The Pumpkin Agent

by Christopher Stanley

(945 words)

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You’ve waited for this night.

The houses have graveyard lawns with headstones that say Scared Stiff and Vacant. Fairy lights smother the sidewalk with their toffee apple glow. Bats dangle above front doors while skeletons linger in bay windows. The whole street looks like something from a child’s radioactive nightmare.

The Pumpkin Agent struts through the neighbourhood, effortlessly achieving Jeff Goldblum levels of swagger. Her sneakered feet slap the concrete as she sways from side to side. She hooks a thumb into the pocket of her trousers, the ones with the orange silk seams. Above these, she wears a dress shirt, a blood red cravat and a black waistcoat. If she could speak, she’d tell you she looks incredible.

You remember when The Pumpkin Agent was a story made up by kids to scare parents into decorating their houses at Halloween. Then she was in the shops, on television and the internet, brought to life by the callous claws of commerce. She was never supposed to be real.

The Pumpkin Agent takes a left onto Jackson, a right onto Glennfrey, and then finds the house she’s searching for: a little patch of darkness in a street lit up with horrors. She opens the gate, startling Mrs Braunstein’s tomcat, which squeals and hurries home.

The man who answers the door looks exactly the way you did when you first saw The Pumpkin Agent. Standing there in his lumberjack shirt, a bowl of brightly-colored candies in his hand, it’s possible to read his thoughts in the expression on his face.

Forced smile: Not another trick-or-treater.

Wide eyes: Great costume!

Creased brow: Where’s her head?

Where a child might wear a mask, The Pumpkin Agent has a giant pumpkin, with sympathetic eyes and a clumsy, square-toothed grin. The pumpkin is hollow, with a single candle burning inside.

The man holds out the bowl of candies. His hand is shaking, and it’s not because of the cold. The Pumpkin Agent twists her oversized head from side to side. She reaches behind her back, producing a knife in one hand and a pumpkin in the other. While the man watches, she carves, littering the path with sweet-smelling pulp and flesh.

“Who is it, Dad?”

The boy appears at his father’s elbow, bright and eager. Your own son had been smoking a joint out of his bedroom window when The Pumpkin Agent arrived. You told yourself it was his age, that his friends were doing the same. It was easier to pretend everything was normal, that he hadn’t been keeping his distance since you kicked his father out.

“Wow!” says the boy. “It looks just like me!”

The Pumpkin Agent places the pumpkin on the bottom step. The carving of the boy is impressive, with a dancing candle flame adding depth and texture. The way the shadows move, it almost seems alive. Apart from the eyes. The eyes look dead-diddly-dead.

“Listen,” says Dad.

The Pumpkin Agent holds up her hand to silence him. By the time Mum arrives, there’s a pumpkin on the second step, too. Mum gasps when she sees her likeness in orange.

“I know we should have decorated,” says Dad.

The Pumpkin Agent is already carving again. A third pumpkin for the top step, the one uncomfortably close to the front door, where the family watch in wonder. Dad’s pumpkin might be the best one yet. But his eyes are empty, lifeless sockets.

“They’re very good,” he says, trying to be assertive. “And your costume is…it’s marvellous. Here, have some candies. Take them all.”

The Pumpkin Agent stands rigid, staring.

“We’re going to go back inside now.”

The Pumpkin Agent reaches up and rotates her head one hundred and eighty degrees. The family watch while the happy face is replaced by rage-filled eyes and a twisted grimace. Dad tries to close the door, but he’s too slow. The Pumpkin Agent’s blade slices his head from his shoulders in one motion. Mum and Son don’t have time to scream before they suffer a similar fate.

You squeeze your eyes closed until it’s over.

There are many reasons why a family might not decorate their home at Halloween. This family were new to the neighbourhood. Their boxes were still in storage. It seems unfair but The Pumpkin Agent doesn’t care for excuses.

Your own reasons weren’t so innocent. The black-market OxyContin in your bedside drawer. The unpaid utility bills and overdue mortgage repayments. The meeting with your employer about the money missing from the cash register. And Kyle, your fifteen-year-old son, whose resentment darkened the walls of your house like mildew. He tried to warn you what would happen if you didn’t decorate, but there was too much noise in your life, and you’d forgotten how to listen.

The Pumpkin Agent strolls home, swinging the severed heads by their hair. Her house is a squashed orange globe that exists for one night a year. It smells of gingerbread and distant bonfires. The whole building glows, but the light is especially bright through the triangular upstairs windows. Brick steps with iron railings lead up to a low, wide entrance. The Pumpkin Agent stands at the foot of the steps. She lifts the severed heads and stares into their not-quite-lifeless eyes. She’ll keep them like this, on the brink of death, as a tribute to the dying year. Before she enters her house, she places them on a step—the one immediately in front of you.

It’s good to have company, and they seem like a nice family. You wonder what Kyle makes of them. You’d be able to see his expression if you could only turn your head.

END

Christopher Stanley lives on a hill in England with three sons who share a birthday but aren’t triplets. He is the author of numerous prize-winning flash fictions, the darkest of which can be found spreading misery and mayhem in his debut collection, The Lamppost Huggers and Other Wretched Tales (The Arcanist, June 2020). He’s also the author of the horror novelette, The Forest is Hungry (Demain Publishing, April 2019) and the short story collection, Unbecoming Me & Other Interruptions (Demain Publishing, September 2020). Follow him @allthosestrings.