Pumpkinhead

[Unpublished]

"Trick or treat!" Paul yelled in his shrill pre-pubescent voice, the tone itself a mixture of nervousness and enthusiasm.
Mr Johnson stood before him in the doorway, a massive ogre-like figure in carpet slippers and braces, displaying a surprised expression upon his stubbled face.
"I suppose it'll have to be a treat," he muttered, "I don't want my windows put through, do I?"
Despite his tender age of eight years, Paul thought how absurd was the fellow's notion that someone as small and timid as himself would have the nerve and the bravado to hurl bricks at his windows. In his tiny hand he was holding the pumpkin that his father had carved into a face especially for Halloween. It bore a crooked smile and a hole instead of a nose, plus the eyes were of different sizes, but Paul was delighted with it. The most exciting thing for him was the candle that was perched firmly inside, which succeeded in giving his pumpkin a strange glow in the blackness of the evening. He was filled with glee, not only because of the pumpkin, for he knew only too well that Mr Johnson always had a large horde of sweets and goodies in his possession, as he had often been noticed in the local park at weekends and outside school sometimes, sitting on his usual wooden bench offering such confectionery to any children that cared to pass by. What a simply kind and generous man, thought Paul.
"Come inside, sonny," said Mr Johnson in his gruff voice, "I have lots of sweets and fizzy pop, you can have as much as you like."
Paul was thrilled -- this was going to be indeed a treat such as he had never experienced before, as he stepped out of the cold darkness and into the warmth of Mr Johnson's house. The man then peered furtively from left to right before closing the front door and ushering his young visitor into the welcoming light of the lounge.
Paul observed the room. Immediately he could smell cigarettes, and he saw that Mr Johnson was in the process of watching the news on the television, the boring old news that his parents tended to watch, but did not interest him in the slightest. He was glad at that point that he had chosen to go trick-or-treating alone -- his mates would be so envious when they found out what Mr Johnson had given him.
"Sit down, sonny," said the man in a cheerful manner. "What's your name?"
Paul sat on the settee, sinking into its softness, and placing the candle-lit pumpkin on to the coffee table nearby.
"Paul," he replied.
"You can call me Charlie. Stay there and I'll get some of those sweets."
He then vanished into the kitchen, and Paul was left on the rickety settee. He was wearing the Batman mask and cape that Auntie Alice had bought him for his birthday, and he wondered if Mr Johnson -- Charlie -- had been impressed by his outfit. It had taken all of his courage to knock at that particular front door. He had been warned about speaking to strangers, but it's Halloween, he thought -- it's different, isn't it?
Mr Johnson soon returned with a white paper bag and a bottle of lemonade and eased his large frame next to Paul on the settee.
"I like the pumpkin," he enthused with a smile.
"I call him Pumpkinhead."
Mr Johnson laughed. "Pumpkinhead! That's a good name."
He then handed Paul the paper bag and told him to help himself to as much as he liked. The boy proceeded to delve into the bag with an enormous relish, filling his pockets with all kinds of toffee. Then the fellow offered him the lemonade which he gladly accepted, and filled a glass to the brim with the gassy refreshment, placing it beside the empty beer bottles on the coffee table.
As Paul chewed on the toffee and guzzled the lemonade he began to regard Mr Johnson with the utmost affection. He studied him closely. He was quite large, and his dark eyebrows met in the middle, causing it to look as if he had a hairy worm-like insect perched above his eyes. A streamer of spittle seemed to be eternally suspended from his shiny lower lip, and his hair was gelled and swept back, revealing a forehead filled with lines and wrinkles aplenty. Paul could not be sure how old the chap was but he reckoned he was a lot older than his father.
"This pumpkin is really quite impressive," said Mr Johnson, lighting a cigarette as he leant forward to admire the shining object.
"It's Pumpkinhead," Paul corrected him.
The old fellow chuckled once more. "So it is." Then he produced a loud huff and blew out the candle, leaving the centre of the pumpkin in a solemn gloom.
Paul was aggrieved, but remained silent, as he did not know Mr Johnson well enough to challenge his actions, and indeed at that age he tended to be somewhat intimidated in the presence of an adult. Yet despite that he was enjoying himself -- what a tale he would have to tell those boys in his class at school the following day.
Mr Johnson produced a smoke-cloud and Paul coughed, choking on the sweet he was sucking. He watched the man take a drink from a bottle, then place it on the table, next to the cold lifeless Pumpkinhead. He then noticed that the carved face had changed from a smile to a weird frown -- but how could that be so?
Mr Johnson then took the television remote and increased the volume, and Paul wondered whether he was hard of hearing, for it had become incessantly loud. The fellow then turned to him with an insatiable grin and wild wicked eyes.
"I've given you your treat," he breathed closely into Paul's ear, "now it's your turn to give me mine."
Paul's tiny heart beat more quickly as he watched Mr Johnson begin to pull down his zipper.

His pillow wet with tears, Paul had been unable to sleep since retiring to bed. His parents had shown natural concern, for their child had returned home from his Halloween excursion in a rather subdued and quiet state as opposed to his normal exuberant self.
They dismissed it after a while, thinking that perhaps it was because he had been unsuccessful in his trick-or-treating.
In the darkness he lay on his side with an aching body, reluctantly recalling the horrific events which had occurred in Mr Johnson's lounge, the nicotine-stained hands on his boyish skin, the oppressive beer-breath on his neck, the monstrous thrusting movement which appeared to continue for ages and ages, much to his terrible dismay. The awful memory caused him to weep once more -- he was destined not to enjoy an iota of sleep that night.
He reached over and switched on the bedside lamp, observing the time displayed on the digital clock close by -- 11.57. In sombre silence he crept from the bedroom and across the landing, ending up in the bathroom where he helped himself to a glass of water in order to wet his parched throat. As he drank it reminded him of the lemonade -- and the horror, and the awful pain.
He returned swiftly to his room and clambered beneath the sheets, and just before he turned off the light he noticed the pumpkin -- Pumpkinhead -- which seemed to be staring at him in an inquisitive manner. The object stood, minus the light of the candle, on the dressing table opposite the bed, and at that precise moment it appeared to bear a certain attraction, with Paul unable to take his eyes off it. Then he did so, just for a second, to see the digital clock change to 12.00. And then something remarkably strange happened.
Pumpkinhead began to glow, apparently of its own accord, a dim light at first which gradually increased to an astounding brightness, and Paul was hardly able to look, as it was blinding him, it was like staring into the sun. Then the glow ceased abruptly, leaving the pumpkin in darkness once more. He could not comprehend the eerie sight that then faced him, as he looked again at the creation he had christened Pumpkinhead -- for instead of the innocent fruit with the improvised face there stood upon that dressing table a real head -- that of Mr Johnson, surrounded by an increasing bloodstain, and with those wicked eyes cold and frightened.
Paul then nonchalantly turned off the light and snuggled beneath the warm covers, with a sinister smile upon his face.