A Minister's Ghost by Phillip Depoy Page A

months. Only on All Hallows’ Eve were the lanterns made into faces, and then the idea was to frighten away the spirits of the dead, or to light their way so they wouldn’t get lost.
    Instead, Lucinda and I wandered among the quarter acre of severed orange heads, marveling at the craftsmanship and enthusiasm all contestants had mustered.
    There were nearly fifty entries, arranged in rows and glowing in the fading evening light. Some were nearly as big as doghouses, carved mean: scowling eyes, razor teeth, howling mouths. Some had old felt fedoras on, making them look like hoboes, vacant wandering souls. One had a patch over its left eye. One was carved to look like a medieval hellmouth, as I explained to Lucinda, and inside it were melting toy plastic soldiers playing the part of tormented sinners.
    The biggest, fiercest one had been made by the son of Pastor Floyd Davis, the Methodist minister. It was as terrifying an image of Satan as I had seen anywhere, complete with carrot horns, a rotted-eggplant tongue, and peeled white turnips embedded in it that looked very much like blind eyes.
    Tess and Rory had stood at the far end of the last line, a small cardboard box between them. They refused to let anyone look in until the two judges—Pastor Davis and a school science teacher whose name I didn’t know—got to them.
    The judges made their way up and down the long rows of jack-o’-lanterns taking notes, conferring humorlessly, and measuring. Everyone had stopped whatever they were doing and come to watch. Booths were shut down. Skidmore stood close by, wrapped in a blanket. The cafeteria was empty.
    The scene was, in fact, something to see: fifty leering pumpkin faces lined up, candles glowing warm inside, everyone standing around, silent as the grave, waiting for the decision of the judges.
    Someone standing beside Skid said, in hushed tones, “Usually the bigger the pumpkin, the better the chance of winning. That’s why they’re measuring.”

    Contestants really wanted to win. The main prize was from E. P. Waldrup’s Cash and Tow: a month’s worth of free gas, an oil change, a tune-up, and a choice of one item, any item, from anywhere in the yard. This was quite an offer, because some of the “items” in the yard were entire cars.
    The Palace had thrown in four free movie tickets, good anytime. And Miss Etta’s diner was offering free pumpkin pie for a year, in keeping with the situation. That Miss Etta only made pumpkin pie once a year did little to dampen enthusiasm for it. Miss Etta made very good pie.
    Many of the local boys had put a good deal of effort into winning.
    My eyes were on Tess and Rory and their little cardboard box. It was like a baby coffin. They were barely able to contain their excitement, laughing and whispering to each other. Pastor Davis was still measuring his son’s hellmouth when the science teacher made it to the end of the line and demanded to see the girls’ creation.
    Rory sighed, leaned down, and opened the top of the box.
    â€œFloyd,” the science teacher gasped, her face transfixed. “You’d better get over here!”
    Pastor Davis wound up his tape and hurried over, clearly irritated by the disturbance in the solemn proceedings. But his expression took on a beatified look of wonder when he peered down into the cardboard container.
    â€œLord Almighty, girls,” he said softly.
    People around began to close in, pressing on every side, trying to peer down into the box.
    â€œWhat is it?” someone whispered.
    â€œYou’re not going to believe it,” the science teacher intoned.
    The girls beamed.
    Slowly Pastor Davis bent over and pulled out the carving the girls had made.
    It was no bigger than a child’s head, made from a baby pumpkin. Everyone froze.
    In the fading light, licked by amber cast from the bonfire, every one of us witnessed a living, human face. The pumpkin had smiling
eyes, a