Bill Pronzini

Pumpkin

The first Amanda Sutter knew of the pumpkin, the strange pumpkin, was a day in late September.

She had spent most of that morning and early afternoon shopping in Half Moon Bay, and it was almost two o’clock when she pointed the old Dodge pickup south on Highway One. She watched for the sign at the farm road, as she always did; finally saw it begin to grow in the distance, until she could read, first, the bright orange letters that said SUTTER PUMPKIN FARM, and then the smaller black letters underneath: The Biggest, The Tastiest, The Best – First Prize Winner, Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival, 2006.

Amanda smiled as she turned past the sign, onto the farm’s unpaved access road. The wording had been Harley’s idea, which had surprised some people who didn’t know him very well. Harley was a quiet, reserved man – too reserved, sometimes; she was forever trying to get him to let his hair down a little – and he never bragged. As far as he was concerned, the sign was simply a statement of fact. “Well, our pumpkins are the biggest, the tastiest, the best,” he’d said when one of their neighbors asked him about it. “And we did win first prize in ’06. If the sign said anything else, it’d be a lie.”

That was Harley for you, in a nutshell.

The road climbed up a bare-backed hill, and when she reached the crest Amanda stopped the pickup to admire the view. She never tired of it, especially at this time of year and on this sort of crisp, clear early fall day. The white farm buildings lay in a little pocket directly below, with the fields stretching out on three sides and the ocean vast and empty beyond. The pumpkins were ripe now, the same bright orange as the lettering on the sign – Connecticut Field for the most part, with a single parcel devoted to Small Sugar; hundreds of them dotting the brown and green earth like a bonanza of huge gold nuggets, gleaming in the afternoon sun. The sun-glare was caught on the ruffly blue surface of the Pacific, too, so that it likewise held a sheen of orange-gold.

She sat for a time watching the Mexican laborers Harley had hired to harvest the pumpkins – to first cut their stems and then, once they had their two to three weeks of curing in the fields, load the bulk of the crop onto produce trucks for shipment to San Francisco and San Jose. It wouldn’t be long now until Halloween. And on the weekend preceding it, the annual Pumpkin Festival.

The festival attracted thousands of people from all over the Bay Area and was

the year’s big doings in Half Moon Bay. There was a parade featuring the high school band and kids dressed up in Halloween costumes; there were booths selling crafts, whole pumpkins, and pumpkin delicacies – pies and cookies, soups and breads; and on Sunday the competition between growers in the area for the season’s largest exhibition pumpkin was held. The year Sutter Farm had won the contest, 2006, the fruit Harley had carefully nurtured in a mixture of pure compost and spent-mushroom manure weighed in 336 pounds. There had been no blue ribbons since, but the prospects were good for this season: one of Harley’s new exhibition pumpkins had already grown to better than 320 pounds.

Amanda put the Dodge in gear and drove down the road to the farmyard. When she came in alongside the barn she saw her husband talking to one of the laborers, a middle-aged Latino named Manuel. No, not talking, she realized as she shut off the engine – arguing. She could hear Manuel’s raised voice, see the tight, pinched look Harley always wore when he was annoyed or upset.

She went to where they stood. Manuel was saying, “I will not do it, Mr. Sutter. I am sorry, I will not.”

“Won’t do what?” Amanda asked.

Harley said, “Won’t pick one of the pumpkins.” His voice was pitched low but the strain of exasperation ran through it. “He says it’s haunted.”

“What!”

“Not haunted, Mr. Sutter,” Manuel said. “No, not that.” He turned appealing eyes to Amanda. “This pumpkin must not be picked, senora. No one must cut its

stem or its flesh, no one must eat it.”

“I don’t understand, Manuel. Whyever not?”

“There is something…I cannot explain it. You must see this pumpkin for yourself. You must…feel it.”

“Touch it, you mean?”

“No. Feel it.”

Harley said, “You’ve been out in the sun too long, Manuel.”

“This is not a joke, senor,” Manuel said in grave tones. “The other men do not feel it as strongly as I, but they also will not pick this pumpkin. We will all leave if it is cut, and we will not come back.”

Amanda felt a vague chill, as if someone had blown a cold breath against the back of her neck. She said, “Where is this pumpkin?”

“The east field. Near the line fence.”

“Have you seen it, Harley?” she asked her husband.

“Not yet. We might as well go out there, I guess.”

“Yes,” Manuel said. “Come with me, see for yourself. Feel for yourself.”

Amanda and Harley got into the pickup; Manuel had drive in from the fields in one of the laborers’ flatbed trucks, and he led the way in that. They clattered across the hilly terrain to the field farthest from the farm buildings, to its farthest section close to the pole-and-barbed wire line fence. From there, Manuel guided them on foot among the rows of big trailing vines with their heart-shaped leaves and their heavy ripe fruit. Eventually he stopped and pointed without speaking. Across a barren patch of soil, a single pumpkin grew by itself, on its own vine, no

others within five yards of it.

At first Amanda noticed nothing out of the ordinary. It seemed to be just another Connecticut Field, larger than most though nowhere near exhibition size, a little darker orange than most. But then she moved closer, and she saw that it was…different. She couldn’t have said quite how it was different, but there was something….

“Well?” Harley said to Manuel. “What about it?”

“You don’t feel it, senor?”

“No. Feel what?”

But Amanda felt it. She couldn’t have explained that, either; it was just an aura, a sense of something emanating from the pumpkin that made her uneasy, brought primitive little stirrings of fear and disgust into her mind.

“I do, Harley,” she said, and hugged herself. “I know what he means.”

“You too? Well, I still say it’s nonsense. I’m going to cut it and be done with it. Manuel, let me have your knife….”

Manuel backed away, putting his hand over the sharp harvesting knife at his belt. “Por Dios, no, Mr. Sutter. No. You must not!”

“Harley,” Amanda said sharply, “he’s right. Leave it be.”

“Damn. Why should I?”

“It is evil,” Manuel said, and looked away from the pumpkin and made the sign of the cross. “It is an evil thing.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. How can a pumpkin be evil?”

Amanda remembered something her uncle, who had been a Presbyterian minister, had said to her when she was a child: Evil takes many forms, Mandy. Evil shares our bed and eats at our own table. Evil is everywhere, in every size and shape.

She said, feeling chilled, “Harley, I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but that pumpkin is an an evil thing. Leave it alone. Let it rot where it lies.”

Manuel crossed himself again. “Yes, senora! We will cover it, hide it from the sun, and it will wither and die. It can do no harm if it lies here untouched.”

Harley thought they were crazy, that was plain enough. But he let them have their way. He sat in the truck while Manuel went to get a piece of milky plastic rain sheeting and two other men to help him. Amanda stood near the pickup’s front fender and watched the men cover the pumpkin, anchor the sheeting with wooden stakes and chunks of rock.

Harley had little to say during supper that night, and soon afterward he went out to his workshop in the barn. He was annoyed at what he called her “foolishness,” and Amanda couldn’t really blame him. The incident with the pumpkin had already taken on a kind of surreal quality in her memory, so that she had begun to think that maybe she and Manuel and the other workers were a pack of superstitious fools.

She went out to sit on the porch, bundled up in her heavy wool sweater, as night came down and blacked out the last of the sunset colors over the ocean. An evil pumpkin, she thought. Good Lord, it was ridiculous – a Halloween joke, a sly fantasy tale for children like those her father used to tell of ghosts and goblins, witches and warlocks, things that went bump in the dark Halloween night. How could a pumpkin be evil? Pumpkins were about as harmless a fruit as there was. You made pies and cookies from them, you carved them into grinning jack-o’-lanterns; they were a symbol of a grand old tradition, a happy children’s rite of fall.

And yet…

When she concentrated she could picture the way the strange pumpkin had looked, feel again the vague aura of evil that radiated from it. A small shiver passed through her. Why hadn’t Harley felt it too? Some people just weren’t sensitive to auras and emanations, she supposed that was it. He was too practical, too logical, too much of a skeptic – a true son of Missouri, the “Show Me” state, where he’d been born. He simply couldn’t understand.

How did the damned thing get in their field? Where did it come from?

What was it?

She found herself looking out toward the east field, as if the pumpkin might somehow be pulsing and glowing under its plastic covering, lighting up the night. There was nothing to see but darkness, of course. Silly. Ridiculous. But if it were picked…she did not want to think about what might happen if that woody, furrowed stem were sliced through, that thick dark orange rind cracked open.

The days passed, and October came, and soon most of the crop had been shipped and the balance put away in the storage shed, and Manuel and the other laborers were gone.All that remained in the fields was the massive exhibition pumpkin that Harley would enter in this year’s contest, and the dwarfs and damaged and withered fruit that had been left to decay into natural fertilizer for the spring planting. Those, and the strange pumpkin near the east fence, hidden under its thick plastic shroud.

Amanda was too busy, as always at harvest time, to think much about the pumpkin. But she did go out there twice, once with Harley and once alone. The first time, Harley wanted to take off the sheeting and look at the thing; she couldn’t let him. The second time, alone, she had stood in a cold sea wind and felt again the emanation of evil, the responsive stirrings of terror and disgust. It was as if the pumpkin were trying to exert some telepathic force upon her, as if it were saying, “Cut my stem…open me up…eat me….”

She pulled away finally, almost with a sense of having wrenched loose from grasping hands, and drove away determined to do something drastic: take a can of gasoline up there and set fire to the thing, burn it to a cinder, get rid of it once and for all.

But she didn’t do it. When she got back to the house she had calmed down and her fears again seemed silly, childish. A telepathic pumpkin, for heaven’s sake! A telepathic evil pumpkin! She didn’t even tell Harley of the incident.

More days passed, most of October fell away like dry leaves, and the weekend before Halloween arrived – the weekend of the Pumpkin Festival. The crowds were thick on both Saturday and Sunday; Amanda, working the traditional Sutter Farm booth, sold dozens of pumpkins, mainly to families with children who wanted them for Halloween jack-o’-lanterns. She enjoyed herself the first day, but not the second. Harley’s new exhibition pumpkin weighed out at 348 pounds and he fully expected to win his long-awaited second blue ribbon, but he didn’t. Aaron Douglas, who owned a farm up near Princeton, won first prize with a 360-pound Connecticut Field giant.

Harley took the loss hard. He wouldn’t eat his supper Sunday night and moped around on Monday and Halloween Tuesday, spending most of both days at the stand they always set up near Highway One to catch any last-minute shoppers. There were several this year: everyone, it seemed, wanted a nice fat pumpkin for Halloween.

All Hallows Eve.

Amanda stood at the kitchen window, looking out toward the fields. It was just after five o’clock, darkness settling rapidly; a low wispy fog had drifted in off the Pacific and was curling around the outbuildings, hiding most of the land beyond. She could barely see the barn, where Harley had gone to his workshop. She wished he would come back, even if he was still broody over the results of the contest. It was quiet here in the house, a little too quiet to suit her, and she felt oddly restless.

Behind her on the stove, hard cider flavored with cinnamon bubbled in a big iron pot. Harley loved hot cider at this time of year; he’d had three cups before going out and it had flushed his face, put a faint slur in his voice – he never had been much of a drinking man. But she didn’t mind. Alcohol loosened him up a bit,

stripped away some of his reserve. Usually it made him laugh, too, but not on this

night.

The fog seemed to be thickening; the lights in the barn had been reduced to smeary yellow blobs on the gray backdrop. A fine night for Halloween, she thought. And she smiled a wistful smile as a pang of nostalgia seized her.

Halloween had been a special night when she was a child, a night of exciting ritual. First, the carving of the jack-o’-lantern – how she’d loved that! Her father always brought home the biggest, roundest pumpkin he could find, and they would scoop it out together, and cut out its eyes and nose and jagged gap-toothed grin, and light the candle inside, and then set it grinning and glowing on the porch for all the neighbors and trick-or-treaters to see. Then the dressing up in the costume her mother had made for her: a witch with a blacked-out front tooth and a tall-crowned hat, an old broom tucked under one arm; a ghost in a sewn white sheet, her face smeared with cold cream; a lady pirate in a crimson tunic and an eye patch, carrying a wooden sword covered in tinfoil.

Then the trick-or-treating, and the bags full of candy and gum and fruit and popcorn balls and caramel apples, and the harmless pranks like soaping old Mrs. Collier’s windows because she never answered her doorbell, or tying bells to the tail of Mr. Dawson’s cat. Then the party afterward, with all her friends from school – cake with orange icing and pumpkin pie, blindfold games and bobbing for apples, and afterward, with the lights turned out and the curtains open so they could see the jack-o’-lantern grinning and glowing on the porch, the ghost and goblin stories, and the delicious thrill of terror when her father described the fearful things that

prowled and hunted on Hallowmas Eve.

Amanda’s smile faded as she remembered that last part of the ritual. Her

father telling her that Halloween had originated among the ancient Druids, who believed that on this night, legions of evil spirits were called forth by the Lord of the Dead. Saying that the only way to ward them off was to light great fires, and even then…even then… Saying that on All Hallows’ Eve, according to the ancient beliefs, evil was at its strongest and most profound.

Evil like that pumpkin out there?

She shuddered involuntarily and found herself trying to peer past the shimmery outlines of the barn. But the east field was invisible, clamped inside the bony grasp of the fog. That damned pumpkin! she thought. I should have taken some gasoline out there and set fire to it. Exorcism by fire.

Then she thought: Come on, Mandy, that’s superstitious nonsense, just as Harley says. The pumpkin is only a pumpkin. Nothing is going to happen here tonight.

But it was so quiet…

Abruptly she turned from the window, went to the stove, picked up her spoon to stir the hot cider. If Harley didn’t come back pretty soon, she’d put on her coat and go out to the barn and fetch him. She just didn’t like being here alone, not tonight of all nights.

So quiet…

The back door burst open.

She had no warning; the door just flew inward, the knob thudding into the kitchen wall. “Harley!” she cried as he came in out of the foggy darkness. “For God’s

sake, you half scared me to death! What’s the idea of-”

Then she saw his face. And what he held dripping in his hand.

She screamed.

He rushed toward her, and she tried to run, and he caught her and threw her to the floor, pinned her there with his weight. His face loomed above her, stained with stringy pulp and seeds, and she knew what the cider and his brooding had led him to do tonight – knew what was about to happen even before the thing that had been her husband opened its goblin’s mouth and the words came out in a drooling litany of evil.

“You’re next…you’re next…you’re next…”

The handful of dripping pulp mashed against her mouth, forcing some of the bitter juice past her lips and stifling another scream. She gagged, fought wildly for a few seconds…and then stopped struggling, lay still.

She smiled up at him, a wet dark orange smile.

Now there were two of them, the first two – two to sow the seeds for next year’s Halloween harvest.

Content

Bill Pronzini
Pumpkin