When terrible things happen to terrible people, sympathy is nowhere to be found.
“Yup. That one was trouble,” they always say. “Only real surprise is it didn’t happen sooner.”
But when such terrible things happened to the boy called Peter Grimley, no one said much of anything. Instead, they would simply kick up some dirt and sigh, while mumbling something along the lines of: “Real shame. He was a good boy.”
The Grimley family owned a vast swath of farmland just outside the dusty old town of Hollow Oaks. The property was seemingly infinite and stretched over sixty acres. Ever since Grimley Farms opened its grounds to the public back in 1953, locals flocked to the property. At first, the family offered small attractions like tractor tours and strawberry picking, but by the mid-1970s, the spectacle had grown to a spectacular degree. At Christmastime, carolers would occupy moving tractors while singing songs from the comfort of their haystacks. Around Valentine’s Day, the grounds became a hotspot for marriage proposals.
But Halloween on the Grimley farm was something else entirely. This was when the family really shined, not to mention made more money than every other season combined.
The haunted corn maze took brave patrons through over a dozen acres of scares, while the pumpkin patch offered a more child-friendly experience. Patrons would scurry around, obsessively poking and picking at pumpkins, as if finding exactly the “right” one was a scavenger hunt of the utmost importance. And the selection was quite miraculous – big, brilliant, balls of orange that you had to see to believe.
In the Fall of 1978, Mr. Grimley was struck with inspiration. The idea had hit him suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, almost like a form of divine intervention. His son, Peter Grimley, who was fifteen and a half at the time, was seated at the breakfast table, wearing his smudged, crooked glasses and denim jacket with the torn sleeve. Peter’s face and figure were narrow and bony, so much so that his mother had always endearingly referred to him as her “skeleton son,” though Peter never found humor in this nickname the way she did.
“I’ve got it!” Mr. Grimley shouted. He excitedly hit the table with a tight, closed fist. Peter then watched as his father jumped up out of his seat and ran outside, ranting and raving about some new idea he had for the farm’s latest Fall attraction. At the time, Peter thought nothing of it. He simply poked at his mushy oatmeal, which was now a cold, shriveled blob that resembled a human brain. He finally scooped a bite into his mouth, which he decided would be his last.
By the time Peter returned from school that day, he arrived home to find his father working outside on a large, wooden contraption. Mr. Grimley was dripping sweat while he ran around the device with a hammer, smashing it down here and there, as if he was making important, final touches. He finally looked up to find his son Peter staring at the device, a puzzled look on his face.
“So? What do you think?” Mr. Grimley asked.
“What is it?” Peter responded.
The skinny boy tilted his head as if he thought he might have been looking at it from the wrong angle. From his perspective, it almost appeared to be some medieval torture device that you might find in some Renaissance fair or museum.
“Come on over and find out,” Mr. Grimley said.
Peter cautiously stepped towards the machine, while his father grabbed a nearby pumpkin and loaded it into a rounded, circular bucket that was held into place by a thick rope.
“Oh. It’s a—” Peter didn’t even get to say the word before his father cut him off.
“That’s right,” Mr. Grimley confirmed. “Now pull this lever right here and take cover.”
Peter did as his father told him. He reached down, pulled the lever and the catapult sprang to life. Peter jolted back as the wooden arm launched the pumpkin a hundred feet across the field before the orange ball finally exploded into a million tiny pieces.
“It’s great, right?” said Mr. Grimley, smiling wider than he’d ever smiled before. “We can charge a quarter a pop. The line will go on for miles.”
Peter nodded, considering the plan. He was inexplicably terrified of the device, though he didn’t even know why. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “It’s something.”
That weekend, when Mr. Grimley’s new invention was finally released to the public, patrons gathered in droves and each patiently waited their turn. One by one, they’d come up and hand Mr. Grimley a quarter, as well as their pumpkin of choice.
“Wonderful. Now just load that sucker in right there,” Mr. Grimley said. After each spectacular launch, as well as its respective explosion, everyone in line cheered. Peter did not understand how such a simple and repetitive act garnered such a wonderous response. He also couldn’t explain why the chain reaction bothered him on such a deep, emotional level.
Perhaps it was simply the fact that he was a good boy – and he didn’t like watching pumpkins explode into fleshy, orange globs while the locals cheered on their demise.
***
Each day, Peter walked to and from Hollow Oaks High by himself. From the Grimley farm, it was exactly a forty-two-minute walk each way. Peter knew this because he routinely timed out the expedition on his stopwatch. It never failed to amaze him how steady his walking pace was, almost down to the second.
So often in Peter’s life, he felt as if his brain didn’t work properly. For instance, he could never find the right words to express his thoughts to his peers or his parents or his teachers, and was always frightened or disturbed by things he knew he shouldn’t be – like his father’s latest invention. That’s why each day, it satisfied him to find that his walk was once again, forty-two minutes each way.
At least my legs work, he thought.
Peter Grimley roamed the halls of the school alone and largely kept to himself. He knew that he was different from his classmates. No one had ever really tried to make friends with him and he was fine with that. Yet still, this notion rather confused him, mostly due to the fact that everyone in town seemed to love his family, as well as the Grimley farm. Peter would even see his own classmates visiting the grounds on the weekends, but it was a rare occurrence that they would say anything to him, let alone acknowledge his existence.
Each day at lunch, Peter sat alone in the cafeteria and removed a foil-wrapped sandwich from a crumpled paper bag. During the Fall season, Mrs. Grimley tended to pack Peter a pumpkin and honey sandwich, since she had such a plethora of fruit on the farm. Sometimes, she’d even send along pumpkin pie or pumpkin cookies as dessert. When Peter was a small child, he loved pumpkin season, but over the years, he now dreaded every mushy bite that he had to force down his throat. Peter stared at his sandwich with disgust, just a group of his classmates were passing by, on their way to another table.
“What’s on the menu today, Peter?” asked Todd Bennett, a football player with mean green eyes and muscles that looked too big for his body. He was standing there with his best friend, Mark Shansky, and their respective girlfriends, Lucille Paterson and Rhonda Lynch, who trailed behind.
“Pumpkin and honey,” Peter told Todd. “The same as yesterday.”
Peter knew that in reality, Todd didn’t really care about what type of sandwich he was eating. He simply loved to use the opportunity to chant his favorite nickname to poor old Peter.
“Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater!” Todd laughed.
“It’s not that funny,” Rhonda groaned.
“I think it is,” Mark added.
“Then maybe you two should be dating,” Lucille said.
The cruel teenagers continued past Pater’s table, but Rhonda lingered for a moment and shared a passing stare with the skeleton boy. Though he had never really spoken to her, he had always thought Rhonda was very pretty – she at least seemed to be the nicest one in the group.
“Sorry about them,” Rhonda said to Peter before she finally walked off and sat down at Todd’s table.
“It’s okay,” Peter replied, but he was talking to no one – she was already gone.
A few days later, as Peter was walking home from school (he was making perfect pace to hit his goal), he passed by the bus stop to find Todd and Rhonda making out on a bench. Peter kept his head down and scurried past the lovebirds, but he eventually heard Todd’s grating voice shout: “Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater! Come over here!”
Peter considered the fact that stopping would disrupt his perfectly timed walk, but then, he thought of Rhonda. He wouldn’t mind seeing her face. So, he turned around.
“For God’s sake. Just leave him alone,” Rhonda told Todd.
“One sec, babe,” Todd said back, before locking in on Peter with his green eyes. “Come over here, bud.” Peter reluctantly shuffled back over and stood before Todd and Rhonda. “Just answer this question, Pete: on a scale from one to ten, how much do you love eating pumpkins?”
Peter considered the question, then simply shrugged. “I dunno. Six?”
Todd laughed. “Yeah? What about Rhonda’s pumpkin? Would you eat that?”
“Todd, oh my God!” Rhonda said, laughing. Todd then whispered something in her ear, which made her giggle even more. They kissed again and soon enough had forgotten all about poor old Peter, standing there, just like he was told to. He pulled his backpack up, turned back and around, and continued walking back home. The interaction made him precisely one minute and twenty seconds late.
His day was ruined.
***
On October 31, 1978, Peter gathered exactly three pumpkins from outside the Grimley’s farmhouse and brought them into his bedroom. That night, while most of his peers were out in the world, drinking beers and binge eating candy and playing pranks on children, Peter carved out each of the three pumpkins with a sharp knife he’d borrowed from the kitchen.
Peter stabbed out a single letter on the front side of each one – representing the names of the three members of his family. He then lit three candles, placed them inside each fleshy ball, and wished himself a very Happy Halloween.
Sometime around midnight, Peter woke to the sound of scratching at his window. At first, he assumed it to be the wind, but then he heard what sounded like muffled laughter nearby. Peter flipped on the lamp that sat on his nightstand and peered through the window of his bedroom. He couldn’t see anything – but then he heard it again.
Voices.
Somehow near and far, at the same time.
Peter put on his jacket and shoes, then slipped out the back door of the farmhouse. His heart raced as he crept around the side and then finally reached the area just outside his own window. He swore he had heard something, but now, here in the pale moonlight, all that was audible was his own breath. For a moment, he felt reassured that what he heard was probably nothing more than his own imagination playing tricks on him—
But not a second later, Peter felt hands all over his body.
First, there were just two.
Then, more.
He felt someone’s dirty fingers wrapped around his nose and eyes as they stuffed a wet cloth into his mouth. Then, a scratchy, burlap bag was slid over his head and his arms were bound with a thick rope, which was now digging into his tender flesh.
“Gentle! Go easy!” an unseen female insisted.
Peter would recognize the voice anywhere. He tried to plead with Rhonda and scream for help, but his mouth only produced muffled, muted sounds due to the cloth crammed down his throat which made him simply gag while doing so.
With his senses stripped away from him, Peter’s brain deferred to not working again. He could feel himself being pushed and pulled across the farm. His legs were moving, but he didn’t want to move. Peter tried to drop his body into the dirt, but a pair of strong arms pulled him back up and dragged him like a rag doll in the night.
After what felt like an eternity, Peter was sat down in what felt like a hard, wooden chair. A pair of hands ripped the sack off his face and suddenly he could see his captors, standing around him.
“MmmmMMMMmm!”
Peter begged to be let loose, but it became apparent that no one was planning on removing his gag anytime soon.
“I dunno, guys. This is pretty fucked up,” said Lucille.
“Relax, babe. We’re just gonna scare him a bit,” said Mark.
“He’s already scared,” said Rhonda.
“Then let’s go ahead and give him what he wants,” said Todd. He leaned in over Peter and placed two gentle hands on his shoulders as if they were suddenly best friends. “Time to eat some pumpkin shit, right bud?”
Peter writhed around in the chair as the four teenagers made their way back across the field. He tried to free himself. He tried to tip the chair over, but his restraints were too tight and the wooden legs had been pushed deep into the dirt. At first, Peter thought that the extent of this sick, twisted prank was that he was going to be left here all night, but then, he noticed something awful. Pumpkin guts and shells and seeds were covering his boots.
He suddenly knew exactly where he was on the farm.
All the way across the field, Todd excitedly loaded a pumpkin into the catapult. “This is gonna be fucking amazing,” he said.
“Just don’t kill him,” Lucille groaned.
“Todd has a better chance of winning the lottery than hitting that bullseye,” Mark laughed.
“Fuck you,” Todd said. “I could win the lottery. Now watch this.”
Todd pulled the lever and the wooden arm launched the pumpkin into the air and across the field. The teenagers watched with anticipation as Peter – a squirming shadow in the night – vibrated around in his chair while the pumpkin finally exploded about fifteen feet in front of him.
“Holy shit!” Todd screamed.
“Let me try!” Mark pushed Todd aside and loaded up his own pumpkin. This one was a bit smaller, and as a result, flew about twenty feet past Peter. Todd and Mark then took turns launching pumpkins as the girls stood by, shaking their heads.
“Why are guys so dumb?” Lucille asked.
“Because they’re guys,” Rhonda responded. “Can we go now? I think he’s had enough—”
Just as the words left her mouth, Todd launched one final pumpkin into the sky. The four of them watched, seemingly in slow motion, as it barreled toward Peter. Suddenly, at the same time, they all knew the exact trajectory of the orange ball.
It was dead on.
“Wait—” is all Rhonda could muster before the pumpkin connected with Peter’s skull and exploded upon impact.
As loud as the sound of the cracking shell was, the sound of Peter’s neck snapping like a twig was even more audible. Even from the dark distance, the four of them could see the extent of Peter’s mangled, bent-up neck.
His head was drooped sideways and covered in pumpkin guts and blood and seeds.
Peter Grimley was as good as dead.
***
“So… then what happened?” I ask Zeke, the resident storyteller in our group.
It’s Halloween and we’re stumbling through endless weeds and dirt. This is the place where, at least according to Zeke, Peter Grimley lost his head.
And it all sounds like bullshit, if you ask me.
“The fuck do you think happened, Sadie?” he responds, like the ending to his story should be obvious. “Those assholes buried his body in this field here so they wouldn’t get caught. Every year, kids come back on Halloween and try to get Peter to climb out of his dirt-covered grave and show off his broke ass neck.”
“Sure they do,” Jules says. She knows as well as I do that Zeke loves telling scary stories – but usually, he’s just making shit up as he goes along.
“What? You think I’m just making this shit up as I go along?” Zeke says.
“Duh,” I tell him. “Doesn’t mean it isn’t a great story, though.”
“Story. Wow,” he says, disappointed in our inability to be gullible. “Okay, then. Since it’s all just made up, you won’t mind if I try to wake him up, right?”
Jules and I exchange looks for a tense moment, before we both break into laughter.
“Of course not,” I say.
“Why should we?” Jules adds.
“Cool,” Zeke says as he wanders around the dirt like he’s looking for the perfect place to do his thing. Then, he begins:
“Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater. Sat afar, a dozen meters. Plucked from bed, and he was dead, an ugly mess of orange and red…”
Zeke smiles as he finishes, as if he’s proud of himself for remembering a few, short sentences that rhyme. “Cute poem,” I tell him.
“The cutest,” Jules says. “So… now what?”
“Now… we wait,” he says.
And that’s exactly what we do. We stand there under the moonlight, waiting for Peter Grimley to dig himself up out of the dirt and greet us with his snapped neck and twisted torso which is probably still covered in pumpkin guts and shit.
But of course, nothing happens. Because Peter Grimley isn’t real.
“Fuck this,” Jules says. “Let’s go.” She runs off and I follow her. Zeke trails behind me. I almost lose track of her in the dark, but before I know it, she’s suddenly stopped and I almost run straight into her.
“Jules,” I say. “What are you doing?”
Jules doesn’t respond. She’s looking down at something. It’s hard to see in the dark, but I make my way around her and follow her eye line. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, but then, I finally see it.
We’re staring at a gaping hole in the ground. The dirt is so fresh I can smell it.
“What the fuck?” Zeke says to no one in particular.
“Cut the shit,” Jules says. “You did this. You’re trying to scare us, you dick.” Zeke doesn’t respond. He seems freaked out. If he’s fucking around with us, he’s a really good actor.
“Zeke?” I say.
Just before Zeke speaks, I look up and suddenly spot a figure rushing toward us in the dark. It’s too hard to tell what he looks like, but he seems to be around our age – and holding some type of farm tool.
At first, I squint because I think it might be some jackass from class – perhaps one of Zeke’s accomplices.
But then, I see the shadowy figure force the rake through Zeke’s gut.
The prongs protrude from his back – and he promptly spits blood. It takes my brain longer than it should to acknowledge danger – maybe I’m in shock – but regardless, it finally occurs to me something is wrong.
“Sadie! Come on!”
Suddenly, Jules is screaming and I’m running and we’re both headed towards a dilapidated house in the distance.
What if that’s the Grimley farmhouse? I’m thinking. He won’t want us to go in there. But there’s no time.
We shut ourselves inside and slam the door.
“Zeke—” Sadie blurts out. She’s hyperventilating and barely able to get her thoughts out. “He was… and now he’s…”
But I don’t respond to her gibberish. Because I’m focused on something else. Inside the shitty old house, which is covered in piss and broken bottles and condoms and graffiti, there’s light coming from around the corner in the next room.
There’s a soft orange glow. Flickering in the dark.
“What is that?” Jules whispers.
“I don’t know,” I say.
I don’t know why, but I head towards the light. In the next room, we find dozens of pumpkins, perfectly carved and each containing a small candle inside.
“He was here…” Sadie whispers. “It’s Peter…”
She’s right. “We need to leave,” I add.
But there’s no time. I’m cut off by the terrible and sudden sound of shattering glass. Sadie screams as Peter reaches in through the window from outside and wraps his hands around her throat. I’m trying to help her but by the time I think of a plan, it’s too late.
Peter snaps her neck and she drops to the floor, her body crunching razor-sharp shards of glass.
I’m involuntarily screaming again as Peter breaks through the remains of the window and reveals himself via the soft glow of the candlelight coming from inside the jack-o’-lanterns.
He’s been partially decapitated, but the remains of his skull have been supplemented by the pumpkin that ended his life. The sight is enough to make me gag, but nothing comes out except for a dry heave.
I think about running, but part of me knows that it’s too late for that.
“Please…” I beg softly.
I creep backward until I can feel the wall behind me and that’s when I realize it’s over.
“I didn’t do anything to you!” I scream. “It wasn’t me!”
As Peter closes in on me… I hear him say something.
“Peh-tuhh…”
“What? What are you saying?”
“Pe-tah, Pup-kin… Eat-ahh…”
I realize he’s saying the rhyme that Zeke recited earlier while he wraps his cold, dirty hands around my skull and begins squeezing it tight.
The pressure is overwhelming and he’s now so close to me that I can see the pearly white bone of his spinal cord protruding.
I hear myself scream one last time as I think about Zeke telling us the story of Peter Grimley and how neither of us believed him.
Now, my friends are dead and soon, I will be, too.
For one brief moment, I wonder if anyone will ever tell stories about me after I’m gone.
Then, it all goes black.
Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater,
Sat afar, a dozen meters.
Plucked from bed, then he was dead,
An ugly mess of orange and red.