By Ivy Lang, ‘26
Autumn. Such a wonderful time of year. The people loved the festivals, delicacies, and decorations. Most notably however, they loved pumpkins. Pumpkin spice, pumpkin patches, pumpkin pie. And one of the best activities: pumpkin carving.
Ginger skipped merrily, reveling in the joy that was autumn. She was fifteen and nearly ready to start driving. She lived in a small town, far, far away from the rest of civilization. And that was okay. It had never bothered her. Because of the joyous festivals in the best season of all, fall, she was content. More than content. In fact, she was elated. Tomorrow would be the annual Fall Festival! And there was a contest too, a carving contest. Her favorite.
Tomorrow was the biggest festival, the one filled with everyone in town’s favorite activities. One lucky girl would be named the Pumpkin Queen tomorrow, decided by popular vote. This was a most prestigious title, only bestowed once every hundred years. Whomever was elected was remembered forever, their name emblazoned onto the trunk of the great tree marking the border of their town. Many names were written there, for the town was as ancient as the oak tree was. But who would the recipient of tomorrow’s title be? Only time could tell.
It was the day of the festival. Small children chased one another, running as quickly as they could, laughter filling the air. The town gathered at the great tree, awaiting the announcement of who would be queen of the day. The mayor climbed atop a small stage crafted specifically for announcements. His announcements.
“I am pleased to announce that the winner of the Pumpkin Queen title is…” the audience waited breathlessly, anticipation building. “The winner…Georgia! Wait, wait, I misread. Good people, the winner is Ginger!”
Ginger beamed, elated. Sitting beside her, her father suddenly paled.
“Father? What’s wrong?” He shook his head.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m…I’m proud of you, Pumpkin. That’s all.”
“Ok…” Ginger whispered, unsettled. Nothing ever scared her father. What had happened? Suddenly, he pulled her into a great bear hug, then just as quickly disappeared into the crowd. Unbidden, rumors she had heard surrounding the title rose to her mind, swirling in her thoughts then disappearing as swiftly as they had came. Only a vague impression remained of what she had heard over the years. She remembered hearing whispers of death, of destruction, and of betrayal. However, she also distinctly remembered the mayor climbing atop his rickety little platform to dismiss any unease, firmly stating that any “malicious rumors” were “blatant lies” and should not be listened to. The mayor was usually right, so Ginger decided to put aside her unease and instead simply enjoy the day.
Later, once Ginger had had her share of seasonal treats, bean bag tosses, and corn mazes, she was escorted to the Carving Contest. Rather impolitely, actually. Even after she protested, she was still forced to go.
“Now lay on this board, over here.” The mayor, dressed as a scarecrow, directed Ginger. “We’re going to let the children have some fun.”
“What kind of fun?” Ginger inquired, apprehensive as she settled on the board. She allowed her escorts to shackle her to the board, hands and ankles immovable.
“Oh, just some drawing. Say, if you were a pumpkin, how would they carve you? What do they imagine in their little minds? So anyways…just some drawing.” Ginger’s stomach was practically gnawing a hole into itself. Why would the mayor possibly think it was okay to say something like that? Unless…her mind was spinning at the possibilities.
“Why did you shackle me?” The children advanced on her like a small army, armed with Sharpies. The cool ink glided smoothly onto her skin, chatter and youthful mirth filling the air. Some of the youngest jokingly grabbed carving tools and pretended to carve as if she really was a pumpkin while the rest of the town watched in silence. But then…then the pretending stopped.
“We all voted for you. Everyone except your father, that is.” She saw that the entire town had gathered and was watching. “We voted for the weakest person. The kindest one. You are a liability to our village. A shame. Now you pay the price.” She saw the kind, familiar light leave the eyes of everyone watching, replaced instead with a demonic bloodlust. Only one word echoed in her mind. Why? The rest of the town swarmed over her, exposing knives and other tools they had kept hidden before. Ginger tried to scream, but a gloved hand was pressed firmly over her mouth. As her vision dimmed, the last thing she saw was the face of a scarecrow. A scarecrow, covered in blood and surrounded by townsfolk with fiery eyes.
Months later, the town held a feast. A feast outside, to observe the beauty of nature. The wooden benches laden with food and the attendees sat in front of the latest spooky decor. A dry corpse was hung with harnesses under the shoulders over the feast, much of the flesh simply missing. Surrounded by rotten turnips, the body looked as if it had been carved by a child. A talented child—perhaps even talented enough to win a contest.