By R. David Fulcher, Old Scratch Press Founding Member
I love all things pumpkin, including pumpkin spice. However, I understand even fans of this seasonal gourd have their limits on just how much pumpkin spice is too much pumpkin spice.
Readers are the same way.
Even fans of scary stories have their own personal limits in terms of exactly how scary, how gory, or how unsettling a story they can bear.
Therefore, I’ve taken three of my pumpkin-related stories and rated them in spiciness, from the most mild to the most extreme.
Mild Spice: “Pumpkin Night at the Pinkstons”
In “Pumpkin Night at the Pinkstons”, from my book The Movies that Make You Scream!, a teenager discovers the secret behind his homecoming date. Full of gooey teenage love, this is the mildest of my pumpkin-themed stories, something like one of the Goosebumps tales by R.L. Stine.
I’ll call this the Pumpkin Spice Latte Level of story.
Here is an excerpt from “Pumpkin Night at the Pinkstons”:
I don’t know exactly how much time passed before realizing that something was very, very wrong. The texture of her kisses changed, becoming clumsy and pulpy in taste. Her smooth gums became loose and stringy, and when I tried to pull away, I realized she was attached to me like a barnacle adhered to the side of a boat’s hull. Long, pointed fingers now clenched my nose shut and I began to get dizzy as that sickening, fruity-vegetable stench began to overwhelm me.
But more horrible were the physical changes taking place to the body I embraced, a grotesque squishyness of the torso and organs like the skin of a rotting tomato.
Medium Spice: “Pumpkin Seed Spit”
In “Pumpkin Seed Spit”, from the Devil’s Party Press anthology Halloween Party 2019, three friends go trick-or-treating and make a horrible deal with an ancient spirit to ensure their survival. Although the protagonists are also teenagers in this story, the stakes are higher, and the final implications for humanity much darker.
I’ll call this the Pumpkin Muffin Level of story.
Here is an excerpt from “Pumpkin Seed Spit”:
Upon reaching the first house near a dead end, they knocked and said in unison, “Trick-or-Treat!” As fifty-year-old Henry Armitage opened the front door, Brian unearthed his bag. The middle-aged man frowned at the kids before starting to mutter something about the lateness of the hour. Armitage gazed into Brian’s bag of seeds and was immediately mesmerized. An orange energy tendril spiraled upward, carrying a single seed into Armitage’s mouth.
Brian, Matt, and Ria wanted to scream, but found it impossible. While their souls were wrenched into knots by the horror they witnessed, outwardly they stood emotionless, even tranquil, as layers of skin and flesh melted away until all that remained of Henry Armitage was a living skeleton.
When the transformation was complete, they advanced to the next house. Ria shared the seeds, and Asenath Waite, a young mother of two, was hideously transformed into a witch with boils, green teeth, and a trail of lesions across her forehead.
Matt was next to present The Pumpkin Tree’s offering to the world. Three seeds were received by a couple and their young baby. Within moments they became a trio of giant pale, eyeless larvae that oozed and squiggled out of their clothes.
Extra Spicy: “The Pumpkin King”
In “The Pumpkin King”, from my book The Pumpkin King and Other Tales of Terror, a man ignores the rules of Halloween to his own detriment. The protagonist is an adult, and this tale has the most shock value of the three.
I’ll call this the Pumpkin Imperial Pale Ale Level of story
Here is an excerpt from “The Pumpkin King”:
I spun around and made for the door, half convinced I was hallucinating if not dreaming. I unlatched the deadbolt, but it clicked back into place as soon as I started to turn the latch. I turned back to the jack-o’-lantern.
“An easy trick, but effective,” the jack-o’-lantern said, its orange light flashing in time to the latch on the deadbolt as it clicked back and forth at will.
“What do you want?” I begged.
“I want you to think on this. There is but one expectation of you this time of year. One simple obligation: To carve pumpkins. To pay homage to the king.”
“What king?”
“Samhain, the King of the Dead.” Its demeanor began to change. Its voice deepened and the reddish-orange glow rose like an enraged fire.
“This is ridiculous!” Now I was beginning to lose my fear and was feeling pissed. This thing, whatever it was, was in my house. I turned to climb the stairs and grab a baseball bat so that I could smash the talkative piece of vegetation into a hundred juicy bits. I was an educated man, and I knew of the myth of Samhain, the Lord of the Dead who arrived every fall to put nature in balance with the deadly strokes of his sickle. I also knew it was pure bunk.
I had only reached the first step when I heard a sound far worse than the maddening click-clacking of the door latch: the metallic whisper of a kitchen knife being drawn from the butcher block.
I turned back to the pumpkin. “Okay. You’ve got my attention. What do you want?”
“I want to carve you,” it replied simply.
So whatever your personal threshold is for pumpkin spice, pay homage to the spirits of All Hallows Eve, and savor the spice before it’s gone!
Happy Writing!
R.David Fulcher, Founding Member of Old Scratch Press
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