A story for Halloween:
Snuffles and Whimpers of an October Night; or Halloween Fantasy
Dad came into dinner with blood on his knuckles, blowing hard through his teeth. Our neighbour four houses down the street, Mr. VanMeer, had waylaid him on his way home from downtown to solicit his help removing a large rock from the VanMeer's garden. The rock was difficult to dislodge because it was so deeply planted in the soil and because so much grass and weed and who-knows-what had grown around it. The garden was a mess of strange and bizarre looking foliage. Trying to haul the rock from the ground, my father scraped the knuckles of one hand on a particularly nasty root of some kind. He said it hurt so much that he cursed the old man who was just standing by watching, letting my father do all the work. Under his breath, the old man returned my father’s curse, but not so quietly that my father couldn't hear. I guess the old man mumbled something about old Jack o' Lantern giving my father some light for brains. According to Dad, this just proved that old man VanMeer was tetched.
This incident took place sometime in the spring. Mr. VanMeer had said he was planning to transform his jungle of a backyard into a more formal garden. Dad said he could care less about Mr. VanMeer and his garden; he didn't like the old coot. Fact is, no one on the block much liked Mr. VanMeer. He was queer and, on the whole, reclusive. My mother explained that he was elderly and lonely; his wife had died some years before and after her death Mr. VanMeer had become morose and silent. His kids seldom visited. He didn't have much to do with his neighbours, and we rarely saw him. Even his backyard was private, enclosed by a tall solid fence, the only yard on the block that was fenced off in this way. As far as I know, no one had seen inside the VanMeer house for years and years, although people on the block would talk about his strange ways. Dad cursed his bleeding knuckles and shivered as he remarked on the frigid air of the VanMeer backyard. "Old Harry VanMeer is the devil himself," he remarked. Then he laughed and he told us that the old coot, trying to smooth over bad feelings, had said he would give him a pumpkin in the fall.
I suspect we all forgot this incident; I know I did. But sure enough, when October rolled around my Dad received the gift of a pumpkin from old Mr. VanMeer. Once again he was waylaid as he returned home, this time late one evening near the end of the month. Mr. VanMeer called to him from the gathering dark, and placed in his arms a large and brilliantly orange pumpkin that came, he said, from his own garden, from right where the ugly brute of a rock that Dad had helped dislodge used to be. When Dad came in, my sister, mother, and I were in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner. Dad plunked the great pumpkin down on the counter, and all of us stood around it admiring its size and colour. My mother gazed at it and reckoned it would make five pies or more; my sister and I looked at each other and we knew each of us wanted the pleasure of slicing the pumpkin's outer shell to make the wicked eyes and leering mouth of a jack-o'-lantern; but my father glared at the shining gourd as if somehow he couldn't do anything else. He seemed transfixed. The rest of us stared at him, and I confess that I felt my skin lift into a roulade of goose bumps. The sight of my father staring with eyes glittering and unblinking at the huge pumpkin, as if he were bewitched, was eerie and unsettling.
Some time passed--how long I don't know. The seconds seemed to me to swing with excruciating slowness through the kitchen. We stood engrossed, watching my father's glazed eyes. Then my mother plucked his sleeve to get his attention, but he didn't move. He just stood there rapt in the glow of the large pumpkin. And then we noticed it--the three of us together, I think. The kitchen took on an orange glow cast from the pumpkin that actually appeared to be palpitating. The pumpkin seemed to be imbued with some living powerful force. All of us could feel it, I think. Certainly I could. And clearly my father was reacting to this force. Whatever was at work in that glowing pumpkin, it frightened me and I could see similar fright in my sister's eyes. Some wickedness was at work.
"I'm getting rid of this thing," my mother said, and she grasped the rolling pin from the sideboard. However, before she could raise it and squash the orange menace, my father suddenly lunged forward, and with a great guttural growl he seized the pumpkin. He stood before us, his eyes blazing, his arms around the huge gourd. Then he began to back away toward the pantry door. As soon as he bumped into the door, he turned, opened it, crossed the small pantry, and sped down the cellar steps. We heard some grunts from the basement, and then the door to the small workroom down there slammed shut. Everything went quiet. The kitchen seemed darkened now that the pumpkin was gone. From below nothing could be heard. The three of us looked at each other. "I guess we should go down and see what he's doing," my mother said, and she began to usher us towards the pantry and the cellar steps.
When he had run downstairs, my father had not stopped to flick on the cellar light. He had just descended into darkness. One of us flicked on he light, and then we proceeded to descend to the cellar. Down there, we carefully went past the coal bin and the furnace to the back end of the cellar where the workroom was. Back here the feeble cellar light hardly cast any glow, but we could see a bright orange light coming from beneath the workroom door. My mother called out, asking if my father was all right. No answer came from behind the closed door, but we could hear snuffling and whimpering noises. Again the three of us looked at each other and I know we feared something terrible was going on behind that door. My mother reached out and tried to open the door. It was locked. Again she asked if father was all right. Again, no answer. Again, those snuffles and whimpers.
For several minutes we just stood there not knowing what to do. My mother finally announced that she was going to call Frank Cooper, the local police constable and father of my friend Donny; she said that he would know how to help us. But before we could move back through the cellar, the workroom door opened with a "BLAM!" It flew back against the outer wall with great force. A bright orange light flooded the cellar, giving it a strange otherworldly glow. And there in the midst of this light, standing in the doorway, was a hideous figure, my father or not my father, I couldn't tell. It must be him, but his head was gone and in its place, as a kind of prosthetic skull, was the pumpkin, the same glowing pumpkin from the kitchen, but now with jagged holes for eyes, a triangular opening for nose, and a crooked gash with stumps of pulp for mouth and teeth. The whole thing was a living malignancy. The horrible shape stood there, and then a terrible cackle rattled the room.
My mother screamed. I think I started to cry, and my sister cringed in the corner. Another great growl from the pumpkin head, and then it lunged forward. I thought the creature was about to grab me and I thought I would be dashed to the floor in a flash. But the hideous thing sped past all of us and ran up the stairs. We heard the front door slam, and once again all was still. The three of us were paralyzed for several minutes.
Well you can imagine my mother, sister, and I were in shock. We didn't move too swiftly, but we did go upstairs. Without speaking, we understood that it was no use looking for father in the workroom. Whatever and however things had happened, we were certain my father was possessed by some hideous demon. What we didn't know was where he had gone, when he would come back, or what to do to help him. Finally my mother decided that she would have to call Frank Cooper. Frank, as you might expect, was somewhat puzzled when we told him the story of the pumpkin and Dad's disappearance. He thought perhaps my father was having some early Halloween fun; the whole thing was a prank he said. He assured us that Dad would soon come home, his usual self. To tell the truth, the three of us began to second-guess what had happened. Perhaps Dad's head wasn't a glowing jack-o'-lantern; he was only carrying the thing in his arms. Perhaps the strange whimpers and snuffles and other sounds we heard weren't the sounds of a ghoulish demon; they were only familiar house sounds--creaks, cracks, clicks--amplified by our imaginations. And perhaps the strange glowing light we saw wasn't coming from inside the pumpkin; it was only the blush of sunset coming through the kitchen and then the cellar windows. Perhaps Dad was his usual self after having tippled a bit.
For an hour or so we were convinced that Frank was right. But Dad didn't return. All that night we waited in trepidation for Dad's return. He didn't come. In the morning, mother told me to go down to Mr. VanMeer's to ask him whether or not he had given Dad a pumpkin. That way, she said, we would at least know we hadn't all dreamed the whole thing. She added that maybe Mr. VanMeer could give us a clue as to Dad's whereabouts. Needless to say, I didn't look forward to a visit with Mr. VanMeer, but off I went.
The morning was fresh and I could see my breath as I made my way down the street. Past the Weir's, past the McCoon's, past the Doyle's, to the sidewalk in front of VanMeer's house. I went up on the veranda and over to the front door. The doorbell was one of those with a thing like a key that you turned. It made a loud ring, like the sound of a bicycle bell. I waited. No one answered. I was about to ring the bell a second time, when the door opened by itself, slowly and with an elongated squeaking noise. I craned my neck to see what I could, but inside everything looked grey. I decided to beat it and turned to go, but before I could move away from the open door something gripped me by the shoulder. I turned to see the familiar face of old man VanMeer. I had known this man for years, but now he looked demented, like a wild and crazy person. His eyes bugged out and rolled in his head, and saliva dribbled from one corner of his mouth. He was hunched and looked as if he had something under his shirt on his back. I managed to ask whether he had seen my father.
"Yesterday even," he said, "I had occasion to give your father a present." And he cackled.
"Yes," was all I could say.
"A pumpkin," he went on, "a devilish pumpkin." And his laugh sent shivers down my back.
"We--my mom and I, and my sister--we are worried about Dad," I said. "He hasn't been home since early last night, and we wondered if you had seen him."
"I?" he said, looking surprised. "Not I."
Then he turned to go inside his house, and as he shut the door I heard him say:
“Old Harry can deliver a curse,
No one does it worse.
You'll wear a pumpkin for a head
'Til jack-light brings you a-bed;
Only the young can restore
The head that always asks for more.
He who cringes beneath the tracks
Seeks the restorative whacks.
Under the tracks, look for the felon
Whose head resembles a large melon.”
The door closed. I felt as if I had been given a clue. But what did it mean? As I walked back down the block, I mulled the whole thing over. Who “cringes beneath the tracks?” We lived just one house away from the freight sheds and the CPR railway yards. My father worked for the railroad, and I knew that he sometimes gathered with other trainmen in back of the freight sheds to gabble about work. I also knew that if he had gone back of the freight sheds last night, someone would have reported him or brought him home. After all, a man with a pumpkin for a head was not something you could ignore. What, then, could "beneath the tracks" mean? And what did "jack-light bringing someone a-bed" mean? Then it came to me. The only place that could conceivably be beneath the tracks was the cavern-like space underneath the freight shed itself. The freight shed was built up on what might be called stumpy stilts, probably about 4 and a half to 5 feet high near the south end and growing shorter and shorter towards the north end. The kids in the neighbourhood played under there regularly, and we sometimes went there to smoke. Regularly, we were ferreted out by Constable Cooper. Perhaps my father had fled under the sheds, like an animal seeking the safety of its den. Perhaps he was still there, sleeping; maybe he was ill or hurt or just plain humiliated and scared. I would find out.
Without going home and telling my mother, I went across the road and up to the freight sheds. On the south end was an easy entrance to the crypt-like spaces beneath the building. In I went - deeper and deeper into the quickly shrinking space. The farther I went the darker it became. Just when I thought I could go no farther, I was stopped by a low snuffling, whimpering sound, a sound that reminded me of last night. I strained my eyes in the poor light, and sure enough I saw something crouched beneath a great wooden beam. As my eyes focused, I was certain this was my pumpkin-headed father. No longer did a light shine from that great gourd. I approached him carefully. I wasn't sure whether he was crying or snarling deep in his throat. Of course I could get no impression from the hideous jack-o'-lantern face except evil. I decided to leave and tell mother that I had found him.
Then something stopped me. It was only a voice. From somewhere deep inside that huge pumpkin head I heard a small voice say, "Help me! Help me!" I could only move closer. I heard the words again. "What can I do," I asked? The answer came thinly but clearly: "Break the gourd." I wasn't prepared for this. "Break the gourd?" I repeated. "Yes, break the gourd, smash it, destroy it, pulverize it. Just clobber it, please." Had I heard this correctly? And had the voice said “please”? Wonders will never cease.
But could I actually do this? The pumpkin rested on the neck of my father; it was his head. I acted mechanically, as if I were programmed, acting automatically, without urgency or will. I left the den beneath the freight sheds, walked back across the street, and into our back yard. In the garage I found a crow bar my father kept there; as long as I could remember I had been fascinated by this crow bar without having the faintest idea what it might be used for. Now I dragged it back to the dens. I retraced my way to my father's hiding spot. He lowered his head as if in supplication. He was a lugubrious figure now, not terrifying in the least. Without a word, I heaved the heavy bar over my right shoulder and then swung it with all my might at the pumpkin head; I swung as if I was hitting a baseball hoping for a home run. The crowbar struck the gourd with a squelch. Pieces of orange pulp flew every which way. I heard a piteous groan, and then I blacked out.
When I came to, I was in my bed, a hot water bottle at my feet. My mother came in shortly, and I asked what had happened. She said I had fainted over by the freight sheds and Frank Cooper had carried me home. "But my father," I said. "Oh, not to worry," she replied. "He's in bed too. For some mysterious reason, he came home with a terrible migraine headache. We called the doctor, and he's been to look at both of you. What you both need is rest." I asked about the pumpkin. "What pumpkin?" she returned. "You know. The one old Mr. VanMeer gave to father." "You must be dreaming," she said as she left the room.
Much later that day, I got up. Sure enough, my father was all right, just grumpy. Whatever had happened seemed over and done with now. Life returned to normal. That evening, not long before my sister and I were to go to bed, we heard the doorbell ring. I followed my father to the front door, and I saw as he opened it old man VanMeer standing just outside on the veranda. He held something in his hands. I stared and I was sure I saw him grin as he handed my father a huge vibrantly orange pumpkin. And as he turned to go, I saw the old man look me in the eyes and toss me a wink. Then he turned and left. Shutting the door, my father said, "Look what old Harry VanMeer brought us."
