The October Selected Writer is Douglas Draa

Please feel free to email Douglas at:

douglasdraa@t-online.de

THE RISE AND FALL OF PETER, PETER PUMPKIN BEATER
by Douglas Draa

All the old man required was one last offering. This meant that the pumpkin needed to be chosen with exquisite care. Half of the evening was gone before his quest through the moonlit autumn fields yielded success and allowed him to return home with his prize. It wasn't to be simply cut open. No, he eviscerated it as though it was a sacrificial cow, and with the same veneration that was a hallowed sacrifice's due. Its entrails were left undisturbed. Words of power were spoken aloud while he meticulously, using only a piece of broken glass, brought forth its true face.

Pleased with his work, he stood over his creation, took the shard of glass, and gashed his arm; allowing powdery blood to sift out and mingle with the gourd's pulpy innards. No candle was needed. The lantern's leering face started glowing with its own bloody light.  Like a priest carrying a holy relic, he walked outside and reverently gave it a place of honor at the top of his porch steps. Satisfied, he squatted down in the corner of the porch where the shadows were deepest. His old homestead, being thought abandoned for so many years, was to be demolished in a few days, making this his last Halloween. His lantern would draw a few curious youths who, not having any respect for this, the holiest of days, would approach with simple vandalism in mind. Saw-Win would feast well. And having finally earned the demon-god's blessing, he would not be forced to leave his grave anymore.

It was Mike’s eighteenth confirmed kill and now they were running as if the devil himself were after them. The Gang of Three, with Mike in the lead, tore around the corner; their feet throwing up a small cyclone of leaves in their wake.

Mike Walker gloried in the chill that the evaporating sweat spread across his face as he plowed through the crisp October air. Frosted grass crunched under his feet as he took a short cut across one of the few front yards on Rugg Avenue that weren’t fronted by hedge or fence. Remembering what an older cousin had once advised him, he brought his head down and pumped his legs straight up and down. This supposedly kept you from tripping or getting clothes-lined by obstacles hidden in the dark. He embraced this as sage advice since his cousin had never once gotten busted during his own years of Halloweening.

He vaulted through a bed of rhododendrons and threw himself flat. I could do this every night of the year, he thought as he rolled onto his back.

The heaving in his sides and the stitch in his rib-cage subsided as he gulped air to feed his starved lungs. Mike knew that he was pushing his luck, but the thrill of Halloween vandalism was a siren call that he couldn’t resist. He knew from their psych teacher that there was a clinical name for people like him: Adrenalin junkies.

He couldn’t decide what scared him more, the cops chasing him or being turned over to his dad afterwards. He had a simple and silent agreement with his father: Do what you want during the last week of October, but God have mercy on your soul if you get caught.

He figured it was all worth the risk. He was “Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Beater” and had a reputation to maintain so that his fans wouldn’t be disappointed.

*****

It had started the year before when Mike and his friends Kent and Traci were out committing a bit of Halloween mischief. The three of them had been TP-ing one of their teacher’s front yards when Kent had had the brilliant idea of filming it all with his smart-phone. They could upload it onto YouTube.

Mike pointed out that YouTube wouldn’t be the brightest idea since both Traci and his faces were prominent in the short clip. That didn’t stop Kent from showing it to the other kids at their junior high school. It was a hit that turned the trio into school yard celebrities for the few days leading up to Halloween.

Mike enjoyed the recognition and looks of admiration that the other kids gave him. It earned him the small reputation of being a dare-devil.  So, thanks to a bad case of Hey! Look at me!...“Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Beater” was born.

Mike made sure that their faces nor their voices were ever in the clips. They called themselves as the Gang of Three. Traci acted as look-out, Kent was the camera man since he had the best smart-phone, and Mike was the lead. He ordered a vinyl pumpkin Halloween mask from a costume company that advertised on the Fangoria Magazine web-site. He knew he had chosen well when he tested it on his little brother by jumping out from behind a door. It had taken their mom over an hour to calm the little jerk down.

Traci would stay out in the middle of the street, away from the light projected by the few and far between lantern posts. Kent would busy himself in finding the best location for filming from concealment. Mike, being the star, had the risky part. He’d walk up as bold as could be onto the front porch and announce his arrival by loudly knocking. This was the signal for lights, camera, and action!

As if on command, the porch would suddenly be bathed in light, the door would open, and the masked young man would do what he did best.

*****

This Halloween, he didn’t seem to be doing his best. Mike was lying behind the rhododendrons, admiring the glittering stars strewn across October’s final evening. The ground’s chill was leeching into his back. He wondered how in the world he was going to top their latest raid and whether it would be worth the risk to let some of their classmates in on the Pumpkin Beater’s true identity.

He was fantasizing about being carried across the school yard, like a conquering hero on his classmates shoulders, when two dark shapes came crashing through the bushes and landed right on top of him. His partners in crime had caught up with him. Before he could speak, Kent squatted down on top of him and pulled him up by his jacket.

“Are you crazy? Do you want to get us busted?” Kent whispered as he shook Mike by the collar.

Traci knelt down beside him and leaned into his face. “I’m going to kill you before Mr. Kress does, you jerk.”

“Hey, it's not my fault,” Mike protested. “It’s hard to see with the mask on. I couldn’t tell that the storm door was still closed.”

As if to prove his point, he held the vinyl jack-o-lantern up for inspection, showing the dents it contained. He pushed Kent off and stood up and peeked over the top of the clump of rhododendrons.

Then Mike looked back at his two friends with a huge grin. “I didn’t mean to, but c’mon! Did you see the look on Mr. Kress’ face when the pumpkin went through the storm door? Did you get it all filmed?”

Kent didn't get a chance to answer when they all heard Mr Kress bellow, “I can see your footprints on the lawn, you little bastards! I know you’re hiding back there. You ruined my storm door and I’m going to make you pay!”

Mike peeked over the bushes and saw their principal, Mr. Kress, coming across the lawn straight towards their hiding place, carrying a baseball bat.

Mike knew that if they were caught he would never hear the end of it from his folks and would probably get kicked out of school to boot. Visions of being marched off to the reformatory up in Mansfield and spending the rest of his life hoeing a row while dressed in an orange jump suit. Mike had no trouble imagining the three of them, with chained feet, in a field while an armed and mounted overseer kept guard on  them as they worked the ground and sang gospels.

Mike wouldn’t let it end like that. “Run!” he screamed.

He led the way as the trio charged towards the fence at the rear of the property. They reached it before Kress was even halfway across the yard. After clambering over the fence they hit the ground running, crossing over three blocks before slowing down. Mike was sure that they had shaken their pursuer and were safe when he looked back and saw Mr. Kress come striding out of the darkness between two houses and cross the street in their direction.

“Oh my God!” Kent gasped, “I think I’m going to die if I have to run any further!”

Mike slapped him on the back without breaking stride. “I know. It’s great!” He was grinning.

It took almost half an hour before they finally shook off their tireless principal. Kent was barely able to breathe and Traci had locks of sweaty hair plastered to her cheeks.

Mike was afraid of running into a patrol car on their way home. He couldn’t bear the thought of the Pumpkin Beater’s career ending on such an inglorious note. He knew that they had to get home soon or their alibi of being out trick or treating would fall apart.

It seemed they would get away with it yet again. They were only a few blocks from the street where they all lived when they began to congratulate themselves on their narrow escape. Mike was having visions of the glory that awaited him at school the next day. He was even toying with the idea of letting a few of the kids in on their secret. That would spread the word, increase his popularity, and since being nothing more than a ‘rumor,’ give them deniability at the same time.

He looked down at the mask clutched in his hand. He hated to have to part with it, but he knew it was time to retire the Pumpkin Beater. Destroying the storm door had taken their pranking down a road that Mike didn’t care to follow: one where they would be caught. Better quit when you’re ahead, he thought as he started looking for a convenient garbage can.

A lone jack-o-lantern sitting on a porch caught Mike’s eye. “Hey, look!”

Maybe there was time for one more prank before he found that garbage can.

He knew that the house had been empty for years and was finally going to be demolished next week.  The dilapidated structure had stood abandoned for as long as he could remember. All the kids avoided it, and even the teen-agers kept their distance. No one could ever explain why. Everyone simply said that the old house was wrong.

Mike didn’t care what people said about the house. That lone pumpkin called out to him. He had never seen such a meticulously carved gourd. He felt that it was sneering at him. Its liquid glow seemed to be almost organic. It sat on the rotting porch railing like a lighthouse announcing safe haven to lost sailors.

And like one of those sailors, Mike responded to its call. The Pumpkin Beater was going to make a last appearance after all.

“It’s show time!” Mike announced as he pulled the mask on for a final time.

Traci grabbed his arm. “Are you crazy? My granddad told me about that house. He says that a crazy old guy used to live there and that he was a warlock or something."

Kent looked worried. “Really?”

Traci took both boys by their arms. “Seriously! He said that one of his buddies got caught egging the house when they were kids. The old guy ran out and did some weird stuff with his hands and yelled ‘I’ll teach you!’ Granddad says his buddy sneezed all the way home.”

Mike clutched his hands to his chest. “How frightful!” he said in a sarcastic, falsetto voice. He raised his arm across his forehead, and pretended to swoon.

“It wasn’t just sneezing. Every time he sneezed he blew a slug out his nose,” Traci said. “You know, those awful snails with no shells.”

“Your granddad said that?" Kent asked. “Maybe we should just go home.”

Mike scoffed, “Traci, I hate to break it to you, but your granddad is an old hippy who claims that crop circles are created by Elvis and Jim Morrison cruising around in an old Cadillac.”

“He does not,” Traci argued, but Mike had already turned and headed towards the house.

Kent stopped him. “It’s a trap! Why would there be a brand new jack o’ lantern on the porch of an empty house?”

Mike shook off Kent’s hand. “It ain’t a trap, you dummy. No one knows we’d be coming this way. Now get your camera ready.”

It was as if the pumpkin was calling to him. He mounted the creaking porch steps and grabbed the pumpkin. It sloshed in his hands as if filled with liquid.

Someone must have emptied some glow sticks into it, he thought.

He was about to turn and kick the pumpkin out into the street when a shape arose from the corner of the porch and detached itself from the shadows.

Crap! Kent was right! It’s a trap!

Without  thinking, he dropped the glowing sphere and punted it straight towards the approaching figure.

His toe met resistance that quickly yielded, allowing his toes to slip inside. At first he thought that the grinning pumpkin had burst upon contact with his shoe. He tried to shake the pumpkin loose when he felt it bite into his shoe and almost crush his toes.

Suddenly, the entire porch turned upside down as the pumpkin jerked his leg upward. Mike felt dizzy by increased blood flow to his head. This is impossible! he frantically thought.

He could hear Traci and Kent running away, their thudding footsteps disappearing down the street.

Mike tried jerking his leg free, but it was impossible to get any leverage. His head hung only inches above the warped floorboards of the porch. What in the hell is going on? Pumpkins can’t grab my leg and lift me up!

Craning his head upwards, he saw that his foot was trapped in the pumpkin’s jaws. He lowered his head and saw a rotting pair of dress shoes inches from his nose. Following the shoes upwards, he saw the tattered legs of an old suit. Pain exploded in his skull as he was pulled upwards by the hair.

He relaxed when he realized that someone was doing the same thing he was: performing Halloween pranks. Mike had to give it to this guy: he had never seen such a realistic mask. It almost looked like real skin. He figured that it must have cost a fortune.

“Nice zombie mask, mister. Can you let me down now?”

“Can’t do that, son,” his captor replied. “I need your soul.”

Rotting teeth and a black tongue licked the gray flaking lips as it spoke. Mike realized this was no joke. He knew he was in trouble when a spider crawled out of the hole where the thing’s nose should have been.

He twisted and kicked at the floating jack-o-lantern with his free leg. The thing stepped down off of the porch, carrying him into the front yard.

Mike stopped struggling. He figured that he’d save his strength until a chance to escape presented itself.  He had trouble keeping his orientation. All he was sure of was that they were heading toward into the street.

It was like watching a film run backwards. Mike was able to see where they had been, but not where they were going.

It was only when the sidewalk began to drop away from him that he was sure of their destination. Portsmouth only had only one hill in town, and it contained the graveyard. Mike knew that it was now or never and began to twist and squirm with all his might, but the creature seemed to have super-human strength.

The cemetery gates passed behind the bizarre procession. He didn’t feel like the Pumpkin Beater now. He cried as he watched his shadow swing back and forth like a pendulum under the light of the newly risen moon.

Dear God, don't let me die! They finally came to a halt next to an open grave. The grave looked as though a giant mole had forced its way out. Earth was strewn around its edges. The splintered lid of an old coffin was visible in the silvery light.

The creature bit deeper into his foot as he felt himself rise higher. His ascent stopped when he found himself at eye level with what he could only think of as a dead dude. The dead guy held a large sliver of broken glass in one hand. With the other, he grasped Mike by the hair and pulled his head back.

The tears were now streaming from Mike’s eyes. His parents would never know what happened to him. With this thought in mind he said a silent prayer and closed his eyes. 

Suddenly a shock ran through his body. Instead of feeling the sliver’s razor-edged glass bite into his throat, he heard someone yell “Airborne!”

Mike snapped his eyes open and shouted with joy. Traci and Kent were hollering like maniacs as they came rushing in from behind his captor. They carried a large stone between them.

Before the dead thing could turn around, they slammed the granite stone into it, toppling it back into the open grave. Grabbing the tilted monument at the head of the grave, Traci and Kent pulled it over onto the pinned zombie. With a loud crunch the monument pinned the creature, crushing it flat.

Mike’s tears of fear turned into sobs of relief as the other two thirds of the Gang of Three ran up and hugged him.

Then he turned to Kent and asked, “You recorded it all for a YouTube video, didn’t you?”

Douglas Draa is an ex-pat Buckeye and Army veteran living in Nuremberg Germany with his wife and daughter. His (dis)formative years were spent in Newark Ohio, which is the real world counterpart to Gary Braunbeck’s “Cedar Hill.”