Happy Halloween from 1986

 Last week I was cleaning out some old files and I came across this short story I wrote for Halloween back in 1986. I was four years out of high school and just beginning my writing journey. I wasn't very good back then and there are those who will argue that I haven't gotten any better. I thought it might be fun to share the story here, knowing that it was written by a young man just beginning to learn his craft. 

 

CARVED

by

Bill Wilbur

 

            Stephen Vale drove through the quiet streets of his hometown of Middleboro, Massachusetts looking for a pumpkin. Where once there had been Halloween decorations every October, now there were bare, dark yards which seemed to hide the town’s demons even better.

Seven months ago, just ninety days after the ball dropped in Time’s Square 200 miles away in New York, the idiot conservatives in Washington DC had declared that Celebrating Halloween was now against the law. As if the country didn’t have bigger problems, trick or treating was now a federal offense. No more candy, no more jack-o-lanterns and most definitely no more roaming the streets in costume.

Some folks called them ‘Candy Cops’, but that was a little too cutesy for Stephen, he referred to them as ‘Pumpkin Police; not much better perhaps, but easier to spit out with some attitude. He was an old man now, and had no short supply of attitude. He’d worked hard his whole life, got married, had a beautiful daughter, paid his taxes fairly and on time, buried his wife five years ago only three days before their grandkids were born.

His family had always gone all out for Halloween every year, and though some of those had been bad years, their spooky decorations had always been a high point, something that pulled them all together as a family when they began to drift. It was tradition, and no damned law was going to take that away from him.

Though his grandkids had been trick-or-treating in the past, they’d been too young to fully grasp the holiday. But they were five years old this year and they were beginning to understand the holiday better. It pissed him off.

Stephen had lived a simple life, never paying much attention to politicians and their idiocy. Middleboro was a small town and the people there kept mostly to themselves. Big politics didn’t affect them much one way or the other, so like every year before, he’d decorated his house and yard with ghosts and witches and all manner of spooky creatures. They hadn’t lasted a day.

When Joe ‘Dog’ Canberry pulled up in front of his home with three deputies behind him, Stephen thought maybe it was some sort of joke.

“Hey Joe, What do ya know?” Stephen came down his porch steps from where he’d been hanging fake spider webs. He stuck out his hand but the sheriff didn’t shake it.

“What are you doing here, Steve?” The sheriff asked. He stood there rigid amongst the zombies and ghouls with his hands planted firmly on his hips.

Stephen dropped his hand. “What do you mean?”
            Sheriff Canberry gestured with his hands all around the yard. “You can’t be doing all this.”

“Oh come on, Joe. Nobody cares.”

“Somebody cared enough to report you to the national website.”

“What?” Stephen asked. “Who? I’ve gone fishing with damn near everyone in this town, you included. We’re all friends here.”

“We got to confiscate all of it.”

“Joe…”

            The sheriff stepped in close. “Listen to me now. I got an early morning call from the Feds. They instructed me to come here and arrest you, I’m not gonna do that, but the decorations have to come with me. I have to put em in a pile out back of the station and set fire to them. They want me to send them a video of it being done, Stephen.”

            “That’s a bit extreme don’t you think?” Stephen asked.

            “What’s extreme is, if I don’t send them that video by five o’clock today, They’ll be at your door tomorrow morning to take you into custody. You’ll do ten years in a federal lock-up just so they can make an example out of you, and you’re too old for that.”

            So Stephen watched while his fishing buddies, men who he called friends, tore down all of his decorations and carted them all off in the back of their squad cars. All around him neighbors came out of their houses to look and Stephen wondered which of them had contacted the Feds.

 

            He circled the town for what felt like the twentieth time, enough so that he had driven all of its streets. Pulling onto Maine Street, he crept forward at a slow pace. There were no cars out this night before Halloween. Could he still call it that, or was that outlawed as well?

            He stopped at the intersection of Maine and Ash streets and sat idling for a beat. A left would take him past the hospital toward home, and a right would take him out of town and to the turnpike. He pondered for a long minute and the pull of the turnpike was almost overwhelming when a strange, crooked man called to him from the mouth of an alley Stephen didn’t remember ever seeing before. Not once in his seventy-six years of living just around the corner.

            The little man gestured with his hand and Stephen rolled down the window of his truck.

            “You the law?” The man’s voice sounded like he had glass shards in his mouth.

            “Am I the law?” Stephen asked.

            “Yeah you. Did I stutter? C’mere for a minute.”
            “What do you want? I don’t have any money.”

            “Don’t want no money.” The man cackled. “Need your help is all.”

            Stephen pulled to the curb and turned off his truck. He debated for only a second before he climbed out and crossed the street.

            “What?”

            The little man grinned to show blackened and stained teeth. “You lookin’ for a pumpkin?”

            “Even if I was, I’m out of luck. There probably isn’t a pumpkin for a hundred miles, and if there was, nobody would dare sell it to me.”

            The old man cackled a broken glass cackle. “You’re right. No one would dare sell you a pumpkin for fear you’d carve it into a jack-o-lantern. We’ve all heard what happened at your house.” The man grinned. “I’ve got a pumpkin and I’ll give it to ya.”

            The fine hairs on Stephen’s neck stood up. “Why would you do that? What’s the catch?”

            “Ain’t no catch!” the man screeched. “Well, mayhap there is after all, mayhap there is, but not much of a one. You want to see it or don’t ya?”

            Stephen wondered if he was being watched, or if maybe he’d fallen asleep at the wheel of his truck and this was some bizarre dream. He felt himself nodding at the crooked little man.

            “Follow me and keep up.” The man scurried toward the mouth of the alley that shouldn’t be there, and Stephen followed in a daze.

            As the shadows thickened, closing in around them, Stephen thought he saw strange shapes in the darkness. At one point he was sure a giant tentacle rose at least fifty feet into the air before sinking back into the shadows. A low, constant moan, like wind through a canyon, rebounded off the walls of the alley and built upon itself the deeper they walked.

            Finally, the man stopped and pointed. Sitting next to a dumpster against one wall, was the biggest pumpkin Stephen had ever seen. Stephen knelt down for a better look and something inside the dumpster thumped hard on the inner wall.

            “How much?” Stephen asked.

            “Told ya,” The troll man said. “I don’t want no money. You can have it for free.”

            Something inside the dumpster slammed against the inner wall again hard enough to move it a few inches.

            Stephen stood transfixed, staring at the pumpkin. “And the catch?”

            The little man stepped forward and rested a hand on the dumpster. “All you have to do is promise not to carve it. Draw a face on it with a crayon if you want, that’s safe enough, but don’t carve it.”

            “I won’t promise that,” Stephen said. “It’s the only reason I’d want the damn thing.”

            The troll man put a protective hand on the pumpkin. Was he still a man or had he become something else?

            “Then I can’t let you have it. Good day, sir.” The troll thing turned to leave.

            “Wait!” Stephen said. “What’s wrong with it? Why can’t I carve it?”

            “You can’t carve it because it’s evil. It’s the Devil’s pumpkin stolen from the gardens of hell. Cutting into it would open a portal and you wouldn’t survive it.”

            “That’s crazy,” Stephen said. “You’re insane.”

            The troll creature hissed, more creature than man now. “Think what you want about me, but if you want it, you have to promise.”

            “Okay, okay, I promise. I’ll use paint to decorate it.”

            The troll produced an ancient paper scroll and slowly unrolled it. Pulling a pen from somewhere he held it up to Stephen. “Sign this transfer of ownership.”

            Stephen took the pen and bent to sign, both of them knowing that he would break his promise.

            The troll spirited away the scroll as soon as Stephen lifted the pen from the paper. “I don’t care how you get it out of here, but do it quickly.”

            “Let me back my truck in right now.”

            When Stephen backed up to the pumpkin the crooked troll man was gone, and as he lifted the gourd into his truck, something large stirred within the dumpster.

 

            With the turnpike no longer beckoning him, Stephen drove straight home and pulled his truck into the garage, away from the prying eyes of his neighbors. Struggling with every step, he carried the pumpkin in though the kitchen and hoisted it up onto his dining room table. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he reached for his phone to call his daughter.

            “Hi dad,” Carrie said when she picked up.

            “Are you bringing the twins over tomorrow night?” Stephen asked.

            “I don’t know, dad. Tomorrow is a school night and, I mean, what’s the point now that they can’t trick or treat.”

            “Look, I know Halloween is against the law now, but I’ve got a pumpkin here bigger than my head. It’s just waiting to be turned into a Jack-o-Lantern. Bring the kids over and we’ll all carve it together inside the house.”

            Carrie paused. “That’s really sweet of you, dad. But I can’t bring the kids. Have you been watching the news? They’re executing people. I’m sorry but I don’t want my kids learning to be criminals, and I don’t want them dead either.”

            “What do you mean dead?”

            “It was on the news. They executed a family up in New Hampshire.”

            “Nobody’ll know. They won’t find out. Nobody will ever find out.” Stephen pleaded.

            “Everybody would, can’t you see that?” Carrie said. “When they go to school the day after and tell all their friends about the pumpkin they carved at Grandpa’s house. Agents will be at your house by noon, and my kids will be taken from me.”

            “They won’t tell anyone. We’ll tell them not to. What do you say?”

            “Dad, they’re only five. They’d be too excited. They’ll tell everyone, they won’t be able to keep it in. I’m sorry, but we won’t be over tomorrow.” There was a click when she hung up.

“Dammit!” Stephen screamed and threw the phone across the room. She wouldn’t bring them. After all he’d gone through to get the damn pumpkin in the first place.

            Sitting heavy onto one of his dining room chairs he put his head in his hands. “I’ll do it myself he whispered, and he couldn’t be entirely sure, but he thought the pumpkin whispered back.

            As the evening wore on, his unease began to grow. The pumpkin whispered nonstop but Stephen couldn’t make out the words. Try as he might, he couldn’t bear to have the pumpkin out of his sight for more than a few seconds at a time. After dinner, he carried the pumpkin into the den so he could keep an eye on it while he watched TV. When he couldn’t stay awake any longer, he placed it beneath a floor lamp in the corner of his bedroom, but for most of the night sleep eluded him and he opened his eyes constantly to make sure the pumpkin hadn’t moved closer to the bed somehow.

            The next morning, Stephen did his best to try and ignore the pumpkin but around noon his nerves were cranked up to a fever pitch. Rummaging around in the far back corner of his kitchen cabinets produced a nearly full bottle of vodka. He hadn’t touched a drop in years, not since his doctor had instructed him to lay off. He unscrewed the cap as if he expected a snake to jump out at him but when none did, he raised the bottle to his mouth and felt the old familiar burn run down his throat.

            By the time he’d emptied half the bottle, he had gotten himself back under some semblance of control. He spread some old newspaper on the table and struggled to get the pumpkin in place. “That creepy little guy was crazy.” He studied the pumpkin from all sides until he decided on the perfect spot. “The Devil’s pumpkin from the gardens of hell. HA!”

            From the kitchen he retrieved the largest knife he owned, a twelve inch carving knife, and went back to the table. Holding the knife out to the pumpkin he said, “This knife is big enough to take care of everything, including evil spirits.”  He took another drink. “You ain’t nothing but a big orange balloon an I’m gonna pop ya!”

He took another swig from the nearly empty bottle and closed his eyes as he swallowed. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the feeling only alcohol would bring. Opening his eyes he raised the knife above his head and focused on a spot near the pumpkin stem.

“Here it comes,” Stephen said. “Are you ready?” He closed his eyes and brought the knife down. It sank in all the way to the hilt. Stephen gripped the handle tight, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he opened his eyes and let go of the knife which jutted from the top of the pumpkin like a lone cactus on an orange desert.

“I knew it! I knew that man was crazy. Look at you, I stuck a knife in you and you sat there and took it. Nothing happened. Come on…come get me.” He sat completely still for a beat. “I knew you weren’t no Devil Pumpkin. I wasn’t scared to stick ya.”

Something thumped at his front door hard enough to shake the window beside it and the pumpkin began to whisper.

“Who’s there?” Stephen yelped and whirled toward the door. “I ain’t scared.”

And the whispers asked, ‘Then why are you talking to a pumpkin?’

That voice had been right next to his ear. He looked all around the empty room but no one was there. “Must be the booze,” he said as he turned back to the pumpkin. Picking up the knife from the table, he raised it above his head. ‘I already did this,’ he thought as he brought the knife down. ‘How did the knife get back on the table?’ His mind screamed but it was too late.

The orange of the pumpkin turned black. A loud hissing noise came from the cut and a scalding steam poured out around the blade. Stephen began to scream as the mist engulfed first his hand, and then his wrist. When it reached his shoulder the mist expanded to cover his entire body. His screams changed in pitch as the pain intensified and as he screamed, the mist crawled up into his mouth and down his throat. His screams turned to a low, choking gurgling sound and then stopped altogether. His eyes went wide

Stephen reached out toward the pumpkin, which stayed mockingly out of reach. With his other hand he clawed at his throat, ripping the flesh and leaving bloody trails as they raked downward. One fingernail caught his carotid artery and as blood pumped from his ruined throat, he collapsed to the floor. As he fell, and before darkness claimed him, he thought he heard a broken glass cackle.

 

“Excuse me, Sheriff?”

Joe Canberry turned from the group of men he was chatting with. “Yeah?”

“My name’s Johnson. Homicide,” He flashed his badge. “I understand you were first on scene.”

Joe spat on the ground between his feet. “Damndest thing I ever seen. Did you get a look at his face?”

Johnson from homicide nodded. “I saw the body before they loaded it into the ambulance.”

“He don’t need an ambulance, he needs a hearse,” Canberry said.

“Can you show me where you found the body?”

Sheriff Canberry led the way inside and stopped at the dining room. “He was on the floor there near the table in that pool of blood. The knife we believe to be the murder weapon was leaning against that pumpkin there on the table. We’re holding it for evidence. Looks like he was gonna carve that pumpkin when somebody decided to carve him up instead.”

Johnson stared at the scene for a moment. “Can I see the knife?”

“Sure.” Canberry stepped to the door. “BOBBY!” He yelled. “Bring in that knife for a minute.”

After a few seconds, Bobby, obviously a rookie, came into the room carrying the knife in an evidence bag.

“This is my boot, Bobby. I’m his training officer. He’s having a helluva a first week.”

Bobby held out the evidence bag. “Here you go, Sheriff. Keep it as long as you want, it gives me the creeps. I mean, did you see his face?” The young man’s voice rose an octave.

“That’ll be all, Bobby.” Canberry said.

“Jesus! They carved him up like a Jack-O-Lantern!” Bobby cried. “His eyes and nose were triangles! And his jagged mouth…and his teeth, they were gone, just gone. We haven’t found them anywhere.” Bobby doubled over and stumbled out the door to be sick.

“Here you go.” Johnson held the knife out to Canberry.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Canberry said. “He’s young and this is his first week.”

They stood there and looked out the door where Bobby had gone. “Think he’ll be back for week two?” Johnson asked.

“Would you?”

They remained side by side for a moment longer and then Canberry said, “If you don’t need ma anymore, I’ve got a report to file.” He headed for the door.

“Send me a copy?”

Canberry turned back to him. “You got it.”

“He never even cut into it, did he?” Johnson asked.

“Into what?” The sheriff asked.

‘The pumpkin.”

Canberry looked past him to the pumpkin on the table, it was the brightest orange he’d ever seen. “Nope, never touched it, why?”

“I think I’ll take it home. My wife makes a helluva a pumpkin pie.”

 

END