Pumpkin King
We lived together, just me and just him. He was the one to throw all caution to the wind. Upon his face that grin would spread, those fangs displayed and filling my world with dread. Those teeth, how they glistened in the moonlight. Yet only visible to me, for me alone a fright. But I would only titter—the laughter of a school girl, he thought to be allured—and rock from heel to toe to heel and back. All the while my hands would clap together in applause—more, please more! In response he would twirl—pirouette off the stage he had created.
The Pumpkin King danced atop the bodies of the folk, whose lives he often debated. At last would their corpses and skeletons grin in utter adoration for their maker—for him.
I skipped along, following him as the fiddle he played sang out such songs. My nightgown fluttered in the wind, my bare feet tip-tapping as they pattered towards him. Ever-grinning, the Pumpkin King quirked his finger, and ever more I would refuse to linger in a place for too long. I could not do so, not while he summoned me to continue on.
We strolled to the graveyard, where at long last he stopped. He splayed himself across the grave, carefully as though it might pop. At once he presented the tombstone like one would a gem. I knew by heart the bold cursive, the name of my long-lost companion.
I swallowed thickly, my throat moving in undulation; then allowed my fingers to trail along those familiar indentations.
“I remember,” he said with his smile widening further. “I remember her as one does a lover. She was the youngest girl; she screamed and she cried. It was so delicious, how she hid from me twice. Yet I sought her out without a chance of failure. I dragged her back; only I could be her savior.”
The Pumpkin King pressed the tip of his finger flat to my nose. I shuddered in response, yet found my voice lost to the world. My stomach churned and the acid lapped towards my heart. I knew from experience that this was only the start. Oh, I ached, how I ached from his words. I begged for an end, but knew it would only get worse.
He laughed merrily, like he did every year. Six years in total; six filled with my fear. The Pumpkin King danced off towards the second grave. There he twirled and offered it up on display. I followed while he laughed out some more. I half expected a raven to cry out—Ellenore was long since dead, the first on his list. I’d met her just once and then that was it.
I dropped to my knees at her graveside and listened, without protest, of her death by the King of Pumpkins.
A brutal slap to the face, some pulled hair and plucked tooth. The Pumpkin King spoke fondly of his work with an absurdly artistic view. He painted the picture so vividly for me. I shuddered just as I had at its every telling. Hands clasped together, as if offering up prayer. He told me the tale of her greatest despair.
My heart raced along deep within my chest. I listened to how her death made such a mess. And at the end I forced myself to offer that round of applause, lest I suffer his wrath—and that would be the worst of all.
With a flourishing bow he moved on once more—here he went to victim number four. He paused, his eyes glued on me. I refused to react though I could hardly breathe. I hardened my heart, pretended I was alone as I stared at the material that made up the tombstone. The name upon its surface taunted and teased. I had known her so long, yet still the Pumpkin King had taken her life without hesitation. Gut held in his hands, he offered up further explanation. He told the tale that marked the death of my closest friend. He smirked, laughed, and chuckled from beginning to end.
“She had been the first one I met,” he said with such glee. “Yet I saved her a while—she led you to me.”
Here he patted my head and leaned down for a kiss. I refused to pucker up, yet still he did not miss. I trembled nonstop while he played with my hair. These years of abuse, each year so unfair. This part was the worst; to relive the times that they died; to hear it again with their murderer by my side. The Pumpkin King presented it all as a story of our love—the delusion he made reality wear like a glove.
“Do you remember,” he asked me that night, “the day we first met?”
Try as I might, I could not forget. “In the pumpkin field,” I replied with so much regret. My voice crackled each word, and his eyes became my coffin. My hesitance was unacceptable, he would remark so often.
With a deep breath, I apologized and blamed such things that would put me in jeopardy on a fondness of that dreadful memory. As for the Pumpkin King, he accepted this with no argument. Then further still grew his merriment.
“Good girl, good girl. Let’s move onto the next chess piece.”
I could not argue, not as his queen. I could not abandon him; that just wouldn’t do. For every step he took, I moved forward two. We arrived at her grave too soon for my taste. I choked on my tongue, on my words, on my hate. Yet all the same I made myself grin. This wasn’t for me; this was all just for him—to watch me crumble under his cruelty and abuse. We arrived at the one I barely even knew. He had killed her last year, the sixth on his list. I swallowed my tears as he spoke fondly like this:
“She was in our field, don’t you remember, my dear?” I nodded and I nodded, waiting for him to steer the conversation in the direction I was beginning to fear. He prattled on for a moment regarding our love. That false life he wove, based on delusion. At last he returned to the correct tale, and I listened with horror, my face growing pale. “Five times she came. I counted that, you know. I wonder if she knew of the five lives I took before?”
The Pumpkin Kind slid his gaze to me, and I lost my breath with that accusatory glance. I avoided his eyes; I dared not take that chance. The ground was most interesting; my hands were in fists. My heart was a drum—I couldn’t stand this. Every sound echoed in my ears and resounded in my mind. I waited for the moment to pass, for him to continue story time.
He grabbed me by the shoulders and steered me to grave three. He spoke with such passion, such love and such glee. His lips beside my ear, his breath a burning blaze. He uttered every syllable—oh the horror that it gave. The Pumpkin King recited to me the last words of the girl who had denied him love and refused him her world. She denied body, soul and mind; and so he took her here and buried her alive.
“Is that what you wanted?” he asked while his arms busied themselves. They wrapped around my waist, holding me ever-still. To him I remained securely fastened; together we pirouetted—danced—towards the fifth grave. I guess the dance was perfected before that day. “We won’t worry over her—here is the last. Do you remember her name?” Like we’re in some class.
Oh, teacher, to me she was some Jane more like a deer. A doe that never spoke before being brought here. The fifth was a grave with no more than a date. My only memory of her face and her fate.
He laughed at my silence, his mirth dancing in the air. “For your sake we’ll call her—let’s name her Claire.”
I rocked once more on my heel to my toe—then back again, forward. I moved just once more. And then I fell still, holding my false applause, as the Pumpkin King started to sing. He recalled with great care that he killed this one in spring. His fiddle serenaded his tale, and I could only stare blankly. I gazed up ahead at stone without blinking. That blanket, that awkward sound of nothing, fell. I existed in that world with no more than he; the folk of the town are as good as dead—let them turn a blind eye to his actions and deeds.
For a last time he led me further onwards, towards the upturned earth. Grinning as always, he pushed me down towards the dirt. I spoke no words and made no sounds as the Pumpkin King climbed atop me. I did this, remained silent, though I wanted to scream. He pressed our bodies together, his forehead against mine. Several words he spoke, and all were lies.
“You betrayed me, you know,” he said after some time. “You promised
you’d love me, that you’d always be mine.”
I had said no such thing, yet could not find my voice. I was unable to argue with the Pumpkin King and his cruel choice. It would have done me no good. Still, I would have tried. As he stood and hovered over me, I would have pled for my life.
The Pumpkin King tossed a flower upon my chest then retrieved the gun from out of his vest. He pointed it at me and my heart skipped a beat. I held up a hand, reached for him, and screamed:
“I don’t want to die.” I croaked as I spoke, as the tears streamed down. I sobbed as he grinned then heard one final sound.
And away walked the Pumpkin King as I died in the field, where first we had met, and where always—without fail—he would kill.
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Other Works by J.C. Kosterman:
Sardonic Suicide
It was a similar beginning for them all; the corpse in the wall of the school building, the mad-woman who had filled her stomach with stones, and the girl who had fallen through the ice. Somehow their deaths were all connected. Twisted into ghost stories, where dead bodies speak and a voice leads others to the riverside, the students and teachers of town think nothing other than the incidences being sheer coincidence. To discover that secret and unravel the mystery, one only has to come to terms with the fact: this is where you die.