I thought it would be fun to share my first-ever Halloween story, "The Pumpkin Man." Not to be confused with horror author John Everson's fantastic novel bearing the same title, my short story was originally written in the mid-to-late 90's. I cleaned it up a bit, changed a few things, but because I'm in the process of editing my horror novella, MISTER JACK (another Halloween horror tale), I can't spend too much time on this one. I came across "The Pumpkin Man" yesterday while digging around my files looking for something else, and uncovered this short story from my early years writing horror.
Enjoy, I hope...and beware the Pumpkin Man!
The Pumpkin Man
Copyright 2015
Garrett
Everson stared at the old man in mild disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?” he said,
grinning. His ten year-old son, David,
stood beside him, peering up at the elderly shop-keeper. He wore faded blue jeans and a gray
sweat-shirt. Perched atop his head was a
Pittsburgh Steelers ball cap, covering much of his unruly strawberry blonde
hair. His father was also clad in worn
Levi’s and a sweater. It was a chilly fall day, even in the South, although it
was much chillier up where they used to live in western Pennsylvania. Gary told
him a few days ago during their move into town that he’d have to get a haircut
before his first day at the new school.
David had protested, but then Gary told him he wore his hair a little
shorter these days, too.
“That’s correct, Mister…?” The shop-keeper began, smiling, holding a
broom and wearing an apron.
“Everson.
Mister Everson,” Gary replied.
“Call me Gary…please.” He
stretched out a hand to the old man, who gripped it with strong fingers. His skin felt dry and leathery, like a snake.
He introduced his son, David, and the old man, who said his name was Lester
Haynes, shook his hand, as well.
“We just moved into the house off of
Route—“
“Yep, the old Brecker place,” he said,
going back to sweeping the floor in front of the small produce market’s
check-out counter. “I heard about y’all
movin’ in last week. Reckon it’s about
time a nice family moved in to that purdy ol’ house.” He chewed on a wooden match stick in one
corner of his mouth as he swished the broom back and forth.
Gary didn’t want to get side-tracked. They still had more unpacking to do and
Halloween was tomorrow. David and his
eight year-old sister, Lori, who was at the house helping her mother organize
the kitchen, pleaded for a pumpkin of their own to carve this year. Both kids said they would even use their
saved allowance money to buy them. Gary
discussed it with his wife, Connie, and they agreed to it. At the time, there seemed to be no harm in
doing so.
Now
this, Gary thought. This is gotta be
some kind of a small-town joke.
“So you’re saying you’re all out of
pumpkins?”
Gary asked. “I know Halloween is
tomorrow, but surely there must be someplace in town to get one?”
“Nossir,” Lester Haynes stated. “We just don’t sell ‘em.”
“Well, Mister Haynes—“
“Lester, if you please.”
“Okay, Lester,” Gary said, “do you know
where we could buy one? I’d think the
closest supermarkets gotta be in Athens.”
Lester had stopped sweeping. His smile was gone. His eyes, the color of tarnished pennies,
fixed on Gary with an almost malevolent intensity. “I said we don’t sell ‘em.”
Gary was beginning to feel irritated. This seemingly kind old-timer’s sudden change
in attitude made him a little uncomfortable.
He glanced briefly down at David, who shifted from foot to sneakered
foot, hands thrust in his jeans pockets.
He looked up at his Dad, eyes wide, brow crinkled with disbelief and
confusion.
“Okay, no need to get hostile,” Gary
began, holding out a hand. “I didn’t
know.”
The strange glint in Lester’s eyes
lessened somewhat. His smile didn’t
return, but he continued to gnaw on the wooden match. “I guess no one told y’all that carvin’
pumpkins is against town ordinance. Been
law since…well, since I was a boy. Been
law not long after this town was founded over a hundred and fifty years ago,
matter a fact.”
“You don’t celebrate Halloween?” David
Everson asked. He couldn’t help it.
For a minute, Gary envisioned Lester
blowing up in anger, going off about how Halloween was a Satanic holiday, and
that they all needed to be “born again” or “come home to the Lord,” and all
that other evangelistic nonsense. He was
relieved when Lester grinned broadly at the boy. He even reached down and clapped a hand on
his shoulder, patting him on the back.
“Now, son, don’t you worry,” he said,
chuckling. “You’ll get to go
tricker-treatin’ like the rest of the town young ‘uns. Hell, I used to love gettin’ all that candy
when I was a boy…”
“Why?” Gary had to know. This was ridiculous. A law against carving pumpkins on
Halloween? He looked down at David once
again, noticing the look of disappointment spreading across his freckled
face. He placed a hand on his son’s
shoulder, squeezing gently. He wanted to
reassure him with that it was okay, they’d find them pumpkins, not to
worry.
Lester stopped laughing and glared at
David’s father. Then, when it seemed he
might get angry, he propped the broom against the counter, and turned to head
toward the back of the market. “I better
go spray down some of them vegetables,” he stated, grinning at them over his
shoulder. “I just got in some nice bunches
of collard greens that go all limp if they don’t get watered every so
often.” He waved a hand at them and
strode through a doorway into the stock room.
He could hear Lester muttering to one of his stock boys followed by an
uproar of laughter.
Probably cracking a joke about the
ignorance of us city-folk, Gary thought dully.
A real belly-aching, knee-slapper, for sure. .
“C’mon, son,” he said, “let’s get outta
here…”
“But Dad,” David began, “we gotta find a
pumpkin. Halloween’s tomorrow and—“
“We will, we will,” he told him, walking
towards the open door. “I promise.”
David nodded, and they exited Haynes’
Market.
Someone was standing on the wide wooden
porch, leaning against the weathered railing, waiting for them. He wore khaki-colored pants and a
long-sleeved shirt, a straw hat, and pointed-toe cowboy boots. He was in the process of cleaning his
sunglasses when they clomped onto the boards.
Immediately, David noticed the gleaming
badge and holstered revolver. Cool, he
thought. Gotta be the sheriff. Maybe he’ll let me see his gun. That would be way cool!
“Mornin’, folks!” the man said. “I don’t think I’ve met you yet. I’m Sheriff Jeb Whalen.” He stuck out one sun-reddened, calloused hand
towards David’s father.
“Gary Everson,” he said, taking the proffered
hand, pumping it. “This is my son,
David.”
Sheriff Whalen flashed them a big toothy
grin. “Nice to meet you both,” he
said. “And welcome to Grady. If there’s anythin’ I can do for y’all,
please let me know.”
“Well, actually, Sheriff,” Gary said,
scratching the back of his neck, “There is something I’m finding a little hard
to believe…”
“Let me guess,” the sheriff said. “Pumpkins, right?”
Gary nodded. David had been staring at the sheriff’s
revolver, huge and silvery tucked inside the dark-brown leather holster,
wondering if it was a .357 or a .44 Magnum, when he heard the sheriff begin to
tell the story about the pumpkins. He
squinted up at the tall man with the ruddy face.
“It is law, Mister Everson,” he
stated. “No doubt about that. But first let me tell ya’ll how that came
about. Then, maybe you might
understand.” He shrugged, grunting. “I’ve been sheriff in Grady for twelve
years. Came from Alabama. There’s a lot of things I don’t understand
either, but when it comes to the law, we’re all expected to follow it. May not agree with it, but that’s the way it
is.
Gary was about to ask why the law was
never changed, when Sheriff Whalen began to tell his tale. Gary didn’t interrupt. After all, the man was still smiling. “I heard this story from Lester Haynes’
brother, Luther, who’s been dead and buried for…oh, well, almost ten years now,”
he said. “Lester doesn’t like to talk
much about it, and that’s a whole other story, but Luther was kind to me after
I got the job as the new law man in town.
He explained it all to me over a couple of cold beers after work one
night.” The sheriff gestured to a long
wooden bench on the other end of the porch.
“Y’all might want to have a seat, Mister Everson. This may take a few minutes. Please.”
When they sat down on the bench, the
sheriff continued, “Back in early 1800’s to about 1825, I believe—there was a
man by the name of Thomas Grady. Founded
this good town. Had a lot of money, a
huge plantation with lots of slaves, but also was known for something
else. He was a doctor, but not the kind
you’d think. Sure, he had all the tools
of the trade, but he was also a healer using his mind and his hands. Rumor at the time had it he used other
things, too, things conjured up out of dusty old books written in a funny
language, but it was never proven. You
see, the townspeople killed him and burned his house down. They figured him for a witch, or…what was it
they call them male witches? Oh, yeah,
a…warlock, that’s it. A warlock.”
If David had been any younger, Gary would
have politely told the sheriff his son didn’t need any scary stories to give
him nightmares. As it was, though, David
was an avid watcher of old horror movies and loved the Goosebumps books. He let the man go on.
The sheriff fished a pack of Benson &
Hedges out of his shirt pocket, saying, “Hope y’all don’t mind if I
partake. My wife won’t let me smoke
these here coffin nails around the house, so…”
Gary had given up smoking five years ago,
but shook his head. He just wanted to
hear the rest of this intriguing story.
Being a writer himself, he was, admittedly, interested in this juicy
little tidbit of town history.
He lit the cigarette, smoke trailing out
of his nose and mouth. “But it wasn’t really the fact that Grady possessed some
kind of powers that got him killed,” he went on. “You see, there was this young girl who was
mentally ill. Her parents took her to
him to see if he could heal her, cure her of her affliction. Apparently, he did just that. Or so he thought. That night, after they took her home, she
went on a murderous rampage and slaughtered her family with an ax. She was found outside the house with the ax
buried in her forehead.” He paused,
flicking ash off the cigarette. “Of
course, Grady had some enemies in town. The
town preacher and his flock didn’t care to Grady’s doctorin’ one bit, and when
this unfortunate incident with the girl happened, well, that brought everthin’
to a head, to say the least. A lynch mob
formed, mostly of the people from Reverend Cobb’s church, and they went out to
the Grady place. Some had guns. When Grady was tryin’ to talk it out, one of
the townspeople accidentally shot him.
They thought he was dead and dragged his body into the mansion. And set fire to it. But he wasn’t dead. He woke up as his house was burnin’ all
around him, and tried to get his wife and little girls out, but the fire was
too intense. He was burned alive. They all died in the fire.”
Sheriff Whalen looked down at his boots,
taking a long drag off the cig. He
dropped it onto the boards and mashed it under one toe of his boot. “Now, y’all probably wonderin’ what all this
has to do with makin’ a Jack O’ Lantern for Halloween.” He pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “Well, y’see, Thomas Grady and his kin died
on Halloween night, and his house had a big ol’ pumpkin with a candle inside
sittin’ in one window. Not long after
that terrible night, some of the slaves had claimed to see his ghost wanderin’
around down where the remains of his house were. And soon the stories of the Pumpkin Man came
about.”
“The Pumpkin Man?” Gary asked, eyebrows raised, lips crinkled in
a half-grin.
“Some claim it was the slaves, who were
auctioned off later on to other owners, that started the stories, but no one
knows for sure. But a year later, on
Halloween night, a terrible fire swept through town, nearly wipin’ it out
completely. Several people died. Reverend Cobb’s church was razed, as was his
house. No reasonable explanation for the
fire was found, but some of the slaves said it was their old master Thomas Grady,
the Pumpkin Man, seekin’ revenge for those who’d wronged him, and didn’t believe.”
“Didn’t believe?”
Sheriff Whalen shook his head, wispy smoke
billowing out of his lips, hanging around his hat like a cloud. “Didn’t believe in him, that he didn’t harm
the girl, only tried to help her. Didn’t
believe in other things, things that weren’t spoken about in God’s book. And this created plenty of fear and paranoia
in the heart ‘n soul of most of the townspeople. The reason for the name, Pumpkin Man, was
because one of Grady’s largest crops on his plantation was pumpkins. Accordin’ to some of the slaves, one of the
first times Grady’s ghost was spotted was among his tangled, over-grown squash
plants.”
David was silent, spell-bound. Gary expected him to be bursting with
questions, he certainly was, but his son obviously wanted to hear more of the tale. “So then the no-pumpkins law was created,
right?” Gary commented, dryly. He didn’t
intend to sound cynical but up until the supernatural part, he enjoyed the
story. The rest he considered to be pure
nonsense. He enjoyed horror stories like
anyone else, but the only monsters he believed in were the human ones, like serial
killers such as Charles Manson or Dahmer.
“Not right away, Mister Everson,” the
sheriff replied, showing no reaction to Gary’s thinly veiled cynicism. “First thing was to get the town back
together, bury the dead, and all that. A
town council was formed to deal with these strange events. One of the first things they did was to make
the no-pumpkins law. At the time, they
didn’t know how to deal with the tragedy, felt like they had no form of protection
against this. And they got it in their
heads that to celebrate some harmless pagan holiday once a year was to bring
the wrath of Thomas Grady’s spirit. It
was a long time before children were even allowed to wear costumes and
tricker-treat. In fact, it wasn’t ‘til
the early 1900’s, if I recall correctly.”
Gary remembered Lester Haynes saying about
how he used to be fond of dressing-up and collecting all that candy, but kept
his mouth shut. He wanted the sheriff to
finish his story so they could be on their way.
“And things went on undisturbed for many a
year,” he continued, finishing his second cigarette, stubbing it out on the
wood rail beside him. “Of course
stories, ghosts bein’ sighted an all, still came about year after year, but
nothin’ like the tragic fire of 1826.”
The sheriff paused for a moment, retrieving the crumpled Benson &
Hedges pack out of his shirt pocket.
Gary noticed his hand trembled slightly as he shook one cigarette out.
“Then in 1983, the year I came on as
sheriff here in Grady, a family moved in to the house you’re now livin’ in,
Mister Everson,” he said, lighting his third smoke. “I don’t mean to cause y’all any discomfort, but
a month after they came to town, on Halloween night, the father went nuts and
murdered his entire family; a wife, son, and daughter.” He took a couple long pulls, almost
nervously. “I found him in the living
room with his head nearly blown off with a shotgun. He’d taken a knife to his family before he’d
done himself.”
“Jesus!” Gary muttered, wondering if this
part of the story was something David should be hearing. Good thing Lori didn’t come with us, he
thought. She’d be wailing about wanting
to move back to Pittsburgh.
“My investigation didn’t take long,”
Sheriff Whalen explained. “A couple
phone calls to some relatives, and I came to find out that the Brecker family
moved down from Chicago, apparently to ‘get away from it all’, whatever the
hell that means.” More nervous puffs on
the cigarette. “They’d been goin’
through some money problems and figured they needed a change of scenery, time
to get their lives in order. Mister
Brecker didn’t have a police record, but his sister—who was good friends with
Brecker’s wife—told me he had a drinkin’ problem. Combine the stress within the family, the
booze, and the move, it was pretty obvious to me that was what caused him to
lose his mind and do what he did.”
“So why are you telling me this, Sheriff?”
Gary asked, feeling a little confused and angry. “You don’t sound like you follow all this
Pumpkin Man stuff. Why go and tell us
this story? It doesn’t frighten me, but has
probably scared the hell outta my son!”
“I’m not scared, Dad,” David
protested. “I think it’s a cool story!”
“Quiet, son!”
He closed his mouth, sullen. He hated when his Dad got like this. He thought once they left the city, and his
Dad got more time to write his novel, he’d act less what his mother once called
“a moody asshole.” Now, however, it
appeared to him that his father was creeping back toward that Moody Asshole
state. Sheriff Whalen had been nice all
along—unlike that old guy inside the market—and was only trying to explain that
weird pumpkin thing to them. David had
to admit, though, the story about the family that used to live in their house
did make him feel a little uncomfortable.
The sheriff’s faint grin vanished, and he
stared at Gary. He took one final drag
off his cigarette and dropped to the ground, where he crushed it with his boot
heel. He slowly shook his head. “Only tryin’ to help, friend,” he said. “Didn’t mean to upset ya’ll.”
David expected his father to say something,
but Gary remained silent. Instead, he
placed a hand on his son’s arm. “Listen,
sheriff,” he began, his voice less strident than before, but still tinged with
anger, “I didn’t intend to blow up at you.
I just felt that last bit was a little…well, over the mark. I’m sorry if I seemed rude, but we’re new
here and don’t know or understand your way of life, not to mention your laws.”
Sheriff Whalen nodded. “I can understand that, Mister Everson. But I—“
“We’ll try, Sheriff. Gary interrupted. “Okay?”
“Yeah, I guess that’ll have to do,” he
replied. David couldn’t tell if the
sheriff was relieved or slightly frustrated.
He thought maybe a little of both.
“C’mon, son.” Gary started for the four
steps leading off the porch, the boards creaking under his thumping
footsteps. David followed, glancing over
his shoulder at the tall, lanky form of the sheriff, still leaning against the
porch rail. He was lighting another smoke,
and just for a few seconds, Sheriff Whalen met David’s gaze. David saw the man’s hand cupping around the
end of the cigarette as he lit it. It trembled. But it was the expression on his face that
troubled David more than the slight palsy of his fingers.
Sheriff Whalen looked worried.
“Didya believe that story the sheriff told
us, Dad?” David asked, as his father drove the Ford Explorer out of the dirt
and gravel parking lot belonging to Haynes’ Market. For a moment, Gary didn’t answer his
son. Actually, he wasn’t sure how to
reply. Normally, David, always eager
about things he didn’t completely understand (which probably accounted for his
straight A’s in school), would continue to ask his father until he received a
satisfactory answer, or go to another source, which meant his mother, teacher,
or the computer he had in his room. He
wasn’t a nagging child, just curious and intelligent.
Gary let a long sigh filter out from
between his pursed lips. What was he to
tell him? Gary was a published writer,
had produced a series of novels ranging from early American history to
mainstream, contemporary fiction. But
this farce, this small-town tall-tale was too much. In fact, it disappointed him. He’d had an idea about what life was going to
be like in Grady, Georgia, but now there was a blackening cloud hanging over
that mental picture. He and Connie were
even considering having another child, after he finished working on his next
book. But now, he wasn’t so sure.
Gary kept his eyes on the two-lane road
ahead, but could sense his son fidgeting in his seat next to him. He decided on an answer.
“David, there are some things in this
world that are a little hard to swallow,” he said. “And that was definitely one of ‘em.”
“Yeah, but the sheriff seemed like he
was—“
“I’m not saying he was lying to us,” Gary
retorted, then realized he sounded defensive, that his tone was too harsh. When he spoke again, he softened his
voice. “I like Sheriff Whalen, son. He’s a good man for being honest with
us. But sometimes you can’t accept
things that just make no sense. We’d be
complete, total fools if we did.”
David peered at his father under the
tilted-up brim of his black and gold cap.
Gary was momentarily struck by the look he saw there. Fear.
Before, David said he thought the story the sheriff told them was “cool”. Was he lying?
Was it the fact that some people were supposedly killed (and he was
going to have words with the realtor) in their house that bothered him so? He had to admit, if it was true, it would
disturb him.
“Hey, son, don’t believe that silly old
ghost story” Gary said. He cracked a wry
grin, nudging him in the side with one elbow.
“It’s almost Halloween. Telling
scary stories goes with the territory, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.” He didn’t sound fully convinced, but he did
give his father a big smile.
“How
about we head over to Athens and scare us up a couple of pumpkins,” Gary
said. “What do you say?”
David didn’t reply right away. Then, he said, “As long as I don’t have to
pick out Lori’s pumpkin. You know she’s
gonna cry about it not lookin’ right. Girls!”
Gary broke into laughter, and so did
David. He slowed the Explorer down,
flicking on the turn signal. As they
started down the highway in the direction of the next town ten miles away,
father and son were still chuckling.
The rest of the day was uneventful and
pleasant for the Everson family. A
little after one o’clock, Gary and David arrived home with two pumpkins they
had purchased at the new Publix supermarket on the outskirts of Athens. There had been a huge display at the front of
the store and David selected one of the largest ones. Gary grabbed a smaller one for Lori, hoping
she wouldn’t complain that her brother had a bigger pumpkin. She probably would, though.
When they hauled the bright orange
squashes into the house, however, Lori squealed in delight over the one her
Daddy picked out. In fact, it had a
better, rounder shape than David’s. Her
brother ignored her, saying he was going to carve a wicked face on his
pumpkin. He didn’t say a word about the
conversation with the sheriff. Before
they’d pulled up to the house, Gary asked his son not to mention anything
Sheriff Whalen said around his sister.
Not until he had a chance to talk to Mom about it. David told him he wouldn’t.
After lunch, they did more unpacking. The kids wanted to carve their pumpkins, but
both parents told them they’d have to wait a few hours. Around four o’clock, the family gathered in
the garage. Gary flipped up the
double-wide door, so they wouldn’t suffocate.
Old newspapers were spread on the floor.
David and Lori placed their pumpkins on the paper, and Gary gave them
each a kitchen knife, telling them to be very careful.
David attacked his pumpkin, cutting into
the top, and pulling off the little “cap” with the stub of stem in the
middle. Lori was having trouble piercing
the tough skin with her knife, and Gary helped her before she hurt
herself. By the time he got the “cap”
cut out for her, David was already halfway done scooping out the pulpy,
pale-orange innards. Lori made a
disgusted face when she grabbed a handful of the sticky, slimy goop.
Half an hour later, both kids had
finished. Actually, David had completed
his long before his sister, but both were happy with their end results. Gary and Connie stood behind them, admiring
both pumpkins. David’s had fierce,
slanted eye-holes, a small triangular nose-hole, and a huge gaping mouth filled
with dagger-like teeth. Lori’s was a
happy, more traditional Jack O’ Lantern, with a smiley mouth full of square
teeth.
While Gary and Connie prepared dinner,
both kids went to their own rooms to work on their costumes for
trick-or-treating later. Outside, in the
backyard, Gary dumped charcoal briquettes into the grill and thought about
telling Connie what the sheriff told about the No-Pumpkins law, the Brecker
family murders, and the spooky-tale about the town’s founder and namesake,
Grady.
What would she say? he thought, squirting
lighter fluid over the coals. She’d
probably object to the kids going out tonight.
And that would be a disaster.
Gary fished matches out of his jeans and
lit the charcoal. As the fire grew, he
surveyed the large backyard, the screen of pine and oak trees bordering their
property on three sides. He looked at
the small tool shed off to the side, wondering if Mr. Brecker had built it.
A sudden breeze blew across the yard,
rustling the tree branches, chilling him.
He wore just a T-shirt, and thought about going inside for his
sweater. He stayed outside, warming
himself over the grill, while the coals grew white-hot. Gary didn’t believe all that supernatural
crap, but the thought of some guy murdering his family in the same house…
Stop it! He silently scolded himself. Just don’t think about it.
He should tell Connie, but not right now.
Later, perhaps, or tomorrow, he thought.
Yes, he would. He made that promise to himself.
Then they would decide what to do.
What Garrett Everson didn’t know was that
it was already too late.
After a quick dinner of hotdogs and
hamburgers, potato chips, and baked beans, David and Lori donned their
Halloween costumes. David was dressed as
a ninja warrior, with a plastic samurai sword, and a pair of nunchuckas he’d
made from an old broom handle. Black
plastic tape was wrapped around both pieces and connected with two nails and a
small strip of plastic wire he’d found in their old garage. David had been planning his outfit for
months.
Lori opted for the less violent, more
peaceful costume. She was dressed as a
fairy princess, complete with a sparkling silver and gold wand. Both kids had large plastic orange pumpkins
to haul their sweet treats in as they went from house to house.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, Gary helped
Connie straighten up the kitchen.
Suddenly, a short, sharp scream came from the second floor. Gary bolted past his wife, almost knocking her
to the ground. He pounded up the stairs,
reaching the landing in seconds to find his son decked out in his black ninja
garb. Lori was standing in the doorway
to their bathroom, her tear-streaked face pale and flushed with red splotches.
“Daddy, he ambushed me when I was trying
to get ready!” she shrieked.
David, his voice muffled through the lower
half of his ninja mask, replied, “God, what a baby! It’s Halloween! No fun if you don’t get scared, Lori!”
Gary shook his head. Kids, he thought.
The Eversons, along with at least a dozen
other town families, took their kids to the main section of town, where there
were plenty of houses to trick-or-treat.
They met some of the other townspeople and everyone seemed very
friendly. Before they left, Connie had
set a bowl of candies out on the porch, but when they got home two hours later,
the bowl was untouched.
“Kind of strange, huh?” she said, brow
crinkling.
“Yeah, it is,” he replied, but to himself
thought they don’t want to take their kids to the old Brecker house, that’s
why. Or maybe it’s because of…
…the Pumpkin Man.
“What’s the matter, hon?”
“Nothing,” he said, “Really, it’s…well…”
Connie stepped over to her husband and
placed a hand on his arm. She looked
into his eyes, and when she did that he couldn’t lie to her. He tried to look away, to tear his eyes away,
but couldn’t. He had to tell her. Now.
“It’s about the house, this house,” he
began, letting out a long, deep sigh.
And he told her about the Brecker family. He intentionally left out the story of Thomas
Grady and the ridiculous Pumpkin Man.
Nevertheless, she was upset. “How could you not tell me!?” She cried. “A family died here, regardless of what
happened!”
“Maybe he’s lying—“
“Oh, come on, Gary,” she stated, throwing
up her hands. “Why would he lie to
you? There’s no reason for that!”
“Christ, Connie, would you stop—“
“NO, I WILL NOT!”
Then, she fell silent. Tears glistened her eyes, and she brought her
hand up to her lips, biting her knuckles.
She got up out of her chair, left the kitchen, and headed up the stairs
for the bedroom. He stayed in his seat,
hand gripping his head. He could feel a
throbbing headache coming on.
Briefly, Gary heard Connie’s voice
upstairs, and then one of the kids talking.
He hated arguing with her when the kids were around. That wasn’t good. Not at all.
God, I need a drink, he thought, and got
up to find something in one of the cabinets.
He found some bourbon, and as he was pouring it into a small glass, he
heard his wife’s footsteps trail into the bedroom. And the door close.
Sometime later, he awoke to find himself
slumped over the small kitchen table.
His right hand was resting on the table next to his head. When his eyes focused he saw the empty
whiskey bottle and glass with an inch of the caramel-colored liquid in it. His headache still throbbed. His throat and tongue felt like a layer of
crust had dried on them.
Lifting his head off the table, he sat
back in his chair. Dizziness claimed him
and he squeezed shut his eyes until it passed.
When he opened them, he realized the kitchen was dark. He must have turned off the lights not long
after he started drinking, but he didn’t remember doing it.
His bladder was full and he suddenly felt
the urge to piss badly. He really didn’t
want to go upstairs, so he padded across the kitchen floor to the downstairs
bathroom. He almost reached the door,
nearly tripping over some scattered boxes in the dark, when he heard the shrill
noise, like tires screeching across pavement.
A scream.
For a few seconds, he stood stupidly in
the doorway, wondering if he should pee first, or if the scream was from Lori
or his wife.
What the hell are you doing? a voice spoke
up inside his head. Get your ass
upstairs, you moron!
Gary started for the stairs, this time
falling headlong over a box. A bright
burst of light exploded in his eyes, and pain enveloped him. He couldn’t breathe.
“OH MY GOD! NOOOOO!”
It was Connie. She sounded
hysterical.
Grunting, he pulled himself up. He trudged forward, kicking aside more
boxes. He found the stairs, grasping the
banister, and ascended the steps as fast as he could. He felt woozy, sick, trying not to slip or
fall. He stumbled once, nearly losing
his balance, but kept his hold on the wooden rail. A few seconds later, he reached the second
floor.
His wife stood outside the door to their
daughter’s room, her back to him. She
held something in her arms. It was unlit
and shadowy in the hallway, but what she held like looked like a bundle of
towels, until she spun around at the sound of his thudding footsteps, and he
saw…
Oh God, no! No no no no!
…it was Lori in her arms. Something was all over Lori, all over Connie,
dripping onto the carpet with a tiny, hollow plip-plop-plip-plop sound. It was dark in the hall, but Gary knew what
it was. Blood. His daughter wasn’t moving, and it was her
blood!
“Gary, my baby…my baby!” Her eyes rolled
up in her head. She fell forward, and
Gary didn’t have a chance to catch her before she hit the floor. The bundle that was his little girl rolled to
his feet. He saw her face. Or, rather, what was left of it.
Crumpling to his knees, he bent over the
body. Tears burned in his eyes. “My God! Lori…”
Although it was dark, there was enough faint
light to allow Gary to see. His hand
brushed her cheek, felt the warm, sticky gore there, and recoiled in horror. Flaps of skin dangled like pieces of a
gruesome mask.
Suddenly a thought: David.
Oh, no…
Gary pushed off the floor, bracing himself
against the wall. He scrambled past the
bodies of his unconscious wife and dead daughter and slammed into the door of
his son’s room. The door flew open,
banging into the wall on the inside. No,
I’m not too late. No, I’m not too
late. No, I’m not too late, his tortured mind chanted over and over.
David’s bed was empty.
The window was open.
Gary peered out and saw a flicker of
movement near the tool shed.
“David!” he yelled, so loud he thought his
throat would rupture. He heard laughing
from inside the shed. Low, hoarse
cackling.
“No!” he vowed, dashing out of the room
and down the stairs. He nearly slipped
and fell, could’ve broken his neck and killed himself, but he was beyond
that. The only thing on his mind was
getting to that shed and stopping whatever was about to happen.
Gary left the house through the kitchen
back door and ran across the yard. When
he came within ten feet of the shed, he stopped. The sliding door was open and the single
light bulb hanging from the ceiling was on.
At first, when he approached the opening, he didn’t see anything inside,
except for the lawn mower, some garden equipment, and other tools.
Then, it stepped into view from one
shadowy corner of the shed. The thing
was tall and black as was the sack he held in one long, dark hand. Its eyes were yellowish-white, and they fixed
on Gary. He realized a heartbeat later
the sack was his son, still wearing his ninja outfit.
“No, please,” he muttered, starting
forward, hands reaching out.
“You didn’t listen, did you, Mister
Everson?” it said, the voice like a banshee wail. “You didn’t heed the warning…”
Gary stopped as the thing raised its arms
and his son’s head, which had been turned to one side, lolled around to the
front.
He screamed.
His son’s face had been skinned. Seeing Lori had been bad enough, but this
horror, revealed to him in the sickly yellow light of the shed, was more than
he could take. The thing held up a
large, old-looking knife, the blade rusty, smeared with blood. Gary could see where it made a rough
triangular cut around his son’s eyes and nose.
His lips had been sliced off.
Blood collected in a growing puddle at the thing’s feet.
It had carved him like a pumpkin.
He felt weak. Darkness spotted his vision. He knew he was about to pass out.
The thing dropped the body of his son to
the ground. Gary grasped the edge of the
shed doorway to keep from falling. He
stopped hearing himself scream.
The thing started for him, raising the big
knife. Gary smelled burnt flesh. As his vision blurred and he saw the blade flash
down towards him, he thought, Grady is the Pumpkin Man.
His last thought, though, before he let the
darkness swallow him was for his wife.
Connie, I’m so sorry.
“Such nice folks too,” the deputy
commented, one of five that Sheriff Whalen employed. The sheriff turned to look at the short,
stocky man. He nodded. He couldn’t believe it either. The Eversons, all horribly mutilated. The father and son found out back behind the
house in the tool shed and the mother and daughter in the house, on the second
floor. An old knife had been found next to
Mr. Everson’s bloody, out-stretched hand.
“Wife and I met ‘em just last night,”
Deputy Monroe stated. “Had their kids
out trick-or-treatin’. In fact, my boy
was gonna have his boy over to—“
“Gus!” he blurted. “Just shut up, please!”
The sheriff liked Gus Monroe a lot, he was
a good deputy, but he sure ran his mouth.
He sighed, reaching for his pack of cigarettes, trying to ignore the
sting of tears in his eyes. Everyone was
having a hard time dealing with this incident and Gus was no exception.
“Listen, Gus,” Sheriff Whalen said,
lighting his smoke, and patting him on the back. “I didn’t mean to yell. Just been a rough mornin’”
“That’s OK,” he said. “No harm done.”
“Thanks.”
The deputy sauntered off inside the house
to help with the rest of the clean-up.
Sheriff Whalen watched the coroner’s truck
pull away. He’s got a lot of work to do,
the sheriff thought, grimly. And so do I.
Just like the Breckers, but how many
before them? He didn’t want to know.
He walked up to the house. He finished the cigarette and slapped out
another.
He had tried to help them, but they didn’t
listen. He wasn’t going to let that
happen again. Not to another family.
Sheriff Whalen lit his cigarette, inhaled
smoke deep into his lungs, and exhaled noisily
Instead of shoving his lighter back into
this pocket, he looked at it for a second and then back at the two-story house
with the wide front porch. Sheriff
Whalen decided he was going to pay this house a visit sometime. Alone.
Not tomorrow, not in a week, but sometime soon. When the investigation was done.
The
house is mostly wood, he thought.
It would burn to the ground.
