The Pumpkin Seller
By
Donovan Douglas Thiesson
I first met the pumpkin seller mid-October, pounding at my door like a grim salesman. He was dressed in a suit and tie, clean shaven, his hair short and styled. Handsome, one of Jehovah’s boys, no doubt… yet I knew he was not. Tucked beneath his arm was a plump pumpkin, as orange as embers, and in his other hand he clutched a long kitchen knife.
“Pumpkin for sale,” he said, and smiled a snaggle-toothed grin. And his voice…? Low and guttural, like damp soot.
Was he crazy? Certainly he wasn’t transient, his suit was much too expensive. Unnerved, I shook my head ‘no’, but he seemed not to notice.
“I’m the pumpkin seller.” He thumped the knife against the pumpkin, making a hollow sound like a drum. “And I got one for sale.”
“I don’t… need a pumpkin,” I stammered, pushing the door closed, ever vigilant of the knife. He stuck his foot out and blocked my escape.
“But it’s a good one. Look.” He traced the tip of his blade delicately across the pumpkin’s hide. “And Halloween’s just ‘round the corner.”
“I don’t have kids.”
The man’s eyes grew as wide as moons, and for the first time I noticed their strange color. Light brown… but so much so, they were nearly pumpkin orange themselves. He no longer smiled. “Halloween isn’t for kids.”
I put my shoulder against the door and heaved. For a jittery moment I thought he would bust through before I could twist the deadbolt, but with fingers numb and body shaking, I secured the entranceway. I sucked in a damp breath.
Should I phone the police? No, of course not. The man was armed, sure, but he had not directly threatened me. This close to Halloween, surely the police would have better things to do than deal with a man selling pumpkins. So naturally, I did nothing, yet… I could not exorcise the encounter from my mind, and his strange countenance and amber gaze stalked my every waking thought.
I next saw the pumpkin seller two days later. He sat in the kind of truck you see in films and foreign countries; the box made of warped, wooden slats and the year and make lost to dust and rust. A mountain of pumpkins filled the box, their weight bowing the slats outwards.
When he noticed me gawking through the window, he flung the truck’s door open and stepped out, pumpkin already under arm. With a sure gait, he made for my door. I flew to the entrance, and as I peered through the peephole, he knocked. Hard.
“What do you want?” I called, trying to hide my discomfort.
“Pumpkin seller.” His voice had dropped an octave lower, taking on the tone of graveyard dirt.
“I don’t need a pumpkin! Please, go away!”
He did not go away. After a long moment, I realized he was not going to go away. Slowly my resolve grew. Perhaps the other residents of the neighborhood hired this man as a prank? They have always despised me. Or perhaps the seller wanted to apologize for our earlier exchange. Either way, this was my home, and I would set the record straight.
I opened the door, and there he stood, his horrible grin set deep into his handsome face, his hideous orange eyes rolling, and the pumpkin… The pumpkin had changed.
A face had been intricately carved into the side. The eyes, sallow; the lips, wide. The sides of the pumpkin whittled down to resemble cheeks, and a thin smattering of pumpkin innard hair plopped on top. That was my face, right down to the mole carved into the chin! Those were my eyes through which a flame flickered; my teeth through which an orange glow crept.
“This, here?” The man patted the top of the pumpkin. “This here is your pumpkin, no mistake about it.” He thrust the pumpkin, two handed, towards me.
I made a tiny, strangled sound, one I barely recognized as my own, and shoved the wretched jack-o-lantern away. The man stepped back, surprised, his face an ‘O’ of dismay. The pumpkin fell to the concrete stoop and smashed apart with a wet “splop”.
“What…” The pumpkin seller stuttered, his lips trembling. With his toe, he nudged the exposed candle, now extinguished. “What have you done, you wretched, evil man?”
I did not speak or move, shocked by the absurdity of the moment. The seller extended both hands forward, and placed them against my face, patting and probing as a blind man might. “We’ll need a replacement, fast.” He gave my cheeks a squeeze, and a sigh rattled from his chest. “This will have to do. I left the knife in the truck.”
I shrieked and punched him in the stomach. He fell backwards, stumbling down the steps, arms clutching at his solar plexus.
“Assault!” he screamed, his voice as loud as an airhorn. Much to my horror, the neighbors began to open their doors, one by one. “Assault!” The seller ran for his truck, scuttled in, and drove off. The neighbors remained, all present and accounted for, sentries upon porches and stoops, their smiling eyes cast my way.
In the days leading up to Halloween, I’ve seen the pumpkin seller often, skulking in the shadows. I’ve caught him trying to open my bedroom shutters, and trying to slide through the small basement windows. Frequently he knocks at the door. The embers of his eyes and the edge of his knife both gleam from behind the hedge that lines the yard. The police are of no use; they believe me quite mad.
I’ve been driving for two days now. His truck grows ever closer in the rearview, and this time when I stop for gas, he’ll catch me. I have a knife of my own, long and wicked, and the gas needle sits on empty. Next time I stop, someone’s going to die. Me. Him. Anyone will do.
Donovan Douglas Thiesson resides in Meadow Lake, a tiny little place lost deep within Saskatchewan’s Boreal Forest. Donovan has crafted numerous stories, and has publications through Fiction on the Web, Tales to Terrify and Farthest Star Publishing. Donovan enjoys Covid, isolation, and long walks on the beach. If you like (or hate) what you’ve read here today, you can find him on Facebook under “Donovan Douglas Thiesson Author”. He was trying to make it obvious as he caters to readers of all intelligence levels.
By
Donovan Douglas Thiesson
I first met the pumpkin seller mid-October, pounding at my door like a grim salesman. He was dressed in a suit and tie, clean shaven, his hair short and styled. Handsome, one of Jehovah’s boys, no doubt… yet I knew he was not. Tucked beneath his arm was a plump pumpkin, as orange as embers, and in his other hand he clutched a long kitchen knife.
“Pumpkin for sale,” he said, and smiled a snaggle-toothed grin. And his voice…? Low and guttural, like damp soot.
Was he crazy? Certainly he wasn’t transient, his suit was much too expensive. Unnerved, I shook my head ‘no’, but he seemed not to notice.
“I’m the pumpkin seller.” He thumped the knife against the pumpkin, making a hollow sound like a drum. “And I got one for sale.”
“I don’t… need a pumpkin,” I stammered, pushing the door closed, ever vigilant of the knife. He stuck his foot out and blocked my escape.
“But it’s a good one. Look.” He traced the tip of his blade delicately across the pumpkin’s hide. “And Halloween’s just ‘round the corner.”
“I don’t have kids.”
The man’s eyes grew as wide as moons, and for the first time I noticed their strange color. Light brown… but so much so, they were nearly pumpkin orange themselves. He no longer smiled. “Halloween isn’t for kids.”
I put my shoulder against the door and heaved. For a jittery moment I thought he would bust through before I could twist the deadbolt, but with fingers numb and body shaking, I secured the entranceway. I sucked in a damp breath.
Should I phone the police? No, of course not. The man was armed, sure, but he had not directly threatened me. This close to Halloween, surely the police would have better things to do than deal with a man selling pumpkins. So naturally, I did nothing, yet… I could not exorcise the encounter from my mind, and his strange countenance and amber gaze stalked my every waking thought.
I next saw the pumpkin seller two days later. He sat in the kind of truck you see in films and foreign countries; the box made of warped, wooden slats and the year and make lost to dust and rust. A mountain of pumpkins filled the box, their weight bowing the slats outwards.
When he noticed me gawking through the window, he flung the truck’s door open and stepped out, pumpkin already under arm. With a sure gait, he made for my door. I flew to the entrance, and as I peered through the peephole, he knocked. Hard.
“What do you want?” I called, trying to hide my discomfort.
“Pumpkin seller.” His voice had dropped an octave lower, taking on the tone of graveyard dirt.
“I don’t need a pumpkin! Please, go away!”
He did not go away. After a long moment, I realized he was not going to go away. Slowly my resolve grew. Perhaps the other residents of the neighborhood hired this man as a prank? They have always despised me. Or perhaps the seller wanted to apologize for our earlier exchange. Either way, this was my home, and I would set the record straight.
I opened the door, and there he stood, his horrible grin set deep into his handsome face, his hideous orange eyes rolling, and the pumpkin… The pumpkin had changed.
A face had been intricately carved into the side. The eyes, sallow; the lips, wide. The sides of the pumpkin whittled down to resemble cheeks, and a thin smattering of pumpkin innard hair plopped on top. That was my face, right down to the mole carved into the chin! Those were my eyes through which a flame flickered; my teeth through which an orange glow crept.
“This, here?” The man patted the top of the pumpkin. “This here is your pumpkin, no mistake about it.” He thrust the pumpkin, two handed, towards me.
I made a tiny, strangled sound, one I barely recognized as my own, and shoved the wretched jack-o-lantern away. The man stepped back, surprised, his face an ‘O’ of dismay. The pumpkin fell to the concrete stoop and smashed apart with a wet “splop”.
“What…” The pumpkin seller stuttered, his lips trembling. With his toe, he nudged the exposed candle, now extinguished. “What have you done, you wretched, evil man?”
I did not speak or move, shocked by the absurdity of the moment. The seller extended both hands forward, and placed them against my face, patting and probing as a blind man might. “We’ll need a replacement, fast.” He gave my cheeks a squeeze, and a sigh rattled from his chest. “This will have to do. I left the knife in the truck.”
I shrieked and punched him in the stomach. He fell backwards, stumbling down the steps, arms clutching at his solar plexus.
“Assault!” he screamed, his voice as loud as an airhorn. Much to my horror, the neighbors began to open their doors, one by one. “Assault!” The seller ran for his truck, scuttled in, and drove off. The neighbors remained, all present and accounted for, sentries upon porches and stoops, their smiling eyes cast my way.
In the days leading up to Halloween, I’ve seen the pumpkin seller often, skulking in the shadows. I’ve caught him trying to open my bedroom shutters, and trying to slide through the small basement windows. Frequently he knocks at the door. The embers of his eyes and the edge of his knife both gleam from behind the hedge that lines the yard. The police are of no use; they believe me quite mad.
I’ve been driving for two days now. His truck grows ever closer in the rearview, and this time when I stop for gas, he’ll catch me. I have a knife of my own, long and wicked, and the gas needle sits on empty. Next time I stop, someone’s going to die. Me. Him. Anyone will do.
Donovan Douglas Thiesson resides in Meadow Lake, a tiny little place lost deep within Saskatchewan’s Boreal Forest. Donovan has crafted numerous stories, and has publications through Fiction on the Web, Tales to Terrify and Farthest Star Publishing. Donovan enjoys Covid, isolation, and long walks on the beach. If you like (or hate) what you’ve read here today, you can find him on Facebook under “Donovan Douglas Thiesson Author”. He was trying to make it obvious as he caters to readers of all intelligence levels.
