The Stain of Samhain

The smog that greeted Liz as she left her Jeep was thick and putrid, curling up into the sky as the last light of day faded behind the mountains. The sun’s retreat only seemed to feed the fire; the flames licked hungrily at the darkening sky, growing brighter with each passing second. Liz’s fingers tapped nervously on her holster, her heart racing as she drew closer to the smoke.

As she moved toward the rising flames, the smell hit her like a punch—burning meat, charred flesh, and something sickly sweet, twisted with the acrid tang of melting plastic. It was an unholy combination that made her stomach churn. This wasn’t just a campfire gone wrong. Charcoal didn’t smell like this.

Her eyes locked onto the pyre. Three black bulls and three grey goats writhed in the flames, their bodies contorted in death, their fur singed, their eyes long since glassed over. Liz stood frozen for a moment, her mind trying to make sense of the grotesque sight before her. It was as if she had stumbled onto some forgotten ritual, something primal and wrong. 

The twisted grin and hollow eyes of the scarecrow in the fire, just like the legend of Pumpkin Peter. Liz couldn't tear her gaze away from the flames, her mind spiraling into the chilling stories she had grown up hearing about Peter, a relic from a time when murderers wore masks and terrorized small towns like theirs. But this wasn't just some rural myth whispered to scare kids. It was real. And the scarecrow, with its crude figure smoldering in the fire, felt like a dark omen.

Peter belonged to a twisted subculture, a group of killers who emerged. hiding behind grotesque costumes and slaughtering their way through unsuspecting communities. The armchair psychologists blamed society’s decay—mothers leaving home to work, father figures disappearing, a generation of children left behind. Activists pointed to the lead in the paint, the chemicals in the water, the toxins that turned innocence into violence. But whatever the cause, Pumpkin Peter had spilled more blood than any explanation could ever satisfy. His reign of terror stretched back decades, and the fields of the Central Valley had never been the same.

His victims’ blood seeped into the earth, feeding it, nourishing it. Some folks believed that’s what gave the pumpkins in these parts their vibrant colors, the deep, rich orange that was almost too bright, too unnatural. The squash thrived on it, just like the legends thrived on fear. Even after Peter was finally taken down—two rounds of buckshot right to the chest—no one dared follow the trail of blood that led into the old prohibition tunnels. They said those tunnels, built during the lawless days of speakeasies and bootlegging, were cursed long before Peter had ever set foot in them. 

The scarecrow’s burning eyes seemed to follow her, mocking her, as if daring her to look deeper. No one ever talked about what really happened after they put Peter down, and no one dared mention the bodies that had gone missing since.t the land had claimed him, just as it had claimed the others. The blood of his victims had soaked into the soil, and now, something was stirring.

Her fingers tightened around her gun. The tapping turned to a full grip as she moved closer to the inferno, her breath shallow, her skin stinging in the heat. Sweat dripped down her face, and her heart hammered in her chest.

“The blood of bulls and goats can never take away sins.”

The voice, low and rasping, drifted from the smoke, thick with an otherworldly cadence. The words clawed at her, their meaning elusive but their intent dark. She squinted through the haze, and there, on the other side of the fire, she saw him.

Old Man Katch.

He moved slowly around the flames, his overalls caked in ash and splattered with dark streaks of blood. His lips moved, mouthing scripture as his voice rasped with the effort. His neck gaped with a deep, jagged wound—blood oozed in slow pulses from beneath his chin, soaking his collar. The firelight caught the unnatural sheen of his skin, pale and lifeless.

"Mr. Katch" Liz called, her voice strangled with disbelief.

The farmers hollow eyes locked onto hers, but there was no recognition, no humanity left in his gaze. His lips continued to mutter the twisted verses, his steps mechanical, as if he were no longer fully in control of his body. The gash on his neck gleamed wetly, blood bubbling from the wound with every word he tried to speak.

Liz’s mind screamed for her to act, to do something, but her body was frozen, locked in a state of dread. 

With a sudden, unnatural speed, he lunged at her, his blood-slicked hands outstretched, fingers clawing for her throat. Liz’s training kicked in. Her body moved instinctively, the gun raised, her finger finding the trigger in a motion too fluid to be conscious.

The bullet slammed into his chest, and the old man crumpled to the ground at her feet, the eerie muttering of scripture dying on his lips. But the horror didn’t stop. Even as his body lay there, lifeless, the flames seemed to grow, flaring higher as if they were being fed by something unseen.

The charred remains of the bulls and goats brought memories flooding back—Bible pamphlets from her childhood, warning of fire and brimstone, of sinners cast into the flames. She could almost hear the preacher’s voice in her head: "Turn or burn." The prophecies of doom she had once laughed off now seemed to claw at her, like something dark had been waiting all along.

The air felt thick with something ancient, something that had been waiting for this moment. As Liz reached for her radio, her vision swam, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her lungs seized in the heat, and for a split second, she thought she saw movement in the flames—shadows that twisted and danced, shapes that shouldn't be there.

The harvesters corpse convulsed violently, his eyes snapping open, blood still pouring from the gash in his throat. He rose slowly, like a puppet pulled by unseen strings. His mouth gaped open, lips cracked and dry, and from his ruined throat, a single, rasping sentence tore through the air.

“The land... must be fed. To keep the veils shut.”

The dispatch garbled through the radio. Invisible cries broke through the ringing of her ears. There the night came early as black haze engulfed the skies. The farms around had put raging fires. The orange and scarlet claws from the embers licked the blackness. Liz stared at the old mans body, twitching, bleeding, and murmuring scripture, but the horror went far beyond him.

There was something in the air, something crawling through the valley. It wasn’t just superstition—it was real. Tangible. The smoke swirled thicker now, stinking of chemical rot, acrid like burnt plastic and flesh, a hellish cocktail that gnawed at her lungs. The flames around her didn’t seem natural anymore—they writhed like something alive, fed by more than just fuel.

The air had changed in the valley recently, something no one wanted to talk about. Strange reports, covered up in half-hearted local news stories, of ranchers spilling blood over land and water rights. 

Liz’s radio crackled weakly, and for a moment, through the static, she heard a voice—a warning, buried beneath the hum of the dead air. “Classified... leak... report,” the voice said, distorted, then cut out.

Liz sat in her squad car, hands trembling as she gripped the wheel, trying to steady her breath. The fire still blazed in the distance, but the urgency of the call pulled her back to the station. She Don’t tell anyone. She said. She had pleaded for backup, for first responders to flood the scene, to take over this nightmare. She wanted the police—desperately, she wanted them to handle it.

She forgot, for a moment, that she was the police.

The realization struck her cold, the same way it had countless times in training, but now, it felt different. That little girl she had buried deep within her—the one terrified of monsters in the dark—was clawing her way back up, scratching at the walls of her composure. If she made it through this night alive, there’d be time for therapy.

Time to unpack what she’d just seen. But only if she survived.

Liz had seen death before. The aftermath of car accidents, twisted wreckage, and bodies whose souls had long since fled, leaving behind nothing but meat and bones for the soil and the worms.

She knew when life was gone—truly gone. But tonight, something else lurked in that death. Something old, something hungry.

She glanced at the rearview mirror, expecting to see nothing but the shadows of the valley stretching out behind her. Instead, the faint image of the burning scarecrow flickered in her mind’s eye, those hollow pumpkin eyes seared into her memory.

She tried to push it away, to focus, but her hands felt cold, almost numb, as she reached for the radio.

a voice crackled through the static.

"Listen... if your nose starts to bleed, turn off the radio."

The words came through distorted, broken like a whisper dragged across gravel. Liz felt her breath catch, her pulse thudding in her ears. The message had forced its way through the interference, pushing past whatever block had been choking the radio all night.

She stared at the receiver, unsure if she’d actually heard it, or if her mind was playing tricks. Her fingers hovered over the dial, uncertainty twisting her gut.

The fire. The farmer. The blood in the dirt. Her nose twitched as if anticipating something—something was wrong.

A thin trickle of warmth slid down her upper lip.

Liz reached up, her fingers coming away stained red.

Her nose was bleeding.

She didn’t hesitate—she reached for the radio, her pulse roaring in her ears, but as she touched it, the static changed.

It wasn’t just a hiss anymore. There were whispers buried beneath it, distant and warped, voices speaking words she couldn’t understand. But they felt wrong. Like they weren't meant for her, but for whatever had been feeding on the valley, on the blood, on the fear.

Liz’s heart pounded harder as she ripped the radio from its mount, tossing it onto the passenger seat. The static buzzed louder, the whispers growing more insistent. Her nose dripped blood onto her uniform, her hands shaking as she gripped the wheel. The radio hissed, and beneath the static, she thought she heard it—laughter.

Liz tore out of the field and into the night.

The blood-soaked into her collar as her vision blurred, the road stretching ahead like a tunnel leading somewhere darker, deeper than the valley.

Liz's foot crushed the accelerator, sending the squad car hurtling past the town limits. The dark road stretched ahead, an endless path leading deeper into the valley’s twisted heart. Her phone’s screen glowed in the darkness, but the full white bars were gone, replaced by a flickering SOS signal and empty dots.

No connection. No way out.

She wiped her face, feeling the warm trickle of blood again. The same thin line that had started in the field was now running freely down her upper lip. She had already checked her vest and uniform earlier—there were no wounds. No points of entry. But the blood kept coming, slipping from her nose as if the valley itself was pulling it out of her.

"Oh God, no." The words barely escaped her lips.

With one hand, she soaked the blood with the cotton of her sleeve. The crimson blot spread quickly, but Liz was already reaching for the gas mask under her seat. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t normal. Something was in the air—maybe chemicals, maybe worse.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she tugged the mask over her face, the familiar click of the filter somehow offering the faintest sense of security.

But then the headlights of her car caught something in the road ahead.

She slammed on the brakes, tires screeching. The car skidded to a stop, but what Liz saw next made her stomach drop.

There, just ahead, bodies littered the side of the road, sprawled in twisted heaps, the scent of burned flesh and decay heavy in the air. And beyond them, shadowy figures danced in the glow of a massive bonfire.

They were wearing masks—grinning, pumpkin-shaped masks, just like the one Pumpkin Peter had worn.

Liz’s hand shot to her holster, but she didn’t pull the gun.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t tear her eyes away from the horrifying scene unraveling in front of her. She knew these people—some of them had been her friends, neighbors. She had protected them, served them for years. Now, they moved in eerie synchronization, their bodies swaying and twirling around the fire in the middle of Main Street.

Dead animals—dogs, cats, even cattle—were strung up, bound by thick ropes, hanging from wooden posts surrounding the fire like some grotesque offering to whatever ancient force had seized the town.

Liz’s hands trembled. She could still hear the old mans voice, low and broken, bleeding from his throat as he repeated those biblical verses.

"The blood of bulls and goats..."

The words echoed in her mind, but here, they were twisted into something darker. This was no sacrifice for redemption. This was carnage.

The faces behind the pumpkin masks turned toward her, their hollow, carved eyes staring into her soul. They knew her. She could feel their recognition, feel the shift in the atmosphere. They had once been the people she’d saved, the ones she had sworn to protect.

Now, they were something else. Changed. Possessed.

Her breath came shallow through the filter of the gas mask, the air thick with the acrid stench of burning flesh and smoke. Liz's heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst. She had to get out of here.

She had to escape.

But as she gripped the steering wheel, a whisper of doubt crept in. The blood, the madness, the silence—it had all started long before tonight. Long before Pumpkin Peter.

The town had been tainted for years. Maybe this was what it had always been waiting for—a night when the mask would slip, and the truth would come out.

The valley had been hungry for so long. And now, it was feeding.

Liz blinked through the fog in her mind, her pulse quickening. The bonfire crackled louder, and the figures began to chant, their voices rising into the night air, thick with an eerie, hypnotic rhythm.

They wanted her to join them.

The question was—how long could she resist?

Old Man Charlie Katch healed from his wounds was nailing the hands of his barber to a wooden cross—his hammer driving into flesh with a sickening thud.

Across the bonfires, countless wooden Xs crisscrossed, their shadows stretching like grotesque specters. Blood dripped from their noses, pooling at their feet like an offering. The air reeked of burnt meat and something darker, something unholy.

Liz watched in horror, frozen in place as the scene unfolded. A little girl stood in the crowd, her face eerily calm, not a drop of blood staining her nose, unlike the others.

She was the only one who seemed untouched, yet her innocence was lost amidst the madness.

Liz’s fingers shook as she reached for the spare gas mask from the riot control kit stashed in the back of her squad car. They’d laughed when they’d voted to keep the masks.

“Never gonna need them out here,” they’d said. But now, they counted for very little. The air was thick with smoke, screams, and something far more dangerous—him. The one they danced for. The one they killed for.

"Elizabeth!" The chanting rose, echoing around the town square like the tolling of a death bell. Liz’s breath came in ragged gasps through the mask as she aimed the shotgun at Old Man Katch, her hands steady despite the chaos.

This man had once been a fixture in her life. He was in charge of the pumpkin fest, the guy who made homemade ice cream every summer.

Even when she was too old to care, he’d still save her a scoop. His gruff laughter used to fill the air, a warm reminder of better days. But now, that same man—his eyes vacant and hollow—was lost to the madness, nailing flesh to wood in a blood-soaked ritual.

The first shot rang out, the buckshot tearing into him. His body jerked as he staggered, but he didn’t fall. The second shot blew him backwards, and with a sickening thud, Old Man Katch hit the ground. The hammer rolled from his fingers, stained with red. His brains were splattered across the ground in a twisted parody of the strawberry swirl ice cream he used to make, chunks of flesh spread in grotesque patterns.

Liz’s stomach churned, but she couldn’t afford to hesitate. The dance of the dead continued around her, their faces turned toward the fire, their movements mechanical, worshipful. They hadn’t even noticed she’d put him down.

They were all lost—lost to the madness, lost to him.

Liz turned, her pulse racing as she stepped away from the scene. She knew what came next. She knew that these people, the ones she had grown up with, would never be the same.

And deep down, in the pit of her stomach, she wondered if she ever would be either. She spied the back alley rumor had it lead in the abandoned tunnels for booze running. Liz couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching them from the shadows—a calling older than Pumpkin Peter, something that had lived beneath the town long before the tunnels were dug. She wondered if Peter had once wandered these same paths, searching for answers in the darkness. Or maybe, like her, he was running from them.