Something Left Behind

by Norah Deay

The prompt used for inspiration on 21 November 2024

In the post-Halloween dusk, something left behind begins to stir

The pumpkin sat on the porch, looking more like a squashed turnip than the proud thing it had been a week ago. Its grin had gone lopsided, and the edges were turning soft and black. The rain came in a fine mist, soaking the last of the Halloween decorations, but no one had thought to throw the pumpkin out. It sat there, stubborn as an old cow, waiting.

Old Mrs. O’Shea, leaning on her gate next door, caught sight of it as she lit her evening cigarette. “That yoke’s not right,” she muttered to herself, the smoke curling around her head like a halo. She took a step back when she thought she saw a faint flicker in the hollow eyes, but shook her head. “Sure, it’s just me own imagination,” she said aloud, though she made the sign of the cross all the same and hurried back inside.

In the house, little Ellen peered through the window. She’d been telling everyone that the pumpkin had to go but they didn’t listen to her. It didn’t feel right, sitting there. She hadn’t liked it when her dad carved it, and she liked it even less now, all saggy and strange. As the light outside faded, the porch creaked.

The glow came slowly at first—a tiny glint, barely there. Then it grew, spreading through the pumpkin’s face like embers catching on a fire. A sweet wrapper blew across the step and stopped. The light in the pumpkin swelled, flickering with mischief.

“It’s watching,” Ellen whispered. No one listened.