Then, one by one, the Kids came forward, and bent down in front of him. They touched his face. I thought at first they were paying their respects, but it was too meticulous for that. They prodded at his lips, his nose; they squeezed his jowls so that all the fat got bunched up; they traced the contours of his chin, his cheekbones, eye sockets.
And when my own Pumpkin Kid had taken his turn, he looked at me, and nodded his head.
“Oh,” I said. “No, I’m good, thanks.” But all the Pumpkin Kids were watching, and they were patient, and it soon became clear that until I took my part in their ritual no one was going anywhere. So I stooped down beside the corpse, and rather gingerly I wiped my hand over his face.
And at once I knew the dimensions of his skull, how to measure the gap between his eyes, the particular curvature of his jaw. I understood the span of his face fully and practically, I learned it all—and I didn’t know why.
We had all now examined the man’s head, and committed its exact size and shape to memory. I thought we would leave him there upon the floor, or put a sheet over his head or something. Instead we hoisted him back into the noose, and set him swinging, all ready to be found by his family the next morning.
It was over. I wanted to thank the Pumpkin Kids, for letting me share their evening with them. But I wasn’t sure that was appropriate. So I nodded at them, and gave them big smiles, and they gave me big smiles in return. But to be fair, the smiles were already etched upon their faces and I couldn’t be sure they were for me.
We all went our separate ways then, the children in their orange smocks fanning out across the streets as they headed home. And I went back to my own home with my own Pumpkin Kid, and as we reached the house the sun was starting to rise and the world to wake. “We don’t have to go to bed just yet,” I told him. “Stay with me. I’m not tired.” But perhaps he was tired, or perhaps he just didn’t fancy it—he gave me a farewell nod, then went upstairs.
In the morning I went to see him, and fed him his soup, and as usual most of it dribbled out of his mouth and on to the bed. And he was lying on his back as always, and his eyes stared at me without recognition. But I knew we had had an adventure together, and I gave his hand a friendly squeeze.
In the local newspaper the suicide was reported, and the article gave thanks that his Christ-witnessed death had passed cleanly and without complication.
III
October 1st. And out comes the bunting. I watch as the banners are hung across the streets. HAPPY HALLOWEEN, say some, and HOLY HALLOWEEN, say others, and there are streamers everywhere, and there’s tinsel and colored lights, and in the shop windows there are pictures of jack-o’-lanterns and quotations from the Bible, all the best bits where Jesus mentions pumpkins.
October 6th, and ’tis the season, so I go out to buy a Halloween tree. I set it up in the sitting room, and it’s a tall one this year, it nearly reaches the ceiling! Momma usually helps me with the decorations, but she’s too busy upstairs, and so I do it all myself: and when I’m finished there are bright orange bulbs hanging from every branch, and on top an angel stares down in solemn judgment.
October 10th, and Momma calls out to me, she sounds so excited. “Look at him!” she cries. “I think he’s ripening! I think he’s nearly done!” The Kid won’t tell; he grins at us, and the heavy slat of ribbed flesh growing over his eye makes it seem like he’s winking. He opens his mouth and another ball of vegetable pulp plops out.
The 11th, and the papers report there’s been another suicide. I feed the Pumpkin Kid his morning soup. “I guess you were busy out with your friends last night!” I say. “But next time, if you like, I’d be happy to come along too. If I wouldn’t get in the way!”
The 15th. We get visited by the trick-or-treaters and the carol singers on the same night. The first take all our sweets, the second our spare change.
The 16th, and Momma says, “I’m not going to let him go. He’s my miracle, and he’ll stay with me forever.” And then she bursts into tears, because we both know that can’t be true.
The 18th. There have been three more suicides; there’s always a rush on them as people get ready to celebrate Halloween. I feed the Pumpkin Kid. “Was it some sort of test?” I ask. “Didn’t I do it right? I’m sorry. Let me try again. I know I didn’t do it right, I’ll do better next time.”
The 24th, and with one week to go, Pastor Lewis tells us all in church that he has completed his inspections, and that this year there are no fewer than seven—seven!—Pumpkin Children ripe and ready. That’s a bumper crop, it’s going to be the best Halloween ever. And then he tells us of Mrs. Prentiss who lives on the high street, and Mrs. Watkins who lives by the common, and a couple more mothers aside, and how their pregnancies are all set for completion on October 31st, and we all pray for the health of their babies and say “Amen.” Because this is the cycle of life, and God always provides new pumpkins to replenish the bounty.
The 29th. The pumpkin we have been allocated this year is waiting on our doorstep. I think it is a little knobblier than usual, it’s hard to make it mimic a human head. But I do my best—I cut out a lid from the top, and pull out all the flesh within. I make sure it’s good and hollow. I make the face, two triangular holes for eyes, another for the nose, and a mouth of jagged teeth opened wide in a smile. And as always, I try to think of Da. I dredge up every happy memory I have of Da, and put them into my handiwork, and though it looks nothing like him, I pretend that this head might be his. When I have finished I kiss it on the forehead, and bless it with the proper words. And I give thanks to God that He has shown us how to triumph over death, so long as we have enough faith, and are brave enough to be cruel.
I go upstairs to the Pumpkin Kid. There have been eight more suicides, one of them was our next-door neighbor. “Fuck you,” I tell him.
The 30th, and it is a day of curfew and of fasting. I remember how as a child I would gobble as much as I could the evening before in preparation, but I’m not hungry this year, and nor is Momma. I guess I’m as grown-up as she is now. And at the end of the day, as we slide into another Halloween, she calls out for me, and she’s lying on her bed in the dark, and when I make to turn the lights on she asks me not to.
I sit by her bed, and I listen to her breathing, and she doesn’t say anything for a long while.
“Give me your hand,” she says, at last. And so I do.
“I’ve said goodbye to our Pumpkin Child,” she tells me. “We really ought to have given him a name, don’t you think? That would have been nice.” I agree, so right there and then we kick around a few possibilities and at last we come up with a really good one.
“I was so angry,” she says, “when your father died.”
“I know.”
“Because we were supposed to die together.”
“Yes.”
“That was the dream. Matching nooses, hand-in-hand. Nice.”
I think she’s forgotten I’m still holding her hand, and I don’t know what to do, I don’t think I should squeeze it because that might get mistaken for sympathy. So I let it rest in mine like a dead weight.
“He couldn’t wait. He had such faith. Oh, I used to envy him that faith. But I think he also felt. I don’t know. That if he left us, didn’t get in our way, that we’d be better together. Love each other even, I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m not,” she says, “I’m not going to the Halloween ceremony tomorrow.”
“No.”
“I’ve had quite enough of magic. Come closer.” Her voice has dropped to a whisper.
“Yes, Momma.”
“Are you closer?”
“Yes, Momma.”
She says, ever so gently, “I hate you.” And she sounds so sad about it, so I can’t even blame her.
I wait until she’s asleep, and I say goodbye, and kiss her on the forehead just as I had my pumpkin-headed Da.
I go next door to see the Pumpkin Kid. He is shining. He is beautiful. “We’ve given you a name,” I say, but I don
’t tell him what it is.
I undo his bonds at last, and only now do I see how tight they’ve been. They’ve cut into his skin, and the grooves they’ve left are wet with pus. “Go on,” I say. “Go away. You’re free. Get out of here while you can.”
And his head twitches, and I don’t know whether that’s a shake or a nod, and his mouth creaks open wider. And I expect that from the mouth will slither another turd of vegetable pulp—but then there’s a hiss, and I think it’s a whisper, and I think I hear words.
I put my head close to the pumpkin mouth, and he tells me what I have to do.
Jesus always makes it rain at Halloween, it’s part of the celebration. And this year it’s particularly celebratory—it pisses down, and batters hard against the windows. I put on my best Halloween clothes, and a pair of galoshes. I go to see Momma, it’s the respectful thing to do. “I hope to see you later, Momma,” I say, and who knows? Maybe this year I even might.
I pick up the pumpkin I’ve carved. I light its candle, and leave for church, cupping the pumpkin under my coat to protect it from the rain.
The church is full. Usually everyone sits away from me, but there’s no choice in the matter, and the family that I squeeze next to on the pew grit their teeth and grip their pumpkins and stare ahead refusing to look at me.
For my part, I grip on to a pumpkin of my own. It seems to me a sorry thing compared to the others in the church—some people have carved into theirs expressions of real personality. They’ve been made with great love and craft, and I can see that the eyes I’ve gouged aren’t straight and the mouth doesn’t have enough teeth. It looks nothing like my Da. It looks nothing like Momma either, come to that.
And we fall quiet as Pastor Lewis emerges from the vestry, and takes his place before us all. He opens his arms wide, as if embracing us. “Welcome,” he says, “on this most hallowed of days, a time of transformation and resurrection, a time when we can all truly be one.” His surplice is gleaming white; I see he’s shaved off all of his stubble.
“Before we start, some good news. All the pregnancies are going well, and there’s no reason not to believe that by the end of the day there’ll be four more little miracles in our town. There can be errors, of course, but… .” And at that I am certain he looks at me, and the family next to me clearly think so, they glare and bristle with contempt. “But for now,” says the pastor, “let’s focus upon this year and the harvest it provides.”
He pauses, licks his lips, enjoying the moment. Then, “Bring forth your offerings.”
We file up the aisle then, one by one, and we place our pumpkins at the front of the church. By the time it’s my turn there’s a wall six pumpkins high, and it rings around the altar like a fortress, and all the candles inside the pumpkin heads shine bright and pure. I kneel, and Pastor Lewis gives me a sip of wine and places a wafer upon my tongue. “Only the best quality on this holiest of days,” he tells us, and the blood is thick and its copper taste so rich, the body of Christ is fleshy and packed with flavor.
When all the pumpkins have been offered, and Christ has been completely devoured, and we are sitting back on our pews, Pastor Lewis begins the litany. We all know the words and mutter “Amens” in the right places. But somehow this year the words sound more magical, and I listen to them as though they’re brand new.
“For we who are still living are of the dead. And we will soon be dead, and this gasp of life will seem as a fleeting dream. And Jesus said, ‘Yea, I say unto you, you that eat of the pumpkin fruit shall this very evening dine at my father’s table.’ Amen. Blessed are the children of the pumpkins, for they will be both the quick and the dead, and we see death through a glass darkly and yea they are that glass. Jesus wept, amen. And God said unto Abraham, ‘Take your child to the top of a mountain and slay him, for I am thy Lord and he is thy pumpkin.’ Jesus wept. For the children must suffer so we elders can be free. And we sacrifice but a scrap of our future so we can hold on to our past. Amen. Abraham wept, and slew his son, and the Lord said, ‘Yea, that’s the idea.’ For Moses said, ‘Die, but be not forgotten!’ Amen. ‘Die, but return by grace of God, and grace of the Pumpkin Children.’ Moses wept. I show you life eternal in a handful of pumpkin seeds, and those that take their lives in true faith never die alone. Amen, they wept, they all wept, we all weep forever.”
“Amen,” we say again.
Pastor Lewis grins then, his eyes twinkle. “Bring forth the children,” he says. “Oh, I think you’ll like this, they’re an especially nice batch this year.”
And in come the Pumpkin Kids, walking up the aisle.
There are seven of them. Do I recognize any from that night at the hanging? I cannot say for sure. When they reach the front and look out at us, I wonder whether they might recognize me, I feel the absurd urge to wave and get their attention. Barefoot of course, and in orange smocks that look grubby beside the pastor’s surplice—and I think that’s maybe the point, we are supposed to honor them but we don’t want to admire them, they’re not heroes, they’re lambs to the slaughter. Pastor Lewis inspects them with the pride of a doting father, and that’s perhaps just how he sees himself—and there’s a little girl that can be no older than twelve, and she’s standing a bit lopsided, and the pastor gets her to straighten up, and then gives us all a wink, and there’s a ripple of laughter from the congregation—yes, how we love the cute little girls, the ones who never stand up straight!
The kids look pasty, their heads seem swollen. Are they ripe? I guess so, it’s hard to tell. And the pastor says:
“The children are the future. And we disdain the future. It is a world we yet know not of.”
The children file behind the pumpkin wall, and take hands, and face us. They close their eyes.
For a while, nothing. It doesn’t look as if the Pumpkin Kids are even trying. There’s no effort at all. We have to be patient. And then, you can see it—some of the children are clenching their teeth. The little girl begins to shake, just a bit—then the others start to shake too.
But we shouldn’t be watching the children. We should be watching the pumpkins. And then someone cries out, “Look!” One of the pumpkins is beginning to change; the carved face is blurring and taking on real features—real skin, real eyes and teeth, hair. And there in the wall of the pumpkin fort there’s now a fully formed human head, blinking, looking around the church for its family.
I don’t know the woman who’s been resurrected, but there’s no need to waste time on her. Because other pumpkins are starting to follow suit. Another shimmers and resolves itself into the form of Mr. Bailey, who taught me math in school; and now there’s one of my neighbors; there’s Mrs. Thornhill from the drugstore; there’s that man I helped to hang.
My pumpkin at last begins to shimmer, and I hope it will be Da, or maybe even Momma, but it turns into someone I’ve never seen before, and that can happen sometimes. The congregation are crying out now to all those they had lost, who have made it back from the dead for this special occasion—“I love you!” “I miss you!” “Darling, I think of you every day!” They jump up upon the pews, waving to get the attention of the pumpkins they know; they aren’t allowed to embrace the heads, this is a Christ-witnessed festival of deep solemnity; and the heads can’t reply, they have big burning candles wedged tight inside their skulls.
And the Pumpkin Kids have done it again, and we all praise the Lord, because death isn’t the end, because the Pumpkin Kids prove it—that we get to see the dead, or at least some of them, those with faith, those brave enough to take the noose—and death looks like such a jolly thing, just see how merry the heads are, twitching and blinking and winking, just imagine what stories they might tell if only they could speak!
You might expect that the little girl would be the one to falter first. She looks so very fragile. In fact it’s one of the boys, and his head suddenly cracks open. He rains juice down upon the church floor, and his body slumps forward—and the Pumpkin Kids holding his hands either side gr
asp tight so they won’t break the chain. But we know it’s the beginning of the end, the time of resurrection will soon be over—as one we call our goodbyes, each desperate for our message of love to be heard over the others. “Take care!” “Remember me!” “See you next year!” “Remember me, please remember!” The little girl breaks next, her head dissolves in a plume of orange pulp, and seconds later another boy comes apart. “Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye!” And we wave at the heads like cretins, and it’s not as if they can wave back, and I’m waving too and I don’t have anyone to wave to.
It’s done. It’s done. The heads freeze, they flicker. They’re pumpkins once more. And the children? Pumpkins too—but their faces haven’t been carved into the side, and there’s no candle within. They’re just pumpkins, the innards spilling out and rotting.
Pastor Lewis was right; it was a good Halloween, and those seven children gave us nearly two whole minutes with the dead. And for the moment there’s still that buzz of celebration in the air. “Did you see Gramma?” “Did you see Poppa?” And then the disappointment; Halloween really is, finally, over. The miracle is spent. And right now we’re as far from the next Halloween as it’s possible to be, it’ll be another long year before we get to glimpse our families again. Yet we all still sit in our pews. No one quite wants to admit there’s nothing more to look forward to, that it’s time to go home and get on with our lives.
Then I stand up. And even as I do so, I’m not yet sure I won’t do the simple thing and leave the church and go home. I think I decide I will. But still, in spite of all, I walk up the aisle to the altar.
For a moment Pastor Lewis doesn’t even register me. And then he looks baffled, he can’t work this out. “What are you doing?” he hisses, as I walk through the fort of pumpkins, as I take my rightful place. As I make my announcement.
“I am a Pumpkin Kid.”
The congregation doesn’t know how to react. Maybe not all of them even recognize me? Then some laugh, catcall. “I am a Pumpkin Kid,” I say again, “and I am ripe to bursting,” and I stand my ground.
The Mammoth Book of Halloween Stories Page 44
