The Pumpkin Carver 

First the chills,

then the alertness.

That’s how all spooky stories begin – with a collar sweating tremble.

A crooked back hunched over the crackling fire, whilst the orange, stained blade of a knife clutched in a vein shrouded hand, glinted evilly. A low, throaty chuckle resonated across the pit of nightfall. Long, unkempt nails pitched into the juicy flesh – the fresh blood dribbling down the punctured skin. It groaned in weakening protest. Yet it silently obeyed to every whim of the winking blade and permitted its insides to be churned out. Messy, horrible and a very distasteful look.

Jagged scar after scar, torn artery after artery, pierced skin after skin . . . it felt honoured to feel the touch of the mass torturer first hand. Yet that wasn’t the worst part. Every Halloween, there is always that one child, that one human being, that one animate object with a fluttering heart that is allured into stillness. A stillness so void they become a dull, copper two pence. Somewhere, where only they know, huddled palms cup a lingering spirit. The spirit of that child.

The fiery glow of metaphorical fireflies enraptured the tissue exposed to the oxygen depriving it from rotting as rapidly. Arm power stabbed downwards. The candle plunged deep into the niche grooved into the organ by gaunt hands. Head bent as if in prayer with pursed lips, a gentle billow of air was released to softly aid the radiance to waffle onto the stern, black wick. With as much respect the stolen spirit of a naïve child could muster, it settled upon the candle. Yet as the minutes clock by, it remains harder for the spirit to bestow that dignity. And the light it gives out diminishes as the spirits self-respect dies out . . . dies out forever. Yes, that is right – that one poor child’s identity is lost forever for the needs of the consumer. You.

It was no respectable job that held pinches of brutality and theft. Yet it was a successful trade that reeked of tainted pureness. For she was the pumpkin carver, and I, the blooming candle spirit. It was her signature name. The Pumpkin Carver.

First the chills,

then the alertness.

That’s how all spooky stories begin and end – with a collar sweating tremble and a pondering mind . . .

Here’s a little something for you all on Halloween Night. If any of you are trick or treating, stay safe and take care! 



3 thoughts on “The Pumpkin Carver 

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