The Pumpkin Carver

A gentle chime fills the air in my bakery, and a cool breeze comes and goes as I see one of my favorite customers walk in.

“Sammy!” I exclaimed from the kitchen.

“Hi, Naomi!” The eleven-year-old responds while pressing himself against the glass displaying the pastries. 

“You walked in right on time; I’m almost done with your jack-o-lantern,” I called while placing the unlit candle inside the pumpkin; I looked over it one more time; it was perfect. I hoist the pumpkin into my arms and carefully bring it around the counter.

“Whoa,” Sammy’s eyes widen.

“Whoa, is right; you sure you’ll be able to carry this? I can take it over for you,”

“Nah, I can do it; my house is right there,” He puffs his chest. I chuckle and softly place the pumpkin into his hands. Sammy gives me a firm nod and smiles; James walks in from the yard, tired and sweaty, wheeling in newly harvested pumpkins. 

“Oh, hi, Mr. Easton,” Sammy greets. James compresses his lips into what I think was supposed to be a smile and walks into the kitchen. 

“Don’t mind him,” I whisper; Sammy giggles and leaves the store. I walk back into the kitchen, grab another pumpkin, and place it on the carving table. I looked James up and down with a hand on my hip; he caught my eye. He sighs and shrugs. 

“What did you want me to do? Customers are your thing, I’m paid to farm your ingredients, and that’s it.” He continues moving the pumpkins from his wheelbarrow onto the counter. 

“You’re not paid enough for at least a simple hello? I pretend to be offended with a sly smirk; The older man does not find it funny. He barely spares me a glance after my joke and finishes up in the kitchen. 

“Is there anything else that’s work-related you need me to do? If not, I’m headin’ out.” James says with his gravelly voice. 

“Nope, you’re free to go,” I say; he nods and goes to pack up his tools. I turn to my pumpkin, ready to make another jack-o-lantern, and notice my carving knife is gone. 

“What in the world—” I search high and low, but to no avail. I just had it; I’m sure I left it on the table. I see James heading for the door. 

“Uh—wait one second, James—did you happen to see my carving knife?”

“No.” Another chime of the door’s bells, and he’s gone. Darn. I can’t sit around and wait; I have a list of people waiting for their lanterns. 

“Guess I’ll have to buy a new one,” I sigh. Good thing it wasn’t expensive. I clean up, close up shop, and drive to the nearest store to buy a new carving knife. It didn’t take long, and soon I was back at the shop. I throw the bag with my item and receipt on the counter and get ready for bed. My sleeping quarters were on the second floor; I plopped on my mattress and closed my eyes. I would say tomorrow’s a busy day, but that’s every day. I chuckle at my own joke and drift off to sleep. 

🎃🎃🎃

Red and blue flashing lights illuminate my room window. What’s going on? I pick myself up from my bed and peek through my curtains; police surround the area, taping off Sammy’s house. I rush down my spiral staircase and burst through my store's front door. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to need you to go back into your residence,” A burly cop stopped me immediately. 

“Please, I’m a close friend of Mr. and Mrs. Jones,” I frantically spout; the cop shakes his head. 

“I’m so sorry, ma’am, but if you are a close friend, then I suggest you go back inside; you don’t wanna see this,” Sympathetic eyes leave me dead in my tracks. What’s happened to them? My stomach churned; were they dead? I start with slow, frightened steps back inside, which soon turns into a sprint for the toilet as I drop to my knees and fold over the bowl, vomiting. It can’t be; just a few hours ago, their son was in my store, happily picking up his jack-o-lantern. Oh, God.

I already feel feverish, and dizziness pales my skin. I manage my way to my bed and roll over on my covers; nausea is the only thing that causes me to go back to sleep. Maybe it’s just a really cruel dream.

🎃🎃🎃

Unfortunately, It wasn’t, and it only got worse. The same burly cop and his partner were back at my doorstep at eleven in the morning, staring me down. 

“Naomi Hart?” He asks. 

“Yes?” I say, there was no more sympathy in his eyes. 

“I’m Officer Thatcher, and this here is Officer Cromwell; Can we come in?” He asks it like a question, but he’s already stepping inside; Officer Cromwell follows close behind, flashing his badge and search warrant. 

“Um, yes, of course,” I say, trying to be compliant as I close the door behind them; I follow them into the kitchen. They give each other glances every few seconds as they scrutinize my bakery. I’m starting to get slightly irritated; no words were exchanged while they shamelessly checked drawers and closets. Officer Cromwell spots the staircase.

“There’s a second floor?” He asks accusingly.

“May I ask what this is for? I haven’t done anything, and I’m being treated like a criminal,” I firmly state. The officers share a laugh.

“If you think you’re being treated like a criminal now, Imagine how you’re gonna feel when we take you down to the station,” Officer Thatcher slaps his hip. 

“What?” I take a step back, horrified, “Down to the station for what? I did nothing; I’m innocent!”

“Then, would you care to explain what your fingerprints were doing on the murder weapon used to kill Sarah, Thomas, and Sammy Jones?” He asks. A hand quickly covered my mouth, and I barely had time to react before tears streamed down my face. I stood motionless and silent. 

“.....They’re dead?” I finally choked out. Thatcher nods.

Yep, jack-o-lantern smiles and eyes carved right into their faces, and it looks like you were the one who did it,” Officer Cromwell repeats. 

“I didn’t,” I say, softer than I wanted; my tears made it hard to be stern. 

“Well, then, it looks like you have some explaining to do; So, let me ask again—What were your fingerprints doing on the carving knife we found inside the Joneses’ home?” Officer Thatcher leans against the counter, arms crossed. 

“Wait—a carving knife?” I ask. They nod. 

“My carving knife went missing yesterday,” I say; another glance was shared between the two. 

“Do you remember at what time?” Cromwell pulls out a small notepad. 

“Yes, it was close to closing time, almost seven P.M.” I leave the kitchen for a second and search for my receipt. 

“See?” I hand them the small sheet of paper, “I had to buy another one—and my storefront has cameras if you’d like to check them; I was in my house all night—until you guys came, of course.” Thatcher checks the time stamp on the receipt. 

“Yea, we’ll take a look at the cameras,” Officer Cromwell responds. I nod and lead them to the CDs in the back maintenance closet. 

“Thanks, we’ll tell you when we’re done,” The policemen dismiss me. Even though I knew I hadn’t done anything, I still bit the inside of my cheek nervously. Someone had framed me, but why? I couldn’t think of one person in this town I didn’t get along with; I just didn’t understand. I tried to take my mind off it and run my bakery, but I couldn’t stop dazing off. And now I know for a fact that the Joneses, they’re…I need to throw up again. I flip the “Open” sign to “Closed” and retreat to the bathroom. 

I made sure everything inside my stomach was gone and staggered back onto my feet. I shouldn’t eat anything else for the rest of the day. 

Knock, Knock, Knock. 

I steadily open the bathroom door to find the officers standing outside. I awkwardly smile and move our location to the cash register. 

“Well, it seems like you were telling the truth, which solves one problem, but now we have a new issue on our hands,” Thatcher starts.

“Know anyone who’s trying to put you in jail? One of your co-workers, maybe?” Cromwell asks. 

I shake my head, ” I was just wondering that; as for my co-workers, I only have one, James Easton; he works throughout the week in the garden out back. He’s rarely inside; it couldn’t have been him,” I say. 

“Listen, Naomi, I meet homicide criminals every day, and each and every single one of their mommas says their child wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Officer Thatcher says. 

“You’ve been real helpful,” Officer Cromwell says, “We’ll be back on Monday to have a chat with James; Have a good rest of your week,” They walk out of the bakery, leaving me with my racing thoughts. Just me and my mind, alone—for the entire weekend. 

🎃🎃🎃

James Easton walks into the store and places down his bag and tools, going through his routine as usual. I take a breath and work up the nerve to tell him what happened. 

“James,” I begin; he throws a nonchalant, “Mhm,” my way. 

“The police were over last week,” I say.

“I know,” he says, “The murder that’s been all over the news? Yea, I’ve seen it,” It’s only been two days, and he already sounds bored of it.

“Um, sorry for your loss,” he adds. 

“Thank you,” I reply. I fiddle with my pen; I don’t think he really understands what I mean. I clear my throat and try again.

“James, I mean, the police were in the bakery,” Finally, he turns around and looks at me with a puzzled look. I stare at him back. After a moment, he rolls his eyes. 

“The one time I actually want to hear you talk, and you don’t care to elaborate?” He asks. 

“Right, sorry—they identified my carving knife that went missing as the m-murder…weapon, and since you’re the only other person who works here, the police are coming in to question you today.” I clutched the pen in my hand. James tilts his head and slightly leans forward with his hands on his hips. 

“Wait, wait, wait, back up—your knife was in the home, and they’re coming to question me?” 

“They already questioned me; I showed them the cameras, and they saw I was home all night; They’re just covering their bases, James; they should be in and out.” I try to explain. It didn’t placate the man; he roughly rubbed his palms on his forehead and muttered to himself. 

“Yea, alright, fine,” He goes out the back door and slams it harder than usual. I understand he’s a private man, but his reaction causes a pit of dread to swirl in the bottom of my stomach. Someone innocent doesn’t act like that, do they? I swat away the thought; I was nervous, too; it couldn’t be James. 

He’s a bit crabby but capable of murder? There’s no way, plus he wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave the weapon at the crime scene…then again. I look at the doorway he stormed out of. We’re not necessarily friends, and whoever stole the knife tried to frame me. 

And he’s the only other one in here. Officer Thatcher’s words resonated within the confines of my brain. Suddenly, I don’t feel safe. 

The doorbell chimes. 

“Good morning, Naomi,” Officer Thatcher’s alone today. 

“Good morning,” I greet back with a nervous smile. He takes notice but doesn’t say anything. 

“James Easton?” He asks, “In the yard working; it’s right through that door,” He struts past and to the garden. 

“Shouldn’t take long,” He tells me with a wink before shutting the door. Yea, it shouldn’t. I stand against the wall with nothing much to do; since the murder, business has been unbelievably slow. Non-existent, even. I fold my arms, my hand holding one side of my face. I’m not totally upset about it, though. If anyone had walked in the last two days, they would’ve seen a puffy, red-rimmed-eyed Naomi with tears-stains and snot on my face. Even now, my throat tightens with grief. I miss Sammy. 

Time continues to seemingly flash forward without me as Officer Thatcher walks back into the bakery. Yet, it felt like it’s been a few seconds. I turn towards him expectantly. 

“There’s nothing solid to incriminate the man; however, he did leave right after you said your knife went missing; he’s not a friendly individual, which isn’t favorable for him,” He chuckles; I do not. 

“But, according to him, he wasn’t in the area when the murder happened, so we’ll just have to fact-check that, and if he was home all night, you two should be left alone for a while,” I nod, I should feel relieved, but I don’t. 

“You look contemplative, Naomi; what’s wrong?” He asks. I shake my head and clasp my hands in front of me. 

“Nothing, still grieving,” I say. Officer Thatcher nods understandingly. 

“Take your time; Given the gloomy atmosphere in the area right now, doesn’t seem like there’s too many people coming in to get their festive pumpkin spice coffees,” He jokes and manages to make me chortle. 

“Yea, you’re right,” I say. 

“You should get some rest,” Thatcher pats my shoulder and leaves the bakery. He’s right. I walk out to the yard, partly to check up on James and partly to tell him he can go home. I open the back door and lean against the door frame. He doesn’t look up at me as he waters the herbs. 

“Um, I’m feeling very drained from everything; I’m going to go upstairs and lay down. You can go home if you’d like,” I say. 

“I’m not done,” He says. 

“It’s okay; I’ll give you your check, as usual, no cuts,” James looks up at me, and I give him a slight grin. 

“...You think it’s me,” He states. 

“What,” I straightened my posture, confused. 

“You think I’m the killer,” He drops the hose and starts packing up his tools. 

“What? No, James—”

“It’s fine, Naomi, I’ll go,” James keeps his eyes down while collecting his things and walks up to me. He waves his hand for me to move. 

“Excuse me, please,” 

“James—”

“I said it’s fine, Naomi,” He looks at me sternly, and I finally shuffle out of his way. 

“Thanks,” He mutters. I feel terrible as I watch him walk out the door; I didn’t mean to give him that impression at all. I didn’t really think it was him; I pressed my pointer finger and thumb to the bridge of my nose. There’s nothing I can do about it now; I walk up to my room and get comfortable. Funnily enough, I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I lay motionless in my bed from morning to midnight. 

It was only then I could feel my eyes begin to droop. My room was pitch-black, and I let the darkness envelop me; little by little, I drifted off. And suddenly…

The chime of my storefront door rings. Who was that? I felt guilty when James was the first name that popped into my mind. 

Krkrkrkrkrkrkrkr!

The sound of metal clattering against my spiral staircase; they’re coming up! I lay frozen in my bed in the darkness, scared to cause my bed to creak; If they think no one’s here, they might go away. I was wrong. My door squeaks open agonizingly slowly. I fix my eyes on the door, still scared to move, waiting to see the face of this unknown intruder. An ominous, soft, orange glow enters the room before the figure does, and seconds later, my door reveals the head of a jack-o-lantern. And not any jack-o-lantern; It has the same face I carved last week, the one I made for Sammy. 

I finally sit up, terrified. My throat sputtered, whimpery cries as my body shook violently. Sweat had already formed on my forehead. A deep, hearty laugh resonated from the pumpkin; he stood almost seven feet tall, his body made from overgrown leaves, vines, and twine. And in one leafy hand, he held my new carving knife. 

“Hello, Naomi,” His rumbling, distorted voice effortlessly filled the room. The frightening scene finally provoked a blood-curdling scream as I ripped the sheets from under me and threw them at the towering figure. It didn’t hinder him in the slightest, and soon I was cornered and being lifted from the collar of my shirt. 

“P-please,” I begged. He didn’t listen.

“Get ready to smile,”