He moves into the light, and the hairs on my arms stand at attention.
I know that body. I’ve seen it a thousand times leaning against lockers, slouched in trucks, filling doorways like he owns them. But there’s a pumpkin where his head should be. A jagged, carved grin splits the rind. Seeds and pulp ooze down his collar, mixing with thick, dark streaks that soak into his shirt.
I laugh. The sound comes out too loud. Too fast. “Jesus, Drew. You scared the shit out of me.”
He doesn’t answer.
He keeps coming.
My back slams into the counter. Cold wood bites into my spine. “This isn’t funny.”
That’s when I see the doorway.
Another shape fills it. Taller. Wider. Familiar in a way that makes bile rise in my throat. Farmer Fred’s overalls hang stiff on the body, soaked dark and crusted. Vines push through torn fabric, threading his arms like veins.
A jack-o’-lantern sits where his head should be. Its mouth is carved too wide, pulled into a damp grin that drips strands onto the floor with a sticky plop.
“What the fuck?”
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my?—
He raises one arm. Vines spill out from his sleeve, slithering across the floor and wrapping around the door handle. The wood groans as it slams shut.
The lock clicks.
No.
I grab the nearest thing and hurl it. The lollipop rack crashes to the floor, candy shattering across the boards as I run.
I sprint down the aisle, shoulder checking a display of pumpkin jam. Glass explodes. Sticky orange slop coats my shoes. I nearly slip but catch myself on a hay bale centerpiece and shove it behind me. It does nothing.
The sound follows. Heavy footsteps. Dripping. Vines scraping like something being pulled out of the ground.
“Help!” I scream, lungs burning. The grinder roars from the back, swallowing my voice whole.
A vine snaps around my calf.
I hit the floor hard, palms skidding through spilled jam. Pain flares as broken glass tears into my skin. Red mixing with orange. I twist and grab the vine with both hands. It’s warm. Pulsing. I jerk, teeth clenched, and slam my foot down again and again until it loosens.
I scramble up and bolt.
Another vine lashes out and wraps my wrist. I grab a jar and smash it against the counter, then saw the jagged edge into thevine. Thick orange pulp spills out like infected blood. The vine shrieks. Actually shrieks. I rip free, heading toward the rear of the building.
Before I can reach the back door, hands grab me. Not hands. Vines. They wrap my waist, my arms, my throat.
“Fuck you!” I kick and thrash, nails tearing through my skin as I claw at them. One coils around my arm and pauses, its slick tip tracing the edge of the butterfly tattoo.
One of my sneakers lands on something solid and I feel it crunch. A pumpkin bursts nearby, spraying seeds across my legs, and its vines fall slack.
I scramble and duck behind a shelf, chest heaving so fast it rattles my ribs. The air reeks of blood and burnt sugar. Caramel apples and copper. My stomach turns.
The back door sits right there. Ten feet. Maybe less.
“I can make it,” I whisper. “I can make it.”
I bolt and slam into it. Locked. My bloody hands smear against the wood. Against my freedom.
Something slick coils around my ankle.
