looky here, boys. We got us a new pumpkin that needs smashing. Hand me that bat.”
*******************
Sheriff Ron Adams: Deputy Bobby Adams looked around the workshop and was horrified. Bobby had grown up attending Autumnsville’s Annual festivals, and he worshiped the family-friendly work of Jack-O-Lantern. Who would want to hurt the quiet, kind little pumpkin carver? It just didn’t make any sense!
The young Deputy heard Sheriff Adams bellow. “Gotcha! You little prick bastard. I swear to God Almighty, you are going down this time.” The Constable looked around the littered and bloody workshop. “Bobby! Where are you, son?”
Bobby yelled back, “I’m right here, sir!”
Sheriff Ron Adams’s face looked stern. “Come with me. We are going to make an arrest.”
The young Deputy asked excitedly, “Who will we arrest, Sheriff?”
The Sheriff’s voice was filled with anger. “Junior! We are going to arrest the Mayor’s son and lock that little psycho up tight this time.”
*******************
Nurse Irene Shaw: Irene Shaw couldn’t believe it! She had to reread the headline in the Autumnsville Gazette three times to ensure she had read it correctly. Oh my God, how could she break this news to her patient, Mister Jack-O-Lantern? Did she really have to be the one to tell him?
Yes! She was Jack’s nurse. She had helped him through thirteen operations and three months of painful rehabilitation. It was her duty. Nurse Irene Shaw would not shirk her sacred duty and oath.
Nurse Shaw knocked softly on Jack’s door and heard his always polite voice, “Is that you, Nurse Irene?”
Irene bit her lower lip. “Yes, Jack. I’m coming in. I have some news to share with you.”
The pumpkin carver’s voice spoke, “Come in, please.” Irene entered the darkened room. Before she could close the door behind her, Jack asked, “Is it the boy’s court hearing?” Not trusting her voice, Nurse Shaw nodded her head. “Is it bad, Irene?” Nurse Irene Shaw paused until her eyes adjusted to the blackness in the room. Then, she bravely faced the dark shadow of the deformed figure on the bed.
With tears filling her eyes, the dedicated nurse answered, “It’s terrible news. The so-called Judge ruled that Johnny Junior would not be tried as an adult. Then that politically appointed moron of a Judge ordered that Johnny be sent to a medical facility to be treated for his mental problems. Nurse Irene sighed heavily.
Irene said sadly, “I’m afraid there’s more, Jack. It’s the sentence. Johnny Waite is to be incarcerated in the Ohio Juvenile Detention Center until he reaches the age of twenty-one. Or… until the Medical Staff decides he is mentally fit enough to return to society. Their first report is due in ninety days.”
Jack-O-Lantern slowly and painfully turned his twisted body to face the wall. “I see. Thank you, Nurse Irene.”
Nurse Irene Shaw quietly closed the door behind her as her patient wept softly.
*******************
The Voice in The Workshop: No one walks by the tiny house that belongs to Jack-O-Lantern anymore. The little carver hasn’t been seen in public since the attack. It is rumored that despite numerous reconstructive surgeries, neither his face nor the multitude of broken bones could be made whole. The home’s interior is always dark, and the neighbors never see the lights on. Humpty-Dumpty couldn’t be put back together again.
Jack-O-Lantern felt like a jigsaw puzzle with several pieces missing. The first time Jack saw his face in a mirror post-attack, it took his breath away. They tried to reset his body’s skeleton back together with rods and plates, but his framework was too faulty to hold it all together. Then, there was the constant pain that never went away.
Ninety days after being sent to Juvenile Detention, Johnny Waite Junior returned home, sporting a nasty sneer. The worst thing was that the carver had lost his gift. His reconstructed hands couldn’t move smoothly enough to use the tools of the trade he loved more than life. It wasn’t fair!
The insistent, nasty Voice in Jack’s head spoke to him again. “I have told you how you can make them all pay, Jack! Animate your children with His power. Use His magic, and you shall have your well-deserved revenge.”
The former master carver held discussions with the scary Voice numerous times, almost daily. “Yes, you have shown me a path for vengeance. But… what about the innocent villagers of Autumnsville? They don’t deserve to be punished.”
The Voice spoke soothingly, “You will be in charge. You will control who is spared and who is not. You will yield His power in His name, but you decide.”
The bent and crooked man said, “But… I can’t make any more carvings. I have tried!”
The Voice chuckled evilly, “You are trying to make fun and happy carvings, Jack. Open your mind, and I will show you limitless possibilities.”
Jack-O-Lantern hesitated. “And the price?”
For the first time, the Voice spoke firmly. “That isn’t negotiable, Jack!”
For several minutes. Jack stood quietly, thinking. Finally, he said, “Okay. It’s a deal. Show me what to do, please.”
The voice thundered until the walls of the workshop shook. “YES! LET US BEGIN!”
********************
Deputy Bobby Adams: Deputy Bobby Adams’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut. The young deputy was praying. “Please, God. Oh, please, God. Make it go away. ” Bobby slowly opened his eyes. No! The insanity, the madness, was still there in front of him.
The Mayor, Big John Waite Senior, had called the Sheriff’s Office demanding help. Deputy Bobby was asked by his uncle, Sheriff Adams, to answer the call. His uncle and the Mayor hadn’t spoken to each other since Junior’s arrest.
The Waite mansion was under attack. The advancing invaders weren’t human. A massive cluster of creatures surrounded the Mayor’s house. The dark, eerie attackers were silent. Of course, they were making no sounds! The attackers were evil-looking carved pumpkins.
Bobby noticed the army of monsters was led by a smallish figure in a flowing black cape with a hood. The diminutive figure lowered the hood of its cape and shouted instructions at his followers. Deputy Bobby Adams froze. The face looked like something a child would draw with a crayon. The features had become an out-of-kilter misshaped mass.
The young Deputy trembled. He recognized one of the brown, sad eyes peering from the grotesque face. That eye belonged to Jack-O-Lantern. Deputy Bobby thought, “What did they do to that sweet man who made those beautiful carvings?”
Bobby’s second thought was, “Why should I risk my life to save the Waites? They caused all of this! This is some type of Cosmic Karma.” The young deputy hopped into his Sheriff’s cruiser and swiftly backed the vehicle fifty yards in reverse down the long mansion driveway.
Big John and Johnny Junior came out on their porch. They held beers and over-under skeet-shooting shotguns in their hands. Junior slammed a heavy crate between the two of them.
The watching Bobby Adams figured the crate contained ammo and extra shotgun shells. The two men pointed and laughed at the advancing army of evil-looking pumpkin caricatures. Bobby thought they must be drunks, fools, or both.
From where Deputy Adams sat in his cruiser, hypnotized, watching events unfold fifty yards away, he could feel the darkness emanating from the bizarre-looking attackers. The pumpkins were actually jack-o-lanterns and a sickish green glow shone from within them.
BAM! The first gunshot had been fired. Two of the larger jack-o-lanterns in the front row exploded into pieces. A few seconds later, the pieces lying on the ground began to glow. The nauseating green light
began to throb and beat like some monstrous heart. It was incredible!
Deputy Bobby Adams watched, jaw dropped, as the shards and shreds began to pull themselves together and reform into their original shape. The fragmented creatures fell into line and continued onward.
The Waites seemed puzzled and frightened. Both men began firing as rapidly as they could reload their weapons. Soon, the hellish creatures swarmed over the Waites, who became enveloped in the green glowing jack-o-lanterns. Then, the screams started—horrible, deep-throated screams of pain and anguish.
Next, the skies above the Mansion crackled with green lightning—a glowing circle formed in the air. The circle widened and throbbed until Bobby could see the gate or portal form itself. From the center of the portal appeared a pair of red glowing eyes. A gravelly, deep voice bellowed, “Bring them to me, NOW!”
All the horror that Deputy Bobby Adams experienced throughout this crazy night was nothing compared to what he felt next. He saw the cut and bleeding bodies of Big John and Johnny Junior rise to the portal smothered with biting and scratching green glowing jack-o-lanterns. The two men’s voices hoarse from screaming, prayed and begged for mercy until the cosmic gate swallowed their souls.
Bobby felt relief. It was over! But—no, wait! The powerful Voice spoke again. “It is time. You must pay the price!”
The hooded man that Deputy Adams believed was Jack-O-Lantern turned toward him. What remained of the little man’s face looked sadly in his direction and waved goodbye.
The young Deputy swiftly pushed the window power button. Lowering the window, Deputy Bobby Adams thrust his arm out and returned the wave. The master carver passed through the ringed portal, which blinked once and then vanished.
Bobby was wise beyond his years. Pulling his walkie-talkie, he clicked it on and asked for his uncle. “Sheriff Adams? This is Bobby. I am at the Waite Mansion, sir. There isn’t a living soul here. There is nothing to see except the place is littered with smashed pumpkins.”
-pause listening intently… “Sir?”
-pause… “Yes, I said pumpkins.”
-pause… “Okay, I will wait here for you.”
END
About the Author…
Tom has three self-published novels:
All three eBooks are ON SALE for 99 cents.
100% of all writing earnings on EVERYTHING is donated to Charity!
1. Different Prisons. a Non-Fiction memoir about teaching inside prisons.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D8V88VGL/
2. The Boy With Strange Eyes: a YA Fantasy, action-adventure novel.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CPB6TWT4/
3. How To Write a Winning Dissertation. An academic how-to book.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D6DN6TFR
4. Coming next month: New Beginnings: Eternal Prisoners— a Cosmic Horror novel
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If you enjoy reading episodic Vellas, you can find a baker’s dozen here…
It is an eclectic collection. I have named myself… The Man Without a Genre.
The Price Pumpkin
by Michel Croteau
I was living happily with all my brothers and sisters in this place where the sunlight came from all over. I was basking in the warmth of that light when I heard a squeaky voice shrill. ”I want that one… the big one.” It was me.
THEY took me to their place and left me in a corner of the kitchen for a long time. I thought ”good… THEY got me for decoration… I am big and beautiful!” But occasionally I heard the same squeaky voice say “When are we going to carve this thing? It’s Halloween in a few days.”
“Who was this Thing? And why They would be carving something?” I wondered.
It was me! One evening THEY collected me from my cozy corner and put me on a table… suddenly I felt a knife cutting my top. I kept quiet but then THEY took my seeds out.
“Oh… no …no my seeds… I need them to multiply…help… help” I screamed. THEY ignored me and kept manhandling me… a big and beautiful lady. They made holes in my side, and I was no longer a big and beautiful lady but a scary monster.
It was a chilly evening… I found myself outside their place shining into the dark… there was something inside me that hurt my delicate skin. Strange characters went by, and all made fun of me.
“Look at that ugly mug… ha… ha… ha.” And pointed at me… but not to ones next to me. I tried to communicate with them, but they ignored me. They looked like me, but they never wrinkled. And were taken inside… instead…
THEY left me there for a long time at the mercy of rain, snow and kids kicking me. I could hear THEY say, “ When are you going to get rid of this thing?” but nobody did until I got so shriveled that I was making a mess of their front door.
I was then thrown in the backyard at the edge of the woods. Many animals came around… they all wanted a piece of me. By late spring there was a very little piece of me left… but something was coming out of the ground next to me… looked like a little green ball. Every day it grew a little bigger and changed color. Was this thing my spawn ? How was it possible?
The one that tortured, humiliated, disfigured me and threw me away in the woods
at the mercy of wild creatures took all my seeds out of me… did THEY missed one? it must had been a good one… This thing grew bigger and bigger… hundred pounds…two hundred pounds…three hundred pounds and more… during summer THEY came around to look at it filled with surprise
“ Wow if it keeps growing like this, we can win the big prize at the State fair in the fall.
I was very proud of it … She or he- I did not know if it was a girl or a boy since when I talked to it… it never responded – was going to win the big prize ever… by the end of summer ‘it’ was enormous.
When the leaves were changing colors and a little piece of me shivered, I knew that THEY would come and take my child away, so I told him or her “ Good luck baby… make me proud of you… win the big prize.” The big thing still did not answer but started to move and try to roll.
“What are you doing child? You’ll hurt yourself… got to wait for them to help you otherwise you will not win the big prize.”
A cavernous voice came out of him “THEY are my prize!” and he rolled smashing his two thousand pounds against their house.
Zillions of seeds rained over the flattened house and the yard.
Michel’s Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/michel.croteau.73
Harvest Of Shadows
by Garnett Starr
Brookstone, 1883. The small village sat nestled in the Adirondack foothills, where the Rushing Brook whispered secrets to those who listened. Surrounded by dense woods and fertile land, the town seemed ordinary at first glance. But there were always murmurs, the kind that hinted at old curses and hidden sins buried beneath the soil.
Every October, as the air grew crisp and the leaves turned to fiery shades, Brookstone held its annual Harvest Festival. Pumpkins were the centerpiece of the celebration, grown in the dark, loamy fields on the outskirts of town. The largest, most perfect pumpkin was always chosen to be “The Sentinel,” a guardian of the town that was carved, lit, and placed in the village square to keep evil at bay.
But there were rumors about the pumpkins—whispers that the fields were cursed, that the pumpkins grew not from the earth but from something far older, something that seeped up from the dark soil. Few dared speak of it openly, but everyone knew to respect the tradition. The Sentinel was not just a decoration; it was protection.
That year, the pumpkins grew larger and stranger than anyone had seen. Their color was a deep, almost unnatural orange, and their size was unmatched. Margaret Talbot, a local farmer’s daughter, found herself drawn to them in a way she couldn’t quite explain. Skeptical of the old stories, she ventured into the pumpkin fields one evening, driven by a curiosity she couldn’t
resist.
The fields were quiet, unnaturally so. The air was thick, and the only sound was the crunch of dried leaves underfoot. As Margaret wandered between the towering pumpkins, she noticed one that stood out—massive and flawless, its surface smooth and cold. It was unlike any pumpkin she’d seen, almost as if it were watching her.
Margaret leaned in closer, and as her fingers brushed the surface, she recoiled. The pumpkin was icy, far colder than it should have been. And then she saw it—a faint, almost imperceptible face etched into the rind. It was not the playful, jagged grin of a jack-o’-lantern, but something twisted, almost pained. A face that seemed to be screaming in silence.
Margaret pulled back, unnerved. The field around her felt suddenly darker, the sun dipping low behind the treeline. She turned to leave, but the pumpkins seemed to loom taller, their shadows stretching unnaturally long. For a brief moment, she thought she saw movement, something shifting just at the edge of her vision. But when she turned, there was nothing—only the silent, watching pumpkins.
That night, Margaret couldn’t sleep. Images of the twisted face haunted her, and she kept hearing faint whispers that seemed to drift in through her window, carried on the night breeze. When she finally drifted into a restless sleep, her dreams were filled with dark vines snaking toward her, pulling her into the earth.
The next day, the town gathered for the festival. The largest pumpkin—the one Margaret had seen—was selected as the Sentinel. It was hauled to the center of town, carved with a grim visage, and set alight as tradition dictated. The townsfolk cheered, but Margaret stood on the edge of the crowd, unable to take her eyes off the flickering light within the Sentinel’s hollow eyes.
As night fell, the atmosphere grew tense. The wind picked up, swirling through the square, and the candles inside the Sentinel flickered violently. A sense of unease spread among the villagers, though no one could quite say why. The carved face of the Sentinel seemed to twist and change in the shifting light, its expression growing darker, more sinister.
Midnight approached, and with it, an unsettling stillness. The wind died, and the air became suffocatingly thick. The crowd fell silent, all eyes fixed on the glowing pumpkin at the center of the square. Margaret felt a shiver run through her as she noticed something—vines, creeping out from beneath the Sentinel, winding slowly along the cobblestones.
No one moved as the vines slithered closer, inching toward the feet of the onlookers. The pumpkin began to swell, the flickering light inside growing brighter and more erratic. The vines twisted and writhed, and then, without warning, the Sentinel split open with a sharp crack, spilling darkness into the square.
From the gaping pumpkin emerged shadowy figures—tall, twisted things that moved with an unnatural grace. They were not entirely human, their forms shifting and shivering as if made of smoke. The figures moved silently, passing among the villagers who stood frozen in terror. Margaret’s breath caught in her throat as one passed close, its hollow eyes locking onto hers.
There was no malice in those eyes, only a deep, sorrowful hunger. The figures drifted past, and Margaret heard the faintest whisper—a voice carried on the wind, barely audible.
“Return what was taken.”
The shadows swirled, moving toward the edges of the square, fading back into the night as quickly as they had come. The Sentinel lay in pieces, the flames inside extinguished, and the vines that had writhed so violently now lay still, lifeless and brittle.
The festival ended in a silence that no one dared to break. The villagers returned to their homes, but the unease lingered. Margaret, unable to shake the encounter, found herself wandering back to the fields the next day. The pumpkins were still there, silent and cold, but now there was something different. In the place where the Sentinel had been, there was a new
pumpkin—larger, more perfect than before, its surface smooth and untouched.
Margaret knew without needing to be told: the Sentinel was not a guardian. It was a warning.
She left the field, her footsteps hurried, not daring to look back. The whispers followed her home, and every night after, she would catch glimpses of dark figures at the edge of her vision—watching, waiting, reminding her of the price Brookstone had paid.
And as the leaves fell and the chill of winter set in, the fields remained untouched, the pumpkins left to rot. No one spoke of the Sentinel again, but every autumn, the townsfolk would glance warily at the fields, remembering the shadows that had walked among them and the twisted faces that lurked just beneath the surface.
Garnett Starr spends their days in Brookstone, a town filled with hidden stories. When not writing eerie tales, Starr enjoys sipping cold brew coffee, exploring shadowy hallways, and listening to the whispers of old buildings. Believing every town has its secrets, Starr invites you into a world where the ordinary hides the extraordinary.
https://linktr.ee/ToryHart
Pine Hollow Harvest
by Jen Sequel
Amanda “Mandi” Bell stood in her small kitchen, staring at the array of ingredients laid out before her. She was new to Pine Hollow, having moved there just a few months ago. The town had welcomed her warmly, but there was something about its traditions that felt off to Mandi. The Harvest Feast, in particular, seemed more ritualistic than celebratory.
The recipe for the pumpkin pie was old—ancient, really. It had been passed down through generations, and every family guarded their version of it as if it were a sacred text. Mandi had been given the recipe by her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Crandall, who had stressed its importance.
“Follow it to the letter, dear,” Mrs. Crandall had warned, her voice serious. “There’s a reason we’ve kept it the same all these years. It’s tradition.”
But Mandi, ever the skeptic, had her doubts. Tradition was one thing, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the recipe was a little too rigid, a little too superstitious, and more than a little boring for every pie to be the same. She had been baking for years, and she knew a thing or two about flavor. A bit of experimentation never hurt anyone, she thought.
So, with a defiant smirk, Mandi decided to make the pie her way.
She measured out the flour, sugar, and spices, but instead of sticking to the prescribed amounts, she added her own twist—a little more cinnamon, a touch of nutmeg, and a pinch of allspice. She swapped out the plain pumpkin purée for a blend of heirloom pumpkins she had picked up at the local farmers’ market, believing the variety would add depth to the flavor. Finally, she added a dash of vanilla extract, and a bit of cream cheese and sour cream to the recipe – something the original recipe hadn’t called for, but which she felt would elevate the pie’s sweetness and give it a creamier consistency.
As she mixed the ingredients together, Mandi couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction and a smile widened across her face as she prepared her best invention. This was going to be the best pie anyone in Pine Hollow had ever tasted.
When the pie was finally in the oven, Mandi cleaned up her kitchen and sat down with a cup of tea, feeling pleased with herself. She could already imagine the looks on the townspeople’s faces when they tasted her creation. They’d all be talking about her pie for years to come. She debated keeping the recipe secret, yet decided to print out copies and circulate them for next year’s festival. She, Mandi Bell, would start an all-new tradition.
An hour later, Mandi pulled the pie out of the oven. The crust was golden brown, the filling a rich, inviting orange. It looked perfect, and the smell was heavenly. She set it on the windowsill to cool, the evening breeze wafting the scent through the house.
As she busied herself in the kitchen, she noticed something strange. The breeze coming through the window had a sharp, bitter edge to it, unlike the crisp autumn air she had grown accustomed to. It was as if the wind itself carried a warning.
Mandi shook off the feeling. She was just being paranoid, letting the town’s odd traditions get to her head. There was nothing to worry about.
But as the evening wore on, a sense of unease settled over her. The shadows outside grew longer, darker,
and the village seemed unnaturally quiet. She could hear faint whispers on the wind, though she couldn’t make out the words. They seemed to come from the direction of the town square, where the feast would be held.
Mandi tried to ignore it, focusing instead on getting ready for the event. She put on her coat, carefully packed up the pie, and headed out the door. The air was cold and still, and the sky was a deep, foreboding shade of purple.
As she walked through the village, Mandi noticed that none of the other houses had lights on. The entire village was dark, save for the soft glow of lanterns in the square. It was as if everyone had already left, but that didn’t make sense. She was certain she’d been on time. Early even to set up proper.
When she arrived at the square, Mandi was startled to find it eerily silent. The townspeople were there, but they stood motionless, their faces pale and drawn. In the center of the square, a long table was set up, laden with pies of all shapes and sizes, but none of the villagers moved to take their seats.
“Mandi,” Mrs. Crandall’s voice broke the silence, causing Mandi to jump. The old woman stood at the head of the table; her eyes locked on Mandi’s. “You’ve brought your pie, I see.”
“I have,” Mandi replied, forcing a smile. “I made a few changes, though. I hope that’s alright.”
Mrs. Crandall’s expression darkened. “Changes?”
“Yes,” Mandi said, her confidence faltering under the weight of the old woman’s gaze. “I thought I’d try something different.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, low and fearful. Mandi glanced around, suddenly aware that every eye was on her, their expressions unreadable.
Mrs. Crandall stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You shouldn’t have done that, Mandi. The recipe is sacred. Not to be altered. Not even a pinch.”
Mandi frowned, her earlier defiance resurfacing. “It’s just a pie, Mrs. Crandall. A little variation won’t hurt anyone.”
“You don’t understand,” Mrs. Crandall hissed, her voice trembling. She gripped Mandi’s wrist and squeezed tight, nearly causing Mandi to drop her pie. “The recipe isn’t just a tradition—it’s a protection. The spirits of the harvest demand it. Any deviation, and we risk their wrath.”
Mandi’s stomach tightened. She wanted to laugh it off, to call it ridiculous, but the fear in Mrs. Crandall’s eyes was real. The old woman was absolutely terrified.
“I don’t believe in that nonsense,” Mandi said, though her voice lacked conviction. “It’s just superstition.”
Mrs. Crandall shook her head slowly. “You’ll see.”
Before Mandi could respond, the old woman turned to the crowd and announced, “The feast shall begin!”
Reluctantly, the townspeople moved to the table, each one taking a seat. Mandi followed suit, feeling the weight of their stares as she placed her pie among the others.
The feast began in silence, each villager serving themselves a slice of pie. Mandi watched as they all took a bite, their faces tense with anticipation. Then, one by one, they began to notice a change.
At first, it was subtle—a shiver, a gasp. But soon, the villagers began to choke, their skin turning an unnatural shade of gray. Mandi’s heart pounded in her chest as she watched them convulse, their eyes bulging in terror.
“What’s happening?” Mandi cried, standing up so quickly her chair toppled over. She went to Mrs. Crandall, paralyzed with indecision on who to help first.
Mrs. Crandall looked at her with a mixture of pity and anger. “You’ve angered the spirits, Mandi. They won’t tolerate deviation.”
As the last villager fell silent, their bodies slumping over the table, Mandi felt a cold dread settle over her. The wind picked up, howling through the square, carrying with it the stench of decay. The sky above darkened, and the ground beneath her feet began to tremble.
In the center of the square, the pies began to ooze a thick, black tar, the sweet aroma of pumpkin replaced by the acrid smell of rot. The tar bubbled and hissed, spreading across the table like a living thing. Mandi stumbled back, knocking her chair over in her haste, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she watched in horror.
The tar oozed towards her, unstoppable, swallowing the table and the pies in its wake. She tried to run, but the ground beneath her feet turned to muck, pulling her down. The voices in the wind grew louder, chanting in a language she couldn’t understand.
And then, from the darkness, figures emerged. They were twisted, grotesque, their faces contorted in agony. Mandi recognized them as the villagers, but they were no longer human. Their bodies were misshapen, their limbs elongated and gnarled like the vines of a pumpkin. Their eyes glowed with a malevolent light, fixed on her with an intensity that froze her in place.
“Please,” Mandi whispered, tears streaming down her face. “I didn’t mean to—”
But the figures didn’t care. They reached for her, their hands cold and slimy, pulling her down into the black tar. Mandi screamed, but no sound came out. The tar engulfed her, filling her lungs, her mouth, her eyes. She felt herself being dragged into the earth, the weight of the village’s curse crushing her from all sides.
As the darkness consumed her, Mandi’s last thought was of the recipe she had so casually dismissed. She had altered more than just a pie—she had altered the balance between the living and the dead.
In the aftermath, the village was silent, the square empty save for the blackened remains of the feast. The winds whispered through the streets, carrying with them the echo of a woman’s scream, a reminder of the price of defying tradition.
And beneath the earth, the roots of the pumpkin patch spread.
Jen Sequel is an award-winning artist, author, & entertainment junkie. Join the chaos here: https://www.jensequel.com/
Pumpkin Face
by Austin Spradlin
Danny was looking at his back tattoo he’d got the day before. It was of a fictional character he created. He told his agent that if his horror screenplay titled Pumpkin Face went into production, he’d get the character tattooed on his back. It took eight five-hour sessions. But his tattoo was complete.
Pumpkin face was tall, wore a tuxedo, and used a pumpkin hull over his face as a mask. The hull was carved like a typical angry Jack-O-Lantern. Seeds and string wrapped around the Velcro straps that went around his head. His eyes glowed green. The character’s appearance was creepy.
The tattoo had a background, purple sky that was on Danny’s shoulder blades. A cemetery below his right shoulder blade. A large mansion below the left. Streets along with a seedy line of houses were behind Pumpkin Face.
His cellphone rang. It said Unknown Caller. Thinking it would be someone wanting to talk about another one of his scripts, he answered it. His eyes peered over at the grandfather clock that ticked away in the corner of his living room. 10:42pm. Danny was sitting at the kitchen island eating a slice of pumpkin roll.
“Hello?”
“Shouldn’t you check on the neighbor across the street from you?” asked the caller, in a perturbed voice.
A small chuckle exited Danny’s mouth. That was the opening line in his script. He ran a hand through his thick blond hair. He loved the attention his script was receiving. It’s what every writer longed for.
“Why? Is something wrong?” he asked, it was the next line. The film started with a man spying on his neighbor who was undressing. Her bedroom window was lined up with his. After he watched her, the man’s phone would ring, and he’d be asked about his neighbor by the mysterious caller.
“You should get on that,” the caller replied before abruptly hanging up.
That was not in the script. Not to mention, Danny’s neighbor across the road was not a fiery red head with an amazing set of tits. His neighbor was an old woman. The old woman was in a wheelchair and had a severe case of schizophrenia.
His fiancé Samantha Harris entered the dining room where he was. She smiled and had that jubilant attitude she’d almost always had. She straddled his lap, wrapping her hands around his neck.
“Was that your agent?” she asked.
Danny arched a brow and grinned, “Sure it was,” he replied, sarcastically.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Samantha asked, bemused, she ran a hand through his hair.
He gazed at the woman in scrutinizing detail, observing the mischief that lingered in her eyes. How affectionate she was being. Maybe it was because Danny had spent two months writing a horror film – but if this was a who done it – she’d be guilty.
“I know it was you that called.”
“I do not know what you’re talking about.” Samantha said.
“Yes, you do. You are using some sort of voice disguise app on your phone.”
Samantha stared at him, thinking he’d gone crazy. Maybe it was the ink on his back. It must have traveled up his spine and into his brain.
The phone rang again, it said Unknown Caller. Danny and Samantha exchanged glances.
“I told you it wasn’t me.”
Danny rolled his eyes, answered the cellphone, “go on, stick to the script this time.”
Samantha tilted her head curiously at how he answered the phone. She could hear the unknown caller respond: “Go check on your neighbor across the street. Now!”
The caller’s voice was stern. It sounded as a man speaking with a gruff voice. Still thinking it was just a prank, his voice made goosebumps prickle Danny’s spine. Samantha rolled her fingers over the goosebumps.
Danny opened his mouth to speak, but no words flew out. That was unusual for him. He never had trouble writing impeccable dialogue – before screenwriting he had won two prestigious awards for writing stage plays. One stage play landed him a scholarship to study creative writing at Kentucky State University.
“Why are you still on the phone?” the voice asked. “Go to the neighbor’s house, right now,” the caller said, before hanging up.
Danny’s hands disappeared into Samantha’s shorts. He groped her ass, “I’m going to check on her.”
His words surprised Samantha. She hopped out of his lap. Samantha was smoking hot, she had dark wavy hair, unfaded blue eyes, eighty-five percent of her body was covered in tattoos – gothic and traditional. She was in her mid-thirties.
“I’m going with you,” said Samantha.
“It could be Ruth’s grandson being a jack ass. Just stay here, okay?”
Samantha sighed. Once she thought about it, she had not seen Ruth’s grandson Jason drop by. He could be trying to ask Danny to check on his grandmother. How did he know about the script though? she asked herself. It could be a coincidence. Danny was not that original. But she’d never tell him that.
Danny kissed her lips, “lock the door behind me.”
She followed him to the front door and watched him walk down their pebble stone walkway. It was a chilly October night. She shut the door and locked it once he crossed the street.
Danny received a notification on his cellphone. It was a video sent from his and Samantha’s doorbell security camera. The video was him leaving.
He walked up his neighbor Ruth’s walkway. Dead weeds broke through its concrete surface. The newspaper lied at the foot of her porch steps. Still folded with a blue rubber band around it. The paper had been yellowed by dog urine.
Danny walked up her steps and rang the doorbell. He waited a bit, considering that she had frail hands that would make it arduous for her to move her wheelchair at a timely speed. Or worse – she could think he was someone trying to kill her since she had schizophrenia.
He received another notification on his phone. His eyes widened and he shrieked with terror when he saw: Someone dressed as his character Pumpkin Face enter his house. The person did not unlock or open the door – they walked through it – like some kind of ghost instead of a person.
He’d been set up. It now being 11:00pm, Ruth would be asleep. She went to bed at 10:00pm. He ran back to his and Samantha’s Victorian House. He attempted to open the front door. But the damn door was locked. He remembered he had told Samantha to lock the door behind him. She obliged.
“Samantha!” Danny screamed. “Get my gun!”
He ran around to the back door. They always kept it locked. He’d only use it when he’d go on the patio to write. He circled around trying to look through their windows. But the house’s interior was covered by what appeared to be thick orange fog.
Danny’s hands trembled. He started sweating. His heart raced. It sounded like a horse galloping in an open pasture field.
What Danny heard next haunted him and landed him in a mental institute. He heard the terrifying sound of his dying fiancé’s scream penetrate the cold night.
Whether Pumpkin Face is still at large or not, one can never be too cautious in the spooky month of October. Perhaps something could be learned in Danny’s script. A script that vanished after his mental breakdown. More people will have to succumb to Pumpkin Face before anyone else can learn what they need to avoid doing.
Austin Spradlin is a 26-year-old writer. His work can be found in Serial Killer Magazine, Fahrenheit Books. He made his screenwriting debut in an upcoming horror film by Escape Films.
The Fear Eater
by Valerie Claussen
My fear of slimy, seed-infested pumpkin guts began at age seven when I inexplicably found my deceased father’s wedding ring ensnared within the stringy fibers of a homegrown squash. Since then, I’ve kept my distance from those vile things until the café’s attractive, blonde owner, Draven, invited the patrons to an exclusive, complimentary Halloween party the following Saturday night.
This gesture surprised us because all the pumpkins—except for one enormous, deformed specimen in the corner with lumps resembling a face—had disappeared two nights earlier. Beneath the eerie glow of the violet, fluorescent lights, if I stared long enough at its grotesque countenance, I imagined eyes trying to creep open.
I shuddered.
If it weren’t for a growing infatuation with the new owner, I would have trusted my instincts and avoided the café until after autumn. Instead, I showed up at the after-hours party wearing a flirty, knee-length vampire dress with a plunging neckline.
The café had undergone an impressive transformation since my last visit. Gothic-style candelabras flickered with battery-powered flames, while realistic hanging bats, bloodied human skeletons, and giant spiders in webs completed the eerie atmosphere. I joined a group of familiar thirty-somethings, all dressed as bloodsuckers, at a corner booth. At the center of our table, six-inch pumpkins and black permanent markers awaited, along with instructions to write our greatest fear on the bottom—but to tell no one. The irony of writing my phobia on its underside made me chuckle.
The wait staff served various themed goodies and ciders that, despite Draven’s assurances that they contained no alcohol, tasted suspiciously spiked. Over the next two hours, we played team Horror Film Charades and Guess the Halloween Song from the sound clip.
Around 11:30 pm, everyone created a snakelike line, weaving around the tables while holding our pumpkins for the last game of the night. Draven reminded everyone to double-check what they wrote on the bottom and to change it if we gave a dishonest answer.
The front door slammed shut, and all the lights but the flickering candelabras turned off.
We all froze.
Draven drove a butcher’s knife into the enormous pumpkin’s stem and whispered to it, “Wake up.”
Its bumps and lines shifted until they formed glowing eyes that glared with malice and a mouth with jagged teeth that gaped open, exposing the stringy orange slime.
Everyone gasped.
My hands fumbled, and my pumpkin dropped to the floor, cracking in half, and spilling its horrible, alien pod-like seeds over my black boots. The words ‘Pumpkin Guts’ remained intact for all to read.
Draven snickered. “Guts?”
I darted to the exit and yanked on the handle, but it didn’t open. “Please, let me out.”
Draven walked toward me wearing a steampunk plague doctor costume. “Didn’t anyone tell you it’s rude to leave before finishing a game? You agreed to play, and so you must stay.”
My body trembled. “I can’t. I meant what I wrote. I can’t be around pumpkin guts. Please unlock the door.”
“You and everyone else can leave when the last person has taken their turn.” He grinned. “Have a seat and watch. The fun has just begun.”
He placed a chair near the monstrous pumpkin, called the Fear Eater, and told me to stay put until everyone played. Torn between terror and curiosity, I agreed.
Draven returned to the front of the line and directed a redhead in a zombie girl costume to toss her pumpkin into the Fear Eater’s gaping mouth. Its jagged teeth ground the pumpkin into pieces with a menacing crunch.
A man dressed as Frankenstein asked, “What was your fear?”
Before she could answer, dozens of thumb-sized black widows emerged from the Fear Eater and covered her body. The others stepped back, but worrying about what might happen if I moved kept me frozen.
“Don’t scream, or they’ll bite,” Draven warned her.
Aside from a whimper, she remained silent until the spiders reached her face. At that point, her eyes widened in terror, and she let out a series of blood-curdling shrieks. The woman collapsed onto the floor, and the spiders scurried back into the beast.
Seconds later, the critters transformed into pumpkin guts that shot out from it, covering me with orange goop. I imagined my father’s finger, still attached to the ring, amongst the fibers.
I screamed.
The owner laughed. “Next?”
Everyone rushed to the door.
Draven rolled his eyes. “You can’t leave. Everyone must take a turn.”
People tried to call for help, but no one got a signal. After he advised everyone to take their turn so we could all leave, I returned to my seat, and they reformed the line.
The patrons took turns tossing their pumpkins and faced the nightmares that emerged from the beast: snakes, maggots, rats, zombies, flesh-eating bacteria, bats, worms, slugs, deceased ex-lovers, and more. With each one, I pictured my father’s body parts landing on me mixed with the guts—fingers, toes, eyeballs, ears, and lips. Despite this horror, I tried to clean myself between rounds, but my skin became stained orange from the pumpkin fibers that the Fear Eater spat at me.
When I believed I could take no more, I noticed only two people remained to play: a woman in her early forties wearing a witch costume and an older man dressed as a mad scientist. He wore a lab coat and a messy Einstein-style wig and kept sneaking to the back of the line several times throughout the night.
To our surprise, the woman’s pumpkin summoned four black kittens with glowing green eyes who scaled her dress and perched on her shoulders, dragging their sandpaper-like tongues across her neck.
I scoffed. “That’s a phobia?”
Seconds later, splotchy pink welts covered her exposed skin, causing intense burning and itching. Her eyes grew wide with a desperate urge to scratch, but she remained still. After a few minutes, the kittens raced down her to return to the Fear Eater, their tiny claws dragging across the raised patches, offering her some relief.
Despite the inevitable messy splat that followed, I chuckled.
The mad scientist pulled a marker from his pocket, crossed out his fear, and wrote a new one while the witch distracted everyone by explaining her love/hate relationship with kittens.
Draven smiled. “Last one, and we can all head home for the night.”
The mad scientist cleared his throat, and with trembling hands, he tossed his pumpkin into the gaping mouth.
All of us who had not lost consciousness kept our eyes locked on the Fear Eater, but it did not move.
“Is it broken?” the witch asked.
A low, angry growl erupted from inside the creature, and its fibers merged, forming a long, thick tongue that wrapped around the mad scientist’s pumpkin and spat it back at him with great force.
Draven turned to the man with terror in his eyes. “What did you feed it? Did you write your deepest fear?”
He nodded.
“He changed it right before he tossed it,” I said.
“You lied to it?” Draven asked.
The man stammered over his words, “I didn’t want to get stung by wasps. So, I wrote ladybugs.”
“I warned you not to lie.”
The Fear Eater’s tongue reached out and grabbed the mad scientist and pulled him into his mouth. As it chewed up and absorbed the last of the man, the unconscious players woke up.
Draven clicked a remote that unlocked the door. “Good night, everyone. I’ll see you at my next party.”
I mumbled, “The hell you will.”
By the time the other patrons and I stepped outside into the moonlight, every bite mark, scratch, swollen skin, blister, blood splatter, and bits of pumpkin guts on us had disappeared.
While the others sprinted off in different directions, I peeked inside, hoping the mad scientist guy would somehow emerge unharmed from the monstrous pumpkin. Instead, the Fear Eater disappeared, and the Dread Nosh Café returned to its usual shadowy appearance.
My head clouded with fog, and I couldn’t recall the night’s events or how I had ended up there. As the attractive café owner waved at me from inside, a deep, unsettling dread twisted in my stomach, urging me to flee and never look back.
Discover more about Valerie Claussen and explore her literary work by visiting: https://valerieclaussen.com/
Jack
by Amy Hodges-Laurenzo
“Kids, today.”
It didn’t matter the age, no one got taught anymore.
Sarafin pulled into Grandma Dee’s driveway at 14442 Vista Lane. All she could see, in the yard, the heavily TPed Old Live Oak that she always climbed when she was her own daughter’s age.
For the last three years, the abusive miscreants of the neighborhood had been relentless. They kept messing with the elder lady of the family.
Sarafin had red hair to her hips and dark green eyes. She stood a height of five feet and four inches. Being only twenty-seven and a single mom, she did alright by herself.
Out of the back of the 2020 BMW M3, came her daughter Amara. Sarafin had her when she was nineteen, very soon Amara would be eight. She had mom’s red hair and her late father’s grey eyes, he died in a car accident before Sarafin could tell him. She had a height of five feet already, but not in costume yet. Just jeans and a green t-shirt with tennis shoes. “Awe Mom, the tree.”
“I know.” Sarafin walked over to it. Between herself and her daughter, they pulled down the lowest toilet paper streamers and rolled them up.
Then the pair walked up to the door.
“GRANDMA!”
“Dee Dee!”
The door opened to expose a lady in her seventies. She still had some red traces to her white hair, giving it a pinkish tone. Her eyes looked to be emerald. She seemed to have a permanent scowl going on and a few age spots. She wore black stretch pants and a shirt to match, with an apron over all of that. Slip on shoes sat upon her feet. “Come in, dears. I’m almost ready to go.” She stepped back inside.
Sarafin and Amara stepped inside.
On the couch appeared to be a body.
“Grandma”, Sarafin looked at the elder woman strangely.
The body actually looked composed of clothes. The shirt had been Grandpa’s. It had a white color, button-down, and been stuffed. The pants had been a pair of his slacks and also stuffed. Shoes had been placed on his feet. No head.
“I already have a chair on the porch. Take him out there for me.” Her eyes than cut to her great granddaughter, “You put the sign, over by the TV, around his neck.”
The two generations complied. Sarafin placed the dummy body on the chair outside the door. Amara added the sign that said ‘TAKE ONLY ONE’.
After a few minutes, Grandma Dee walked out with a pumpkin carved to have a dopey face. It glowed a strange blue color. She placed it on the neck of the made dummy. “Almost done.” She ducked back inside.
The mother and daughter looked at one another with a curious expression.
Grandma Dee came out with her purse on her arm and a one gallon bucket…of candy. She fashioned it into the dummy’s lap. “There, now I’m ready to go.”
With the front door locked, the three women left 14442 Vista Lane by BMW.
***
Then at 8pm…
Four teen age boys came down the street.
Zorro had eggs that he threw at other trick or treater’s and cars. Batman had been stealing candy from kids on their own. Captain America had spray painted some cars on the street. Deadpool TPed some houses that refused to give treats to teens.
They stopped at 14442.
Zorro pegged the door with eggs, “Take that, old Hag!”
Batman headed to the porch, “Looks like she left this year.”
“Just as well”, commented Deadpool, “I got a yard to finish. Hey Captain, see if she left anything on the porch.”
The teenager in the costume went up to the porch and noted the pumpkin headed dummy with candy. ‘She decorated.” He grabbed the whole bucket of candy.
Zorro walked up and knocked the dummy from the chair, “Stupid Bitch don’t know how to decorate.”
Batman picked up the pumpkin and smashed it.
Before they left: the dummy laid on the lawn in pieces, Hag got spray painted on the door, the Oak sat white with more toilet paper, and the old chair had been destroyed.
11 PM, at the Halloween party down the street…
Deadpool danced upon the sat up dance floor when something caught his eye. He turned toward it to see something…weird.
The back door stood open…but a guy stood there. He wore black slacks, a white button-down shirt, and had a carved pumpkin for a head. The jack-o-lantern, on his head, had been carved to look like the Old Lady’s.
He walked to him, but the guy backed out into the yard. Deadpool followed.
Outback, the strike came from behind. The Deadpool clad teen struck the concrete face first, breaking his nose, pushing nasal cartilage into his brain.
A hand grabbed his left wrist and dragged him off.
11:30 PM…
Captain America downed some Jack Daniels in the garage, as he snacked on candy from a certain bucket. He gave the candy to others, but nature called.
As he exited the garage, a hand grabbed him. Captain got slammed into the wall. As he turned to fight, he came eye to glowing blue eyes with the dummy he had robbed.
“Not funny, dude.” He tried to push passed him.
The dummy pushed him back against the wall hard. “Not…Funny…Dude.” On the last word, blue flames flared in his eyes.
Captain opened his mouth to scream, but the bony hand grabbed his jaw and forced it closed. The teeth broke from the pressure, making the teen scream between closed lips.
The pumpkin man forced the Captain to swallow his teeth, clogging his airway. Holding the teen’s mouth and nose shut too, the Captain suffocated. Again, that body got taken away.
11:45 PM…
Zorro had gone upstairs with one of the teen girls. Costumes stayed on as they had sex in the master bedroom. Because he had been drinking and unable to keep it up, the girl left him there disappointed.
As he recuperated in the bed, a shadow fell over him.
Zorro opened his eyes to see a formally dressed pumpkin headed dude over him. “I don’t swing that way, dude.”
The glowing eyes made him jump.
The pumpkin head dressed being slammed a pillow down on Zorro’s face to muffle him. Then the guy pummeled Zorro all over. Bones broke in his arms, legs, and chest. One rib punctured both lungs. Zorro couldn’t catch his breath and died of asphyxiation.
Midnight…
Batman, unable to find his friends, exited out the back door of the party house.
In the alleyway, he walked toward the cross street to Vista Lane, called Jovise. The lights in the alley had gone out, so it became pretty day.
He tripped and fell. Looking back at his feet, he saw Deadpool.
Batman jumped to his feet in a panic.
Against the trash cans, on either side of the alley, laid Zorro and Captain America. He turned toward Jovise to see someone waiting.
“Man, you got to help me!” He ran to the man.
It took hold of him and jerked him close. The formally dressed, jack-o-lantern headed, dummy had him now.
Screams echoed through the night.
No one found the four boys until morning.
***
Two days later, at 14442 Vista Lane.
Sarafin had dropped Grandma Dee on the street due to time constraints. They had spend Halloween and the Days of the Dead together, but now Sarafin had to rush to work.
The pink haired woman walked up her driveway. The house looked undisturbed. Even the toilet paper in the tree had vanished.
She walked up to the porch to see her dummy with the pumpkin head untouched, complete with an empty candy bucket.
Dee patted him on the head, “Thank you for protecting my abode, Jack. I know I could count on you.”
Dee went inside.
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