The Pumpkin Man

into the space behind the rock and in a moment smiled. “Here it is,” she said, and pulled out a thin wooden piece shaped almost like a heart.

“Can two people use it, or do there need to be more?” Kirstin asked.

Jennica shrugged. “Beats me. But I’m guessing we have enough material here to do the research.” She pointed at the shelves of occult tomes on either side of the fireplace.

Kirstin ran a finger across one shelf and then the next. She stopped finally and slid out a fat green book. “How does Practical Magic for the Layman sound to start?”

Jenn laughed. “Sure, why not?” Then she stood up and looked on the opposite shelf for a book of her own and decided on the Encyclopedia of the Dead.

They paged silently through the volumes for a moment or two before Kirstin asked, “How does this sound? ‘To entice a fickle lover, take one hair from their comb or brush, combine it with one of your own and wind them carefully around the ripe red fruit of a honeysuckle bush. Prick your finger and drip two drops of blood on the berry. Wrap this charm in a small piece of cloth cut from an unwashed piece of your own intimate clothing, and after invoking the goddess and giving her your request, secret it inside the pillowcase of the lover. This works best if you can find a way to add a spot of blood from your subject along with your own.’”

“Sounds very practical,” Jenn said. “Though it might be easier just to ask them out.” A second later she chuckled. “I’ve got one for you. ‘Curse: to call upon unseen powers to mark someone with misfortune. Frequently curses are cast by utilizing personal items to help identify and tie the subject to the desired punishment. Generally, once cast, curses last until death.’”

Kirstin laughed. “Yeah, so where’s the recipe? I know what a curse is.”

“Oh, wait—here’s a better one. ‘Reanimation: to call upon dark forces to bring life back to the corpse of one already passed beyond. Depending on the length of time since death and the power of the reanimator, the soul possessing the body may or may not be its original. Oftentimes, a demon will seize the opportunity to wear the flesh of the departed in order to walk upon the earth.”

“Gives a whole new meaning to zombie,” Kirstin said. “But come on, there’s gotta be a definition in there for a Ouija board.”

“Hang on.” Jennica flipped back a few pages and then smiled. “Here it is. ‘Ouija board: a device used to communicate with the spirits of those who have passed on. The Ouija board, which literally translates as ‘yes, yes,’ is thought to have originated in China more than three thousand years ago. In its simplest form, the Ouija is a flat board with the letters of the alphabet. Users of the Ouija focus their energy upon a small glass, touching their fingertips to it. Upon asking a question, they allow a summoned spirit to channel through the foci of the glass to move it from letter to letter, spelling out whatever answer the spirit wishes to impart. In the twentieth century, the Ouija was mass-produced by a popular board game company who manufactured the boards in Salem, Massachusetts, capitalizing on that city’s fame as the center of witch burning and the board’s reputation as a ‘witchboard.’ This led many to dismiss the Ouija as simply a game. In truth, the Ouija can prove a powerful tool to open communication with the dead. Users must beware, however, as it is never a sure thing with whom one is actually communicating. While it might be the spirit one has called, it is equally possible that an imposter has seen the opening between worlds and used the Ouija as a tool to gain trust and thus a foothold to . . .’”

Jenn stopped and shook her head. “Okay, there ya go. The Encyclopedia of Ouija! This entry goes on for another page!”

Kirstin closed her own book and set it back on the shelf. “Your aunt was the real deal, Jenn.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, she was a witch. A real, honest-to-goodness witch, with seances and spells and potions and probably blood sacrifices in the backyard under a full moon! I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a bloody pentagram in the basement.”

“C’mon,” Jenn said. “She was my aunt. She may have been into all sorts of weird shit, and I’m sure she tried witchcraft with all the books and stuff around here, but I don’t think she was into blood sacrifices. She wouldn’t kill people for crissakes!”

“Did you see how those people looked at us today at the General Store?”

Jenn shrugged. She thought about her own years as a wallflower and having to take the nasty comments and digs from socialites. Ironically, they had been girls kind of like Kirstin: blonde and blue-eyed, and pretty, and they knew it, too. She was always amazed that Kirstin was her friend.

“People are mean like that,” she said. “She was probably just misunderstood.”

Kirstin gave her a sidelong glance. “Have you noticed any particular theme about these books?”

“So, she had interests that went beyond Sunday school.”

“Uh-huh. Would you care to go into the basement and see what else we find there below that crucified bat?”

“Pass.” Jennica closed the Encyclopedia and replaced it on the shelf. Then she picked up the Ouija board and set it in the fireplace opening, then set the rock back in place. “I just wish all this hocus pocus really meant something. Then maybe I could talk to my dad again.” She swept a tear from her eye and shook her head. “I’m wiped,” she announced. “See you in the morning?”

“What about the fire?” Kirstin asked, pointing. The logs had burned down, but there were still glowing orange embers.

“It’ll die on its own,” Jenn promised. A wave of depression rolled over her. “Just like everything.”

Returning to her aunt’s bedroom, Jennica couldn’t help but look at the door to the basement. Just beyond the white-painted wood, she could see the mummified bat in her mind’s eye. And when she looked at the dark wood of her aunt’s dresser, she imagined Meredith there, brushing her hair in the evening, thinking whatever thoughts she’d had out here in the middle of nowhere, night after night. All alone for years.

“Who were you?” she murmured. Then a shiver shook her spine. A part of her worried that her aunt might answer.

She brushed her teeth and pulled on her oversize T-shirt, then turned out the light seconds before slipping under the covers of the bed. She’d changed the sheets, but still she could smell someone else on them, smell the alien nature of her surroundings. This was not her room. This was not her house. This was not where she belonged.

Meredith Perenais’s Journal

November 2, 1984

The only true evil in this life is small-mindedness.

That evil thrives, unchecked.

If only it could be cut out, like eyes from a pumpkin.

CHAPTER

TEN

Sometimes it was really hard to be Jennica Murphy’s best friend.

Kirstin loved Jenn; she’d felt instantly close to her since the first day they met. It had been back at the student union in college. Kirstin was sitting in a big, cushy red-leather chair, surreptitiously spiking a paper cup of Mountain Dew with vodka, but just as she tipped her flask under the cup lid, a couple jocks ran through and banged into the back of the chair, nearly toppling her to the floor. She’d spilled the entire cup down her shirt.

“Son of a motherfuckin’ bitch!”

A dark-haired girl sat near her, feet tucked under her butt, oblivious to everyone else. The girl was actually studying—serious about it. Only then had she looked up. “What happened?”