The Great Pumpkin

The rain eased and dwindled to a drizzle. The night was quiet now. Every now and then a belated drop would fall to the ground with a soft splash. A breeze rustled the foliage, making it sound as if someone was stumbling through the darkness.

Pelt dug a bottle of vodka out of his pocket and warmed himself with it. When he had emptied it, he hurled it into the field, where it hit something that squeaked and fell to the ground. A dull thud on damp earth and everything was quiet again. Pelt’s neck hair stood up. He sat up and stared into the darkness, forgetting all about the clammy cold. A car sped through the drizzle on the country road above him. Headlights illuminated the field, where wet pumpkins sparkled, like orange heads. Then everything was dark and quiet again. The cold crept back into Pelt’s jacket and shook him.

“You’re going crazy ol’ boy,” he tried to calm himself leaning back against the tree trunk. He closed his eyes, lids and limbs heavy. It took little effort for him to slip into the twilight state he had called sleep ever since he was living on the streets. A state that felt like sleep, but dreams were dictated by reality. It was vital to be aware of what was happening around you; to feel when civilians got too close, to smell when junkies were around. You had to hear the footsteps creeping up like now; the footsteps that came dull and heavy towards him through the field.

Pelt startled and stared into the darkness. Was there a silhouette? That tingling sensation in the back of his neck again, where fear tickled him.

“Hey, who there?” he asked the night, but got no answer. His hand groped along the ground, for something to throw. Finding a stone, he hurled it into the field. It hit something, bounced and fell somewhere, rustling into nothingness. The light of a car flashed past. There really was someone! A black figure rose from the sea of ​​green and orange, like a cloud of mist.

Darkness. The car was gone. Pelt no longer saw anything, only heard the clomp of heavy boots coming toward him. His heart beat violently in his chest and tightened in his throat. He wanted to run, but his legs were stiff from cold, alcohol and fear.

“Pelt? Pelt, that you?”

Pelt knew that voice. “Karl?”

“Pelt, what you doin’ here so far from the city?”

“I … uh, didn’t you wanna go west?”

“Oh, west, east, everythin’s the same. Here.” Karl held a can of beer in front of Pelt’s nose. Pelt took it mechanically. The last time he saw Karl was in summer. Sure it wasn’t exactly yesterday, and yet he wouldn’t have thought that his old friend would lose so much weight. And wasn’t he taller? He couldn’t see his face in the darkness under his broad hat, but that ragged coat definitely was Karl’s.

“You didn’t get far,” said Pelt and opened the beer.

“It’s nice here.” Karl pulled a second can out of his coat and sat down next to his friend. “I found an abandoned cabin in the forest. There’s a stream where I can wash. And I can hunt.” He toasted Pelt. The cans made a sad thud as they touched. “No more beggin’, no condescendin’ looks … Ain’t no one botherin’ you out here.”

Pelt took a long sip. The beer was cold and fresh, rolling down his throat. Did he hunt that too? Picked maybe — from the beer tree.

“I have a home again, Pelt … If you want, you can come. We can live here together.”

Pelt swallowed. A home. He hadn’t had that for a long time, and hadn’t had a friend since summer. But hunting? Fishing? He was a city boy. He wanted to pull himself back to his feet one day. That didn’t seem possible out here. He shook his head, regret creeping in. Coming here had been a stupid idea.

“Thanks Karl, but I gotta go back.”

Karl grabbed his arm. Slim, strong fingers clamped around it almost painfully. “Ain’t gotta do nothin’ Pelt. Come with me, we’ll be free.”

“Thank you, really.” Pelt tried to pull his arm free, but his friend wouldn’t let go. A passing car illuminated Karl’s face. Goosebumps. Pelt’s breath caught in his throat. Green hair emerged from under Karl’s hat in thick, tangled shaggy locks. His face was puffy and orange. Eye sockets empty and mouth twisted into a black grin.

Something crawled up Pelt’s leg, wrapping around his ankle like a sling. The stiffness of his limbs forgotten, Pelt jumped up, desperate run. The sling didn’t let up, yanking his leg out from under him. His face collided with the ground. His fingers clawed the mud while Pumpkin Karl dragged him into the field. Thick leathery leaves slapped Pelt’s face. Dirt seeped into his clothes, wet and cold. His feet plunged into a hole, and he screamed.

Damp earth surrounded his legs, chest, arms determined crush him. All the kicking and fighting proved useless. The field had wrapped around his neck and there was nothing but pumpkins — orange and ugly.