13 Days of Halloween

by Jerry eBooks

  Lurking. Waiting. Hunting.

  Jonathon’s bedroom was on the second floor of the house, right next to his mother’s, and that should have made him feel safe, but what if the Pumpkin Eater could find a way inside?

  The light of the big full moon passed through the skeleton branches of the lonely tree in their backyard, projecting bony fingers made of shadow through the window of Jonathon’s bedroom.

  These fingers crawled up and down his walls, they waved, they shook and they trembled.

  “Go away, Pumpkin Eater,” Jonathon whispered, his blankets pulled to his chin, his tiny fingers clinched tightly. “Leave us alone and don’t come back.”

  Tomorrow was October 31st. After that the Pumpkin Eater would return to the fields to rest for another year.

  Just one more night and Jonathon would be safe.

  * * * *

  At school the next day, the children couldn’t contain their excitement. Most of the teachers couldn’t, either. Halloween brought out the little kid in everyone, it seemed.

  The most exciting part of the day was when the school held its annual Halloween parade.

  When the time of the parade arrived, Jonathon and his classmates happily made their way to the cafeteria where their parents waited with their costumes. Once everyone was ready, the teachers would line the kids up and then hundreds of little ghouls and goblins and monsters would march through the building and out onto the playground while their parents cheered and took photos.

  It was a big deal.

  The parade was also the first time Jonathon got to see his costume. In the weeks leading up to the 31st, his mother worked in her room in secret after he went to bed. She said the costume had to be a surprise or it would lose its protective powers.

  Jonathon would lie in bed and listen to the hum of the sewing machine making stitch after stitch. The heavy sewing machine was on a table at the foot of his mother’s bed and Jonathon knew she lost a lot of sleep trying to get his costume just right.

  When Jonathon and his classmates arrived at the noisy and crowded cafeteria, he began searching for his mother.

  At first he couldn’t find her. His heart sunk a little—had she forgotten?—but then he spotted her standing in the corner, holding a big black trash bag.

  Jonathon rushed to his mother, waving and smiling. He hugged her.

  She smiled and pulled his costume out of the bag.

  He felt the smile melt from his face. He knew his mother saw his disappointment, but he couldn’t help himself.

  She had made him a giant, orange pumpkin costume as big as the biggest pumpkin they had ever seen in the farmer’s field outside of town. It was round and the material was soft velvet. There were thick black stripes, a brown stem, and a traditional jack-o-lantern face stitched on the front. Narrow eyes had been cut out so he could see where he was walking.

  The costume reminded Jonathon of the Pumpkin Eater so much that he found it to be terrifying.

  Jonathon saw the look on his mother’s face and he forced a smile, and his mother did her best to smile back, but he knew she was heartbroken.

  That made him heartbroken too.

  Jonathon kept smiling as his mother draped the costume over his head.

  He felt like he was being smothered. The costume was heavy and he had trouble walking, but he told his mother he loved it anyway.

  As Jonathon marched through the school with all his happy friends, he felt a deep sadness unlike any he had ever felt before, not even when their television was stolen or the many nights he had heard his mother crying at night through the bedroom wall.

  Why did he have to be a giant waddling pumpkin that reminded him of his worst nightmare when all of his friends got to dress up like something fun?

  * * * *

  That evening, as the lingering shadows reached across the neighborhood and a chilly breeze blew between the trees, the trick-or-treating hour drew closer and the butterflies of anticipation were a nervous wreck in Jonathon’s stomach.

  His mother helped him get ready and this time he was certain he had done a better job of convincing her he loved the costume.

  He had decided it didn’t really matter what his costume looked like as long as he got to go door to door with his friends getting candy and having fun.

  That was what the night was all about.

  Once Jonathon was ready, his mother walked him to a neighbor’s house where he met up with several of his friends. They were dressed as vampires and werewolves and zombies and Superman and Batman and Harry Potter.

  Some of his friends had fancy decorated sacks for their loot, but Jonathon carried a generic plastic pumpkin with a black plastic handle. He hoped it was big enough for all of the candy he would be hauling home. His plan was to have enough to get him through Thanksgiving when the Christmas cookies would be made.

  Soon Jonathon and his friends were off to the races, trying to make it to as many houses as they could before trick-or-treating officially came to an end.

  Although his mother and his friends’ parents were trailing close behind, Jonathon barely noticed them as he rushed from door to door, knocking and waiting and then yelling, “Trick-or-treat!” as the door opened and some adult—sometimes an adult like a grandparent, sometimes an adult the same age as their parents, sometimes a bored teenager who wasn’t technically an adult yet—handed out pieces of factory wrapped candy.

  Most people gave you one piece, some people gave you two, and a few of the great houses let you select a piece of candy of your choice out of a plastic bowl. But the best house on the block, Doctor Brown’s house, was the place to go. Mrs. Brown let you take your pick from a fancy crystal punch bowl filled with full size candy bars.

  Jonathon always grabbed a Butterfinger because they were his favorite.

  As he and his friends hurried from house to house, Jonathon couldn’t help but wonder who among them were the real ghouls and goblins. He knew his friends were okay, and their parents were okay, but this was the one night of the year when there were more strangers than friends on their street. He didn’t recognize many of the monsters carrying sacks of candy around his neighborhood. This worried him and made him nervous, but he knew his costume would protect him from the real monsters, just like his mother had said.

  Like every previous year, his mother was right.

  By eight o’clock, Jonathon had arrived home safe and sound. Outside, front porch lights were turning off and the streets were empty again. Forgotten or discarded costume accessories dotted the lawns and sidewalks of the neighborhood.

  Jonathon’s mother helped him out of his costume and she carefully hung it in his closet. She took ten minutes to inspect his candy before giving him his choice of one piece for a pre-bedtime snack—he selected a Butterfinger, of course.

  Twenty minutes later, he was lying in bed, happy and content to think about all of the candy his mother had stashed on the high shelf in the kitchen to dole out to him over the next few weeks.

  Jonathon hoped no one would break into the house and steal his candy like someone had stolen their television and the swear jar money.

  Someone eating all of the candy wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, though.

  It was still Halloween and there were still monsters out there.

  * * * *

  A few hours later, minutes before midnight, Jonathon couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep. He thought he might be awake, he certainly felt awake, but on the other hand, he knew dreams could be tricky.

  A few months earlier, he had been sure he was riding a horse with the knights of King Arthur’s round table, but that had ended up being a dream, which disappointed him greatly upon waking.

  Jonathon was about to pinch himself to figure out once and for all if he was asleep or awake when something thumped on the side of the house.

  Jonathon slowly turned his head in that direction and he couldn’t believe what he saw.

  Pumpkin vines slithered across the window glass, highli
ghted by the big full moon blazing brightly in the night sky.

  A malevolent, brown stem rose up into view from below the window.

  The Pumpkin Eater continued his ascension of the house, rising as if lifted by balloons.

  Just like David had warned, the Pumpkin Eater was a pumpkin from the nearby fields, maybe the biggest pumpkin.

  Its skin was dark orange and wrinkled. Its eyes were mere slits that glowed from an angry fire burning within.

  The Pumpkin Eater was grinning, too, a most awful grin.

  “I’ve come for you, Jonathon,” it growled from beyond the window. “I’ve come to split you open and eat your pulp and your seeds!”

  “No,” Jonathon whispered as he pulled his blankets above his head. “Please leave me alone. I told you not to come here again.”

  Jonathon heard the window smash and then the Pumpkin Eater was inside his room, slithering across the floor.

  The vines found Jonathon’s covers, lifted them up and pulled them back as the Pumpkin Eater towered over the little boy. A heavy coldness wrapped around Jonathon.

  “No, please don’t hurt me,” Jonathon whispered in horror.

  “I told you I’d be back,” the Pumpkin Eater said with a trace of sorrow.

  One of the vines held a jack-o-lantern carving tool. The Pumpkin Eater lowered the plastic tool to Jonathon’s belly . . .

  . . . and that was when Jonathon screamed himself awake.

  He tumbled out of bed and landed hard on the cold floor. The window was not broken, but the full moon was out there, watching over him like in the dream.

  Jonathon’s heart was racing and he was disoriented, but as he got to his feet, he heard a gruff voice say something on the other side of the wall where he had so often heard the sewing machine.

  “Leave Jonathon alone,” his mother answered quickly.

  She had never sounded quite like that before, at least not that Jonathon could remember. She sounded terrified.

  After a moment, Jonathon understood why: the Pumpkin Eater hadn’t come for him. It had come for his mother!

  Jonathon had to help her and fast. But how could he stop a monster like that? He was just a little boy. He had no idea how to defeat the Pumpkin Eater, but he had to do something.

  As despair grew inside of him, Jonathon’s eyes suddenly widened and he realized the answer to his question had been with him all night: his costume!

  Jonathon hurried to his closet where his mother had hung the costume with care. He grabbed the velvet orange pumpkin off the hanger and pulled it over his head, stumbling under the sudden weight.

  He pushed open his bedroom door, tiptoed to his mother’s door as quietly as he could, and listened.

  “Please, leave me alone,” his mother said, her voice trembling. “I told you not to come here again.”

  Jonathon’s heart raced a mile a minute and he could only barely see out of the eyes in the costume, but he had no time to waste.

  He reached up, slowly turned the doorknob, and pushed the door open a few inches.

  The first thing Jonathon saw through the narrow eyeholes was that the window had been broken, just like in his dream.

  But there was no Pumpkin Eater.

  There was someone else, though.

  A man stood by the bed, towering over his mother, who wore just her nightgown.

  The man held a big hunting knife.

  In some ways, this man looked like his mother’s friend named David, but his hair was longer and dirtier, his clothes were grimy, and his belly was bigger. He waved the knife around and Jonathon’s mother was crying.

  The man was as scary as any monster Jonathon had ever seen, but he pushed the door open the rest of the way and ran into the room without the faintest idea what he would do next. He just trusted that the costume would somehow save the day and protect him from the monster like it had during trick-or-treating.

  Jonathon charged at the man who turned and said, “What the hell?” as the giant pumpkin lurched toward him.

  “Jonathon, no!” his mother cried, rolling out of bed and jumping to her feet.

  The man reached for Jonathon and in that instant Jonathon realized the man also smelled a lot like David had on some nights when he came to the house way too late. The smell was harsh and pungent as it seeped into the room with every breath the man exhaled.

  The man pushed Jonathon off balance, sending the little boy in the giant pumpkin costume rolling across the room.

  Jonathon cried out, reaching for anything that might stop his momentum. He smacked into the door, slamming it shut.

  The man returned his attention to the bed just as the sewing machine came crashing down into his face. The sound of the impact was hollow and thunderous at the same time. The man screamed in pain.

  Jonathon’s mother dropped the sewing machine, stepped forward, and pushed the man out the broken window.

  He screamed again on his way down to the ground, falling past the ladder he had placed there, but the scream ended suddenly with a loud thud.

  Jonathon’s mother hurried to her son and she rolled him over so he was sitting up right.

  “Are you okay?” she asked as she helped Jonathon out of the costume again.

  “I’m a little dizzy,” he said, rubbing his head.

  She kissed him on the forehead. She was beginning to cry.

  “That was very brave of you,” she said.

  “I thought the Pumpkin Eater had come for us. Was that a different monster?”

  “Something like that,” his mother replied, holding her little boy as tightly as she could.

  “It’s the worst part of Halloween,” Jonathon said. “I can’t wait for all of the monsters to go away for another year.”

  “Me, too,” his mother said softly, kissing the top of his head. “Me, too.”

  --end--

  The Toomeys, who lived in the house next door, were always taking in weirdoes. My father repeatedly scolded me about using such a word, but that was the truth of it: the kids were weird. There had been the boy who sat in the yard all day trying on different women’s hats, which he carried around with him in an old brown shopping bag from the A&P. There had been a girl of seven or eight who never came out of the house, though she would keep her pale white ghost-face pressed against one of the upstairs dormer windows, staring out at Luther Avenue with melancholia in her eyes, reminding me of fairytales about princesses held captive in stone towers. Last summer, the Toomeys brought home a girl of about eleven or twelve—my age—who seemed normal enough at first. She even came over to play a few times, and we would either go out into the yard and dig up larval ant-lions or play badminton (we have a net) or we would just stay inside and watch TV. But then one afternoon, while we were out digging in the yard for nightcrawlers, she bit me high up on my bicep for no reason. It was hard enough to draw blood. After that, my father said I didn’t have to play with her anymore. When I asked him why she had done such a thing, my father’s face grew dark, as if clouds were passing overhead, and he said, “Not all kids in this world are as lucky as you, Brian.” He seemed saddened by my delight at not having to bother with the girl anymore. When she was finally sent off to some other foster home—or to wherever kids like her go—I was pleased.

  The kids were weirdoes, all right, but that meant that the Toomeys were even weirder. What sort of couple brought kids like that into their home? I couldn’t understand it. Jeremy Beachy’s mom was constantly threatening to send Jeremy, her own flesh and blood, off to boarding school, yet Eric and June Toomey continued to take these strange kids into their home and pretend, at least for a little while, to be their parents. The Toomeys had no kids of their own, so I assumed this was their way of faking it. It was like an assembly-line: when one weirdo left, another one would show up. Over the years, I had lost count as to how many had come to stay at the Toomey house. My mother seemed to regard the Toomeys with an air of suspicion, but my father said they were good people and that they were doing a very good t
hing helping all those troubled kids. To me, they were weirdoes; to my dad, they were always “troubled kids.” I failed to see the difference.

  Their newest kid arrived two months ago. He was short and thin for a boy, and I originally guessed him to be a year or two younger than me. Turned out, he was exactly my age, and it wasn’t long before my father started in with his not-so-subtle hints that I make an effort to befriend the kid. One afternoon, I went over to the Toomeys’ house with a stack of comic books tucked under one arm. June Toomey’s face lit up when she opened the front door to find me standing there. She quickly ushered me inside, and introduced me to the new kid. His name was Oliver, and he possessed the big face and widely spaced teeth of a jack-o’-lantern. Despite his slight frame, his clothes seemed too small. A large booger waved in and out of one nostril in rhythm with his respiration, like the hinged valve on a pipe. I asked him if he liked comic books and he just rolled those bony little shoulders of his. His shyness that afternoon would have driven me mad had I not decided to spread out on the Toomeys’ living-room floor and read my books while Oliver, sitting Indian-style on the couch across the room, did nothing but stare out the windows.

  At my father’s behest, I ventured over to the Toomeys’ on a few more occasions. Sometimes I brought my comic books, other times I took over my videogame console, which Eric Toomey gladly hooked up to their TV, a smile on his face so stretched out of proportion that it looked like he was trying to hide something. Oliver sometimes played the videogames with me, but he was so awful that it took much of the pleasure from it. Like pack animals, kids know when they’re in the presence of a weaker member, and that was certainly the case with Oliver. I could sense his passivity like a stink coming off his flesh. In turn, I think my awareness of our hierarchy drove him into greater submission. I wasn’t mean to him, wasn’t a bully, but I couldn’t help bark at him aggressively on the occasions when his timidity pushed me over the edge.

  A week before Halloween, as I was about to sprint out the door to meet up with Jeremy Beachy and Cyn Cristo to play baseball in the park, my father suggested I see if Oliver wanted to join me. So I went next door, was greeted by June Toomey’s strangely shocked smile, and ultimately asked Oliver if he wanted to come along. To my surprise and dismay, Oliver agreed to come. He didn’t have a glove, so I ran back home and grabbed my old one for him.