It was a week until Halloween when I carved my pumpkin masterpiece. Spending more than five hours on details, I created a truly creepy piece of art. Its eyes had a sinister squint to them, its nose bold and prominent, and its teeth sharp-looking spikes that filled a wicked grin. It was wonderfully scary and would surly frighten both ghosts and trick-r-treaters away. To add the final touch, I lit a candle inside it and stepped back to admire my effort. From growing it in my own garden to all that carving, looking at its eyes, they looked lifelike…
That’s when they moved to stare back at me. Then it screamed and I screamed back at it.
“Aaaaa.” I cried out in reply.
“Aaaa, you killed me!” It answered.
Catching my breath, I said, “wait a minute, how can you kill a pumpkin? You are just a fruit.”
“I am not a fruit; I am a boy, Billy Jones.”
My eyes widened when I heard that name, it was the child who went missing a year ago. Yes I knew who he was; I had killed him and buried the kid in my garden because he wouldn’t stop snooping around my place. I had very private hobbies.
“You killed me, I will tell everyone!” The pumpkin continued, “You’re a murderer. Murderer!”
Angry that I was throwing away such hard work, I took a hammer and smashed it into an orange pulp, figuring it was not too late; I still had five more pumpkins in my garden and a week to go…
That Halloween I was bothered by a lot of treaters looking for candy and even a few ghosts of my victims. I had no jack-o-lantern this time. Every pumpkin I carved would cry for help leaving me no choice but to destroy them. I think I will use a different type of fertilizer next time, one not so incriminating.