The Pumpkin Man

he was doubly irritated when his sinuses suddenly hitched up, trembled, and then he let out a series of six rapid-fire sneezes. Again he wiped his face with an increasingly wet shirtsleeve and continued his work.

The carver had a kit of knives that he used, like the OR tray of a surgeon. He kept them in a black leather case that folded outward to reveal differently shaped blades, each prized instrument tucked into its own sleeve. His fingers used each as if it were an extension of him.

His knives were relentless. Piece by piece, the face of the victim took shape in the pumpkin beside him. First he dipped his knife into the model’s face, sampling the essence of the man with his blade, drawing something of the model into his tool. Then he moved his fingers to the pumpkin and slid the wet blade into the hard shell, carving the image of the man into the gourd, with the man’s blood as lubricant, and his lost soul as the bridge between flesh and portrait. The carver cut first with a long, curved edge, outlining the form, marking the way. Then he set the opener to the side and refined the incision with a tiny wire-thin implement: a shaper. His hands moved back and forth from pumpkin to knife kit in a blur. Time was short. Some blades were hooked, with edges on both sides. Others stabbed. Still others shaved. They all worked together to reveal the face beneath the surface.

After three decades of carving, nobody could match him in speed or artistry. In years past, he had performed his carving magic for audiences at festivals and carnivals and even private parties, albeit with less terminal consequences. He was like a sidewalk caricature sketch man, turning pumpkins into the garish portraits of boys and girls, men and women, even dogs and cats. It was almost as if he imprinted their souls in the gourds, his viewers had marveled. But they also shivered.

Why did they shiver? It was creepy to take your pumpkin home, prop it in the window and then later walk into your living room and see yourself staring back, lit by the flickering tremor of a candle flame. And, moms got a frightened feeling when they watched him duplicate little Billy or Sarah on the skin of a twenty-pound pumpkin. They cringed when he touched their children, though he did so gently with one hand while the other stabbed the gourd. He always touched his subjects as he worked. The connection helped him pour something of them into his art. It made his carvings true. It almost gave them breath.

But, that had been then. This was now, and now he had to work fast. And to work fast, he had to do more than touch his subjects with a finger. No . . . he stabbed the knives into them, and carried the blood over to the pumpkin as he re-created their faces on orange canvas.

The carver sneezed and impatiently honked to clear his throat as he sliced the knife deep into the man’s cheek, drawing out the essence with a deft slice and then removing the knife from the heat of the dying face to transfer the model’s essence to the pumpkin. The flicker of energy in the man’s glare was fading. With short, tiny slices the carver slit the vinyl-like skin in the pumpkin to form the tiny breaks in the man’s smile. The man’s pumpkin-cut smile.

He dipped his blade into the man’s bloodied, tongue-less mouth, and it returned a brilliant, vibrant red—both color and lubricant. Then he drew a long, thin slit on the side of the gourd and brought the blade around, like following the delicate spiral of a conch shell. He repeated the motions on the other side, providing the pumpkin head with the representation of ears. Then he held his palm over the man’s mouth, as if trying to stop the last breath of life from escaping.

The carver chose a different knife; thinner, razor-sharp. He stared into his victim’s dying eyes, his other hand working seemingly without guidance, shaping and refining the features already roughed out on the pumpkin skin. The hand finished the mouth with a long flourish, slicing away a millimeter of orange pulp and casting it to the floor. It glimmered there in the half-light, the last viscera of the act of transference.

His model choked on his own blood, eyes blinking frantically in the final moments of life. So the carver picked up a heavier, longer blade. He sat astride the man’s chest, held the butchering blade to his throat. Then, with one hand, he pressed his fingers to the new face he’d fostered on the pumpkin.

It ended quickly. The man beneath him gave a short cough in sync with the pull of his knife. The carver pulled the knife through again. And again. At last the blade rebounded from the wood of the floor with a clink, and when it was finished, the carver lifted his model’s head from its body by the hair. He set it momentarily to the side and replaced it with the glistening pumpkin. The dead head looked deflated without its eyes, and with trails of blood from the thin tears in its cheeks. But the new head, next to it . . . now that was a work of artistry!

He stood back to admire his work, sneezed again and rubbed his arm against his face in disgust. Then he gathered his knives and the man’s head and walked out of the house into the black of night. Nobody saw him come or go. But the next day the entire town knew one thing for sure:

The Pumpkin Man was back.

Meredith Perenais’s Journal

April 23, 1981

Sometimes I feel like I’ve lived most of my life under a rock. There are so many things that I’m learning here: How the world really works. The difference between a wish and a dream—and a curse and a hex. The library George’s family has amassed is fascinating and helping me understand. He won’t talk about any of it, though.

Animal totems and their powers are one thing I’ve focused on. I have always hated snakes, but if you need the ability to slip into places unseen, theirs is the strength to court. And, who knew that bats are the true guardians of the dark way? A bat can open the door to the spirit world or keep it closed. With a bat as your familiar—ha, I can’t even believe I wrote that—you can gain so much protection . . . and entree.

I wish that I could have known George’s family instead of trying to pick up their wisdom from the things they left behind. Still, this house is rich with history. Rich with the invisible. I know they’ve been here with me these past months and years, guiding me to this point. Opening the way.

Today I nailed a bat to the doorway into the basement. I placed a warding spell on it that will protect whoever sleeps in this room. It’s a simple thing, a simple spell. But it will ease my mind as I try to sleep. I won’t have to worry about the things in the walls. I won’t have to worry about losing my George. In the end, it’s all about protecting those that you hold dear, isn’t it? In any way you can.

I never thought that I would do anything like this . . . but there are some things that a woman has to do to protect what she loves. No matter what.

CHAPTER

SIX

Midterms came and went in a blink. Jennica struggled to keep up, but the days passed in a blur. She still got calls from newspaper reporters following up on the mysterious murder of her father, but the story faded from front-page news to back-page updates. The police still said they had nothing, and Jenn was growing frustrated with their handling of the situation. Whenever she asked about the exact details surrounding the discovery of the body, the lieutenant grew taciturn, suggesting there were a couple clues that they were holding close to the vest.

She’d given up asking, though. It didn’t matter. Her dad was dead, and the killer had walked away with his head. His head! What the fuck? How much more did she really want to know?

The fourth-period bell interrupted her musings, and the class slapped shut chapter seventeen of their textbooks as one. In moments the room was empty except for a familiar figure in the doorway. Sister Beatrice again. Jennica groaned. The presence of the principal was never a good omen. The name sounded so sweet and unassuming and kind. The woman was anything but.

“Ms. Murphy,” the sister said, her mouth drawn in a thin line. “I need to see you in my office.”

That was an even worse sign.

Jennica scooped up her papers, grabbed her bag and followed the nun down the hallway. Sister Beatrice cut a