Vines surge up my legs, clamp around my ribs, slither for my throat. They’re warm. Slick. Alive. They pulse against my skin as they drag me down. My back hits the dirt hard and the breath explodes from my lungs.
I gag and claw at my neck, fingers slipping on soggy green flesh.
The big one rises from the stump. Its vines dig into the dirt.
Slow. Proud.
It turns toward the carving table. A knife lifts into the air, guided by vines that curl and tighten like fingers learning how to hold. The blade catches the sun and flashes.
The tip presses into the rind.
The sound is wet and intimate. The knife carves eyes. A nose. A grin stretched too wide. Thick pulp oozes out, strings of seeds dangling like drool.
The pumpkin leans closer, its hollow stare locked on me.
“No,” I rasp.
The word dies when it lunges.
Vines snap tight around my skull and wrench my head back. The knife drags across my cheek, fire ripping through my face. I scream, and that’s the mistake.
Vines force their way into my mouth, prying my jaw wider than it should ever go. My teeth creak. Dirt floods in. Rotten.Chemical. The taste of fertilizer and death coats my tongue. I gag, chest burning as I choke on the ground itself.
The jack-o’-lantern lowers until it fills my vision.
I have to warn the others. I have to warn Shaun.
Its carved grin lines up with my mouth.
Seeds pour out in a thick rush, hot and damp, stuffing my throat. Pulp follows. I thrash, heels digging trenches in the dirt, but the vines pulse and tighten, forcing me to swallow. My lungs seize. Air won’t come.
My vision tunnels to those triangle eyes. Empty. Patient. Like it’s enjoying this.
My last breath catches on seeds and rot.
Then the dark takes me.
SEVEN
TWO LOST PEAS IN A MESSED UP POD
SHAUN
Two hours.That’s how long we’ve been sweeping, decorating, and trying to turn this barn from a lost cause into something that might pass for cozy if you squint.
Val thrives in this kind of chaos. Hand-lettered signs. Paper pumpkins spaced just right. Leaves taped with intention. My sign didn’t make it past her quality control. Not even close.
Since our talk earlier, she’s treated avoidance like an Olympic sport. I shift a box, she relocates. I step closer, she drifts away. Like she’s daring me to notice.
Oh, I notice.
It’s almost impressive how much effort she’s putting into pretending I don’t exist.
Almost.
I earned this. Senior year. The library. Ignoring her like nothing happened. I keep telling myself that once I explain—once she hears the reason—maybe she’ll understand.
Maybe.
