the path near his home he was waiting for them as before, holding a lantern and his own rifle.
“Get away, get away!” Fish cried, waving them off.
“It’s coming,” Francis said, “And we should stand together and stop it for good. It tried to break into my cabin, and it will likely try the same here.” Fish was shaking his head. “No, we are safe inside, safe with the fire burning! Get away!”
“It’s not enough,” Francis said, climbing down from the wagon. “This thing will come for you and your children unless we—“ A cascade of breaking branches echoed within the forest. It was followed by a low, drawn out rumble that seemed to surround them.
Every forest creature from birds to crickets went quiet.
“It’s him,” Fish said, his eyes rolling in panic. “Big Jack has heard us.
Lord God Jesus Christ, save my sinning soul!” He ran back toward his cabin, the lantern swaying madly.
There was a cacophony of breaking branches as loud as gunfire in the night. Just as Fish approached the door of his home something stepped out from behind the cabin and slashed at his middle with a huge, misshapen hand. Fish let out a wretched cry.
Francis had not heard a sound like that since his time in battle, so many years before.
The lantern Fish had been carrying smashed upon the ground, spattering oil that set the front of the cabin ablaze.
Stephen and Molly peeked through the canvas flaps of the wagon, and Stephen immediately covered his sister’s eyes.
Fish’s rifle was snapped in two, and then the towering, indistinct thing broke Fish in two as well, grabbing Fish by the neck and the groin and bending the man backward until his spine snapped and his head touched his heels. His huge lacerated belly split open and spilled his guts upon the earth, where they steamed in the crisp night air.
Lorna screamed.
The monstrosity threw Fish flat on the ground and tore away the man’s breeches. It reached out and ripped a bloody, quivering chunk of meat and fat from Fish’s ample left buttock. It raised its misshapen hand, and in the light of the growing fire the flesh seemed to melt and be absorbed by the rough bark covering those crude fingers.
The oiled paper in the front window of the Fish cabin caught flame with a dramatic flaring light.
The Punkin Man backed away from the growing flames, and Francis could only stare. It seemed to be made of twisted roots and woven branches that made the shape of a man, with legs and arms and hands. Growing from the narrow stem of the neck was a huge pumpkin with two soft rotten spots that looked like eyes.
The Punkin Man began striding toward the wagon.
“Stephen,” Francis said calmly. “My rifle.” He and the boy had drilled for this, for trouble. Stephen was to always have his father’s weapons within reach when traveling and if they were requested the boy was to hand them over, the firearms loaded with powder and shot.
The horses smelled something then, their nostrils flaring. They began to dance with fear and Lorna had to fight the reins to hold them in place.
The Punkin Man was getting closer. It was a foot taller than Francis and he was a tall man, a little over six feet. The creature’s feet looked like clusters of roots ripped from the soil and there were small green buds of new growth all over its body, a body that creaked like thick branches in a strong wind with every step.
“Boy! My rifle!” Without looking back he reached out. Francis’
prized Kentucky Longrifle was set in his right hand. He swung the stock into his left palm, sighted down the long barrel and fired.
There was a sharp crack as the ball struck the Punkin Man in the chest. Splinters clattered and flew and Francis saw white pulp exposed under shredded bark. The thing let out a low rumble.
The Punkin Man was still coming.
“Pistol,” Francis said, handing the rifle back to his son without talking his eyes from the brutish thing advancing on him. He heard Stephen sniffing back fearful tears and was filled with pride when the rifle was taken and his flintlock was promptly set in his open hand.
The pistol was woefully inaccurate. Francis had cracked open more skulls using the walnut grip as a cudgel, but the Punkin Man was close enough now that the pistol could be put to use, close enough that he could see this was no perverse prank or Indian trickery. He could see through gaps in the woven chest of the thing as if looking through a thick hedge, those eye-like circles of rot in the pumpkin mesmerizing him.
He fired a single shot into one of the rotten spots that looked like malevolent eyes. Seeds and pulp blew out the back of the thing’s pumpkin head. It shuddered, moaned in a hollow, unearthly voice, and took another step forward.
Francis tossed the pistol aside and shouted, “Stephen, my sword!” The hilt of his old French hanger kissed his palm and Francis drove the blade into the center of the Punkin Man’s head. It convulsed, and then recovered. He withdrew the blade and struck again, this time where a human heart would be seated. The steel shaft clattered against wood as strong as iron, slipping between strands braided like wicker. The Punkin Man turned sharply and Francis was nearly unmanned by the strength of the monstrosity as the sword was ripped from his grip. The Punkin Man drew the sword out of its torso and tossed it away.
Francis turned to his wife. “Go! Leave me and get the children to safety!” He had always known Lorna would make a good frontierswoman despite her prim exterior and aggravating piety and he was not proven wrong now. Praying aloud, she snapped the reins and the wagon carried the children down the road to safety.
A cry from inside the cabin caught Francis’ attention. The front of the home was now sheathed in flame. He ran past the Punkin Man and circled around to the back of the long cabin, realizing that as strong as the creature was it was not very fast. He pulled one of the shutters open and saw four children huddled together in a corner. Their mother was standing by a blanket hung on a string, a makeshift wall, holding a knife in one hand and a swaddled baby in the other. The blanket began to burn, revealing a raging fire inside the cabin that was now engulfing the roof.
Francis gestured and the children scrambled out the window with his help. Fish’s wife gave him the baby. He took it from her as the other children began to yell,
Something that felt like a staff of solid ash slammed into the right side of his head and he fell, turning to land on his back so he would not hurt the child. He looked up and saw the Punkin Man reach through the window and grab Adeline Fish with a hand formed of twisted branches. He could see flames racing across the ceiling of the cabin and scuttled backward on his haunches. In cold silence the pumpkin-headed creature began peeling off the woman’s face as she shrieked her life away. The thing let go of her and stepped back just as the roof collapsed, engulfing the woman. Burning logs and hot coals danced across the ground behind the cabin.
Francis backed up against something solid. He turned and saw a broad stump used as a chopping block, and an axe. He got to his feet, his head still reeling as he pulled the axe free of the old wood. He carefully set the baby down on the block just as the Punkin Man came for him.
He raised the axe and swung it down with all his strength. The blade was buried in the pumpkin head a moment and then he wrenched it free. He was not going to lose this weapon like he lost his sword. The thing swiped at him and his jacket, shirt and chest were sliced thrice as if by knives. Francis let out a wild cry and swung the axe again, severing the neck stem of springy green wood and sending the pumpkin head rolling across the clearing.
The Fish children were at the edge of the woods and Francis was relieved to see the oldest had taken the baby.
The body of the Punkin Man had fallen flat on its back and was thrashing at the ground, golden sap bubbling and spurting from the neck stem. Francis went to the severed head and looked into the hole created by his first strike with the axe. There was something there, inside the pumpkin, fleetingly glimpsed in the light of the burning cabin. The light shifted, and he saw more.
“My God,” Francis said.
It was a writhing gray obscenity the size of a man’s hand. Tentacles reached out to all sides from the central pulsating mass, and down to the green stem of the neck. One of the tentacles had been slashed by Francis’
