I was visiting with my aged aunt in rural Vermont that year. During our visit she suffered one of her famous migraines that left me with a day to myself. I decided to enjoy the fresh country air with an Autumn hay ride.
As the cart bounced and jostled over the rough roads I noticed a gaunt pale child who’s complexion reminded me of a shroud. He had dark circles under his eyes and looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. Upon closer inspection I could see that though he was properly dressed against the autumn chill he was shaking. I asked him if he was alright, that I’d gladly give him my muffler, the one my aunt had knitted for me some, years earlier.
He declined and when I pressed him on the matter of his shaking he told me of his fear of hayrides, pumpkin patches and anything associated with gourds. I asked him why such a bright young lad should be afraid of these harmless harbingers of harvest. He replied in a low hushed tone that it was because of The Curse. It was then that his mother tugged his arm and admonished him for saying such things. She looked at me and told me he’s had a phobia of pumpkins since hearing a childhood campfire tale. She brought him on these rides yearly to try to break him of his fright.
That night, at the fudge stand, Fudge-R-Us I inquired as to the local curse. The fudge keeper told of a legend so frightful that when she as finished I was in a cold sweat and my bones felt as if the dead had passed though them.
A demonic spirit haunts the cursed acres of Lost Souls Patch. Most folk insist it is no mere rumor or the stuff of children’s imaginations. On autumn nights when the moon hangs like a bleeding yellow orb low in the sky and the rolling fog enshrouds the landscape, you can hear an unearthly rustling in the vast patch that spreads like a blanket over what used to be an ancient burial ground.
On nights like this, the named evil, Cucurbita, Latin for Gourd lurks in shadow and waits to reap an unsuspecting soul by ripping it from a still-living body. Cucurbita, a giant pumpkin, an experiment in genetics gone very wrong in the 1950’s stood at nine feet tall on scraggly legs like the tortuous limbs of a long-dead oak tree. It’s maw, lined with teeth like scythes could rip a wolf to bloody tatters and it’s claws could cut though steel without hesitation.
Every Halloween Cucurbita, the demon pumpkin haunts the cursed earth of Lost Souls Patch aching to sate it’s dreadful hunger. Cucurbita, the devourer of light feeds on the souls of small children, dogs and random bits of farm equipment. It actually helps the farmers who want to discard stuff without having to pay the town to haul it away.
When the fudge keeper finished her tale I laughed at her wide-eyed stare in a show of false bravado. The thought of a giant possessed pumpkin thing was just too ridiculous to believe and yet the inhabitants of this ancient town believed as surely as if they had all seen it for themselves. Surely it was a stunt conceived to lure tourists to the sleepy town like flies to the rotting flesh of the dead. I decided that on Halloween night I would venture as an eager explorer into the depths of Lost Souls Patch and show the ignorant rubes that a man such as myself would not fall for ludicrous child’s play.
I arrived at midnight and felt my confidence wane as a low damp fog crept over the landscape like a creeping ghoul. By the cold silver light of the moon I could see the rolling landscape dotted with benign pumpkins. There was a chill in the damp air. I hoped I wouldn’t have need of the crucifix and holy water in my pocket.
I walked row after row of pumpkins admiring the sizes and shapes and promised myself I’d return to buy some for my aunt’s Halloween party. My fear abated to the point I was almost chuckling aloud when I heard the first sound. It was distant, a rustling of leaves and a low quiet moan. My heart thump-bumped in my chest and the blood coursed through my ears until all I could hear was the sanguine rush in my head. After a time
I heard nothing and continued on with silent caution as the fog thickened.
There was another sound of rustling and a branch snapping under some undetermined weight just ahead. I jumped, turned and ran back for the entrance to Lost Souls Patch. In my panic I got confused and lost direction in the dense choking fog. I pulled out my holy water and crucifix and ran blind for an exit. Twists and turns and vines tripped me as I pressed forward. There were little ditches and shaggy things that brushed by my ankles. There it was again, that low agonizing groan that came from all directions.
I took another blind turn, tripped on the underbrush and fell to my face. As I coughed up leaves and soil I saw that I was face to face with an unimaginable horror that stripped away the last drops of sanity in my fraying mind. Cucurbita was on me, gaping hateful hungry maw closing on my head. I felt the hot wet breath on my face as I jumped to my feet in one last attempt to flee. I was stuck in place but not out of fear. Something h
ad my foot and would not let go. I closed my eyes and waited frozen for it to rise up on muscular tree trunk limbs and rip me to shreds with its long gangly arms and razor claws however, nothing happened. I opened my eyes, looked down and saw a most incredulous sight.
Cucurbita, devourer of souls was at my foot chewing on my high top. It was a stout odd-shaped pumpkin about a foot high, bright orange with glowing yellow eyes. It had a large mouth full of pulpy mushy yellow teeth that we’re more suited to gumming baby food. It growled and looked at me like a dog protecting its property. There were no oak tree legs or razor claws.
This was the horror of Lost Souls Patch? This was the devourer of children? This saved farmers money on recycling? I pondered all this as my sneaker soaked through with pumpkin pulp and yellow stringy goop.
An old man emerged from the thicket and said, “There you are, little bugger. Hold still mister. He won’t hurt you.” He emerged from the darkness like a ghastly specter. His body was hunched with age and the rigors of hard work. His beard was gray and his skin lined with deep crevices of too many years and too much sun. He was thin and gangly and his legs were thick and muscular from working the fields. He approached and bent to pick up the gumming pumpkin.
The farmer could see by the confused terrified look on my face that I knew not whether to scream or ask for a picture with it. “Expecting something different eh?” he said. “Most folks never get this far before the dogs send them off.”
“But this…” I said pointing to the cold ground.
“Yep, this is Cucurbita. I call him Jimmy. Kinda cute ain’t he?”
The gnawing little gourd was indeed cute in a wet grotesque sort of way.
The old man brought me to his old farm house back in the deepest corner of the patch and poured us coffee. He explained that there was indeed a mishap during an experiment to grow a pumpkin but it didn’t result in a giant soul-stealing killer. However, it did create life in an ordinary pumpkin. No small feat, that. The farmer, being alone had grown so fond of it that he kept it hidden and created the Cucurbita legend. No children were ever hurt and he took in all the junk and recycled it and made a tidy profit.
As he told the story, the little pumpkin sat on the table snuggled in a blanket and noshing on a bagel. It wasn’t even a meat eater. It liked pizza, broccoli and bits of rubber.
The farmer begged my silence as he couldn’t bear to subject his last earthly companion to the prying eyes of science and government interference. He offered a lifetime of free hayrides, unlimited pumpkin picking and apple cider in exchange for my silence. His offer, being too much to resist earned my favor. I told him that his secret was now my secret. The farmer smiled and the little pumpkin, devourer of cream cheese, hobbled over and laid a wet pulpy kiss on my cheek, leaving behind a slathering of yellow goop and pumpkin seeds. A kiss I would remember for the rest of my days.
I gathered my things, winked at my new friends, took a breath and ran screaming from Lost Souls Patch all the way back to town. The people, frightened as lambs gathered to hear of my tale of horror. The fudge keeper fainted when I confirmed the age-old description. My aunt wiped the goop as if it were blood from my face and called for a doctor. Parents ran home to lock up their children and hide their light duty equipment reaffirmed of the certainty of their fear that there was indeed a horrible curse that hung over the town like choking smog. My commitment to the old farmer had been fulfilled and the town would ever more fear the Cucurbita.
I should have been an actor.
