Writer's Friday, Week 1

Welcome back!

photo by @blue_fox_s_hut

For the 1st Writer's Friday, I have selected a prompt from @blue_fox_s_hut 's Foxtober Art Challenge! The prompt is from Day 18: Ghost in the Pumpkin Patch.

This will be part 1 of the short story, come back next week for part 2!

Now, let's write!

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Ghost in the Pumpkin Patch, part 1

            There are ghosts in the pumpkin patch. They were not always there, I am sure of it. Through the years, the few became many, the dead surpassing the living in our little patch of land.

            I don’t remember seeing one until my seventh year, a little girl playing hide and seek between the third and fourth row of pumpkins. Her playmate was a moth, its wings black with stripes of white. I don’t think the moth realised the game they were playing, but the girl seemed all but happy, even with no mouth to smile.

            Then, a young boy joined her, on the eve of my eleventh birthday. Perhaps older than her, taller for sure, wearing a cloth cap and plain clothes. He is featureless, just like her, but there is something in his posture that renders him harmless.

            A few more came and went, from winter to spring and then autumn, and soon we had a whole neighbourhood of ghosts, all cramped together in that patch. They don’t leave the grounds, unable to do so, they seem not. Afraid fits it better.

            We know them by name and cloth. They don’t speak, not without a mouth, but they can write things all the same. From foggy windows to muddy wooden planks on our porch, they use every chance they get to communicate, usually asking for little favours.

            “Can you leave your coffee by the window tomorrow? I have missed the scent.”

            “Will you feed the tabby cat over there? She must be starving.”

            And although it takes a bit of time to communicate with them, we always try to be patient, as ghostly fingers carve out the words, letter by letter. It is the least we can do, I think, to make whatever life this is of theirs more... Bearable.

            I have tried to make sense of our pumpkin patch and its ghosts. In my years as a student, I have piled up book after book, from religion to occult, trying to understand their presence, its meaning and discover a way to help them move on. There were spells and concoctions in those pages, prayers and offerings that suggested the problem was solvable, if one followed the instructions to a tee. I did try them all, with no success.

            Perhaps I’d had a better chance if I weren’t alone in that quest. Mother was too busy, working to keep our house alight and standing, our fridge full, despite her never being here to enjoy it. And Father... Well, Father is no longer around, and for the better of it.

            It was in my twenty-third year that I noticed a surge of new ghosts in the patch, day after day, until our ghosts refused to let any more of their kind pass through the fence. I asked the newcomers for their names, but they were too frightened to answer me. So, I asked the moth girl, Debora, and the cloth cap boy, Elian, for their help. After a week had passed, both told me to leave the newcomers be; they just wanted shelter.

            “From what?” I asked, but neither answered me.

            Later that October, there was something different about the small town I had spent my whole life in. Nothing to do with its people, I wouldn’t have noticed if it were them. It was the stray animals, no longer playing around in the streets and yards, and how they disappeared after sundown. Even the nocturnal creatures were quieter, trying to remain unseen. There was something in the air, too. The chill that used to make me want to bury myself under the blankets on the couch and read a book had turned into a most vicious thing, its teeth digging deep inside my bones, rendering my muscles useless, my nerves on edge. I had lost sleep due to the shivers that refused to allow me some rest, no matter how high I piled the blankets on the bed.

            On the last Friday of the month, I dragged my exhausted body to a coffeehouse close to home. I had just finished my courses for the day, and the bus ride back to town was nightmarish, thanks to the loud chatter of some elderly ladies at the back and the constant bumps on the road. The first I usually tuned out, the latter I ignored, but the more nights I spent tossing and turning, the more my patience grew thin, and today was something akin to the final straw.

             The smell of freshly brewed coffee welcomed me, along with Farah’s gentle smile.

            “You look terrible,” she said jokingly, in a tone only a childhood friend would use.

            Her brows knitted together when I rose from my seat to greet her, and I held her a moment too long, breathing in the scent of her, her usual fruity cologne mixed with that of bitter coffee that would no longer come off of her apron, no matter how many times she washed it. I gave her my order and apologized for lacking the energy to chat, but promised to keep her company during her break.

            My usual table was empty. Located at the far back of the shop and pressed against the window, it was a cosy corner I had unofficially claimed for my own ever since Farah started working here.

            I stretched my aching legs under the table, my coat already abandoned on the chair opposite, but my gloves still on. I felt my fingers numb and didn’t want to be met with the uncanny sight of my bluish flesh once I took them off.

            My coffee arrived quickly, two shots of espresso with the traditional pumpkin spice recipe of the house. Some of those pumpkins had come from our patch, and I smiled at the first sip, knowing those little orange miracles were keeping people warm all around town.

            It was as I placed the mug back on the table that I looked out of the window.

            And I saw him.