Page 17 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

Chapter 6

Jasper

Ifeel nothing.

That's the first thought that crosses my mind as I slam the truck door closed and begin my stride ahead on the moonlit path, my footsteps crunching in the gravel beneath my feet. Delia follows behind me, her breathing shallow and quick like she's afraid I might disappear. Her desperation leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I know who she is, I know she's my wife, but the knowledge sits cold and inert in my brain, a fact with no feeling attached.

"Beautiful night," she says, her voice straining for normalcy. "The stars are so clear."

I glance up. Stars. Tiny points of light.

Irrelevant.

"Yes," I reply, not breaking stride.

The silence stretches between us like a fault line. I can feel her scrambling for another thread of conversation to pull.

"The pumpkins should be ready for the second harvest next week," she tries again.

"Fine."

Her footsteps falter slightly, then quicken to keep up, but I don't slow down.

Whiskers darts between us, his teeny paws leaving no trace on the ground. "Quite the tender reunion," he chirps, red eyes flicking between Delia and me. "Midnight escapades from the morgue really set the mood, don't they?"

Can’t say I missed the rat.

I shoot him a glare that would freeze hell. "Quiet."

"Oh sure, because you're such a sparkling conversationalist," Whiskers retorts, scampering ahead. "Hard to believe you're not drowning in friends with that winning personality."

His sarcasm bounces off me like hail on a tin roof. Noisy, but ultimately meaningless.

The pumpkin patch materializes ahead, and a memory snaps into focus like a key turning in a rusty lock. I halt mid-stride, causing Delia to nearly collide into my back.

"What is it?" she asks.

"I remember coming through here," I say, my voice flat despite the significance of the recollection. "It was early morning. Still dark. Something woke me up. A sound out by the barn. I checked out the window, and I thought I saw—" The words catch in my throat, sticky with the sensation of a memory that isn’t mine anymore. "Someone was out here. I thought it might be kids from town, maybe stealing pumpkins, so I came outside on the back porch."

"And then what?" Delia asks softly, stepping closer. Her hand hovers near my arm but doesn't make contact.

Smart woman.

I close my eyes, trying to capture the elusive memory. "I called out. Asked who they were, what they were doing on our property." My brow furrows as I push against the edges of the memory. "They turned and started walking deeper into the patch, so I followed."

My legs carry me forward through the rows without conscious thought, muscle memory guiding me along a path I walked once before. Delia trails behind, her presence a constant weight I can feel but don't particularly care about. The pumpkins sit like fat orange moons in the dirt, their vines twisting, grabbing at my ankles as I pass by.

“They were fast.” I continue. “Too fast to be just human. They never let me see their face. They were cautious.”

“Do you remember what they were wearing?”

I search the edges of the memory, trying to catch a detail. "A coat, or hoodie, maybe. Dark. And a hat. The brim was pulled down and shadowed their face. Could have been a man, could have been a woman. Not sure. But they were tall, and they—they didn’t have a scent." The memory flickers, refusing to resolve. “I caught up to them here.” I say, gesturing over to where pumpkins lay smashed, they’re guts spread out across the dirt. “Knocked them down and we wrestled on the ground. They fought like hell. I got in a punch or two, and I remember thinking they shouldn’t have even been able to get out of my grip, but they did.” I come to a stop when the scarecrow’s shadow falls over me. Here," I say, my voice hollow, "This is where it happened."

For a second, I swear I can feel it happening all over again. My hand instinctively goes to the scar on my chest, a phantom pain aching there, a cold fear crawling up my spine, however, it vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving only the clinical detachment.

"I caught up to them here," I continue. "They pulled out a gun and—" I trail off, the memory fracturing. "And that’s the last thing that I remember.” I stare at the dirt, at the splattered remains of a pumpkin with its seeds and pulp splayed in a rough circle, like a crime scene chalk outline.

Delia's brow furrows, her lips parting slightly. "But that doesn't make sense," she whispers, "If there was a gun…where are the bullet wounds? The only mark on your body was where they…" Her voice trails off, unwilling to complete the thought aloud.