Wanted (14 page)

“Haywood, I've got to talk to you.” I cornered him by the cash register shed.

Mom was setting up her table of pumpkin pies. The twins were arguing about where they should stand to greet people when the farm opened. Dad was inspecting the field, making sure there were enough pumpkins for people to pick.

It was a cloudy morning. The ground was crunchy and hard from a heavy frost the night before. I could see my breath steam in front of me.

“It's getting serious,” I told Haywood. “I really need help.”

He glanced around, his eyes following my dad. “I can't talk right now. I'm doing the cash register today. I don't want to get in trouble.”

“I begged my dad to let me work the cash register,” I said. “I really don't want to be in the field today. The vines …”

“Devin — come give me a hand!” Dad shouted. I saw him waving me over to him.

I took a deep breath. I thought about those vines last night. How could I
not
think about them?

“Devin — get a move on!” Dad shouted.

“Coming!” I started to jog into the field. I jumped over a thick vine. My legs brushed fat leaves out of my way as I ran.

Something caught my eye at the edge of the field. The black cat. Zeus watching, as always.

Watching … and waiting?

I felt a shiver run down my back. That cat was evil. Would I ever be able to prove it?

“Dad, are you sure I can't work in the shed today?” I asked.

“I'm sure,” he said. “It's Haywood's turn. Help with those pumpkins, will you? Pull them out from under the leaves so people can see them.”

“Uh … okay,” I muttered.

“It's Halloween, in case you forgot,” Dad said. “Our big day. I need you to be a big help today, Devin.”

“No problem,” I muttered, my eyes on the cat.

Dad hurried to another row of pumpkins. I bent down and grabbed a pumpkin half hidden by thick leaves. The pumpkin felt cold, as if it had been left in the freezer overnight.

I shivered again as a blast of cold air shook the leaves all around.

And I heard a whisper. A soft whisper. Not the wind. Definitely not the wind.

I stood up and listened. The fat green leaves trembled and shook. And whispered.

Whispered my name.

I wasn't imagining it. I heard my name so clearly. Whispered under the slapping and clapping of the leaves on the vines.

“Devvvvvvvvvin … Devvvvvvin …”

“Who's whispering?” I cried. “Who is here?”

“Devvvvvvvvvin … Devvvvvvin …”

Breathy voices all around me. Surrounding me. Whispered voices so clear, carried on the wind, rising over the clap of the leaves.

“Dad — do you hear that?” I shouted. “Do you hear the whispering? Dad?”

He was too far away. He didn't turn around.

And I stood there, frozen in terror. Surrounded by the long, ugly vines and the slapping leaves and the cold, cold pumpkins. And listened …

“Devvvvvvvvvin … Devvvvvvin …”

Cars pulled into the parking lot. Families piled out, eager to find their last-minute pumpkins.

I had no choice. I had to ignore the whispers and help our customers. We had so many customers, I barely had time to breathe.

I glimpsed Mom's table. She had sold all the little pumpkins with painted faces. And all the pumpkin pies were gone. She had only a few jars of pumpkin butter left.

The twins were having a great time, talking to everyone who arrived, greeting them and making them laugh.

Dad was guiding families along the vines, leading them to the best pumpkins that were left.

Everyone was having a good time. Except me. No way I could relax. Every muscle in my body was tensed.

I was waiting to see what would happen next. The whispers had stopped. Did that mean the angry vines and pumpkins were getting ready to spring their next horror?

As I walked through the field, carrying pumpkins for customers, I thought of the dead people down below my feet. I was sure they could hear or feel the footsteps of all the people walking over their graves.

And I knew it had to make them even angrier.

The vines sprouted from the old corpses down there. The dead sent their anger up through the vines … into the cold, cold pumpkins I was carrying.

“Can you help me take this to my car?” It was a young woman in a red down coat and a wool cap with earflaps. She pointed to a large pumpkin half hidden by leaves.

“No problem,” I said. I hoisted the pumpkin off the ground in both hands and twisted it free from the vine. It weighed a ton. I'm only twelve and I'm not the most athletic guy around.

But it was my job. So I wrapped my hands around the big thing and …

… And to my shock, the hard, cold rind suddenly changed. I mean, it turned soft. As I held it, the whole thing turned soft as mashed potatoes.

And my hands plunged right into the pumpkin.

Yes. They sank right into the middle of the soft, pulpy pumpkin.

The woman uttered a cry. “What did you do? Why did you do that to my pumpkin?”

“I — I didn't —” I started.

Both of my hands were buried in the pumpkin. I tried to slide them out. But they wouldn't budge.

“Hey, I'm stuck!” I cried.

The woman's face was twisted in confusion. “Are you crazy? Why are you doing that?”

“No. I — I'm really stuck,” I stammered. “I can't get my hands out. This pumpkin — it's like glue!”

She shook her head. Her earflaps flopped around. “You're joking, right?”

My dad came hurrying over. “What's the problem here?” His eyes stopped on the pumpkin in my hands. “Put that pumpkin down, Devin,” he said. “Why did you crush it like that?”

He slid the pumpkin off me. It left thick orange glop up and down the sleeves of my denim jacket.

He turned to the woman. “Do you see another pumpkin you would like?”

The woman pointed to another big pumpkin. “I guess that one.”

“Devin will be happy to carry it for you,” Dad said. He motioned me toward the pumpkin.

My sleeves smelled horrible. The pumpkin goo was wet and sticky.

I ignored it and bent down. I twisted the pumpkin off the vine. Then I raised it to my chest.

“Ohhhh.” I uttered a groan as the pumpkin turned soft and my hands sank right into its middle.

Dad's face turned red and his eyes started to blink a lot, which is what he does when he's
very
angry. “Devin.” He said my name through clenched teeth. “I think your workday is over. Go to the house.”

“Dad, I —” I started to argue. But no way I could convince him this pumpkin thing wasn't my fault.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

The woman looked very embarrassed. My dad's face was still red as a tomato. I turned and trudged out of the pumpkin field.

My jacket was covered in pumpkin goo. And as I walked, head down, the whispers started up again. Whispers up and down the field …

“Devvvvvin … Devvvvvvin …”

My whole body shuddered. In my whole life, I'd never felt so frightened. Or so alone.

I saw Haywood ringing the cash register, handing a man some change. I ran over to the shed. My head was ringing with the soft whispers.

I barged right up to him. “You have to help me. They're out to get me.”

He squinted at me. “Who? Who's out to get you?”

“I — I don't know,” I stammered. “The pumpkins. The vines. Everything. Can you help me? You know all about this farm. Haywood, is there anything you can do?”

He glanced down. I saw what he was gazing at. Zeus. The black cat, watching us from the front of the shed.

“No. I don't think so,” Haywood said, eyes on the cat. “I don't think I can help you, Devin. Sorry.”

“You have to,” I insisted. I grabbed the front of his parka. I held on to it tight. “You've got to help me. Meet me after dinner. So we can talk.”

He still kept his gaze on the black cat. “I … don't think so,” he said.

“You have to come,” I insisted, gripping his coat. “After dinner. Come to the farmhouse. I'll meet you in the back. Please.”

The whispers grew louder. I thought I saw pumpkins rolling in the field. Rolling toward me.

“Devvvvvin … Devvvvvvin …”
The whispers rang in my ears.

I couldn't eat my dinner. Spaghetti and meatballs. The meatballs looked like little round pumpkins to me. And the spaghetti was the crawling, curling vines.

When Mrs. Barnes brought out a pumpkin pie for dessert, I nearly puked my guts out all over the dinner table.

No one noticed. Everyone was too happy and excited to notice me.

They were all talking at once and laughing and joking. Dad was in the
best
mood. His pumpkin-farm idea had worked out for him
big-time
.

I was the only quiet person at the table. I was the only one there who knew of the horror right beyond our backyard.

A few hours after dinner, I went outside to wait for Haywood. It was a cool, breezy night. The full moon floated low in the sky.

I paced back and forth along the back of the house. My hands were cold and sweaty. I kept them jammed into my jeans pockets as I walked. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Where was he?
Where
?

And then I saw the vines. Several vines lifting themselves out of the field. Creeping like snakes over the grass toward the house.

The moonlight was so bright, I could see every line and groove and track on the thick vines as they slithered toward me.

They curled over one another, tangling and untangling. And sliding quickly forward. Gleaming in the bright moonlight.

Where is Haywood? I need him. Where IS he?

Gaping in horror at the approaching vines, I saw something move in the dirt. In the dirt where the backyard ended and the pumpkin field began, I saw something rise up.

Was it some kind of small animal? No.

A hand. Squinting into the moonlight, I realized I was staring at a human hand. Poking up from the dirt.

I could see it so clearly. I watched the fingers move, as if testing themselves. Then the dirt parted and the hand rose higher into the night air.

I saw a slender arm. A coat sleeve. And then a second hand shot up from under the ground. Two arms.

And a head. A head rose up from the dirt. Then … shoulders.

The hands pushed down on the grass. And a figure climbed out from under the ground…. Under the ground!

From a
grave
?

Someone climbing out from a grave?

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

I watched him rub dirt off his face. Then he brushed off the front of his coat. The legs of his jeans.

He staggered forward. Stepped into a pool of light. And I recognized him.

Haywood.

My body quivered with horror. I stared at the figure in the moonlight until my eyes blurred.

Was Haywood
dead
? Was he one of the corpses buried under the pumpkin field?

I hate zombie movies. I think they're really dumb. But here I was,
living
in one.

And suddenly I remembered. I remembered asking Haywood where he lived. When I asked, he pointed to the pumpkin field. He said he lived there with his dad and a lot of other people.

And now here he came, brushing off the dirt from his grave and walking across the backyard, past the slithering vines. Walking toward the house because I had invited him. I had begged him to come tonight. To help me.

But he wasn't coming to help me. What was he planning?

I tried to hide. Too late to run. I pressed myself into the darkness of the back wall. I held my breath. My heart beat so hard, my chest ached.

“Devin? I can see you,” Haywood said. “Are you hiding there? I've come to help you.”

I didn't move from the wall. “No, th-thanks,” I stuttered. “I don't need your help anymore. Thanks anyway.”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “You need my help.”

“NO!” I uttered. Actually, I screamed the word. I couldn't hide my panic.

“I came to help you,” he repeated. “Because you're my friend. I know all about this farm, Devin. I know how to keep people safe.”

He stepped into the shadows. I hugged myself to stop trembling. “I … I'm going inside now,” I said. “I'm tired from carrying all those pumpkins today.”

“Let me come in with you,” he whispered. “I have some things to tell you. Important things, Devin.”

“No. Really. I'm too tired. Maybe tomorrow?”

I couldn't see his face. The shadows at the back of the house were too deep.

“It's Halloween night,” he said. “There are things I need to tell you. To keep you safe on this farm.”

My brain was spinning. How could I escape him?

I'd seen him climb up from under the ground. I knew he had to be some kind of zombie.

He moved closer. I heard him chuckle. “Devin, you look so frightened.”

“Huh? Me? No way,” I protested. But my trembling voice gave me away.

“Why are you shaking?” he demanded.

“It's … cold out here,” I said.

His next words sent a shock wave down my whole body.
“It's colder in the grave, Devin.”

He grabbed my wrist — and jerked me forward.

I nearly fell over.

His hand tightened around my wrist. It felt like a cold metal clamp.

I tried to pull free. But he was incredibly strong.

“Colder in the grave,” he repeated.

“Let go of me! Wh-what do you want?” My voice came out high and shrill.

“I want you to come with me,” he said softly. His bone-hard fingers dug into the skin on my wrist. “I want you to come see my grave.”

“No! Let go! Let go!”

Panic shot through my body. I twisted and squirmed. “Let
go
!”

But I wasn't strong enough to break his hold.

He turned and started to pull me across the wet grass. I struggled against him, but he was just too powerful.

“Stop!” I cried. “I don't want to see your grave! Let me go!”

He turned. His eyes were glassy. Empty. Like doll's eyes. “It doesn't hurt,” he said in a whisper.

“Doesn't hurt?
What
doesn't hurt?” I cried.

“It doesn't hurt to die, Devin. You'll see.”

“No! Please!”

He began pulling me again, forcing me over the grass toward the field. Gripping me with his steel-like hand. Pulling with horrifying strength.

He's going to pull me into his grave.

I twisted back toward the house. I tried to shout for my parents. But the windows were all shut against the cold. The lights were all out. Everyone was asleep.

No way they could hear my feeble cries.

Haywood pulled me over the vines, which were twisting together, curling, uncurling. As I passed by, they reached up as if to grab me. But he tugged me out of their reach.

I'm doomed.

I realized no one could save me. And he was too strong for me to save myself.

I opened my mouth to shout again. But there was no one around. No one who could help me.

And then my eyes fell on a dark figure at the edge of the field. And I realized I had one tiny hope left.

“Zeus!” I shouted. “Zeus — you're the Grave-Master. You can help me!”

The cat tilted his head at my words. His green eyes caught the moonlight and appeared to glow.

“Zeus! I know who you really are! I know you are in control of everyone here. Zeus — please. Help me. Stop Haywood. Stop him!”

The cat lowered his head. He took a step toward us. Then another.

Haywood turned to face him.

“Yes!” I cried. “Come stop him! You are the Grave-Master! You can do it! Help me! Help me, Zeus.”

The cat took another step toward us into the leafy field. He raised his head, and his eyes glowed brightly at Haywood.

“Get him, Zeus!” I screamed.