Pumpkin by Bill Pronzini Page A

not that.” He turned appealing eyes to Amanda. “This pumpkin must not be picked, senora . No one must cut its  
    stem or its flesh, no one must eat it.” 
    “I don’t understand, Manuel. Whyever not?” 
    “There is something…I cannot explain it. You must see this pumpkin for yourself. You must…feel it.” 
    “Touch it, you mean?” 
    “No. Feel it.” 
    Harley said, “You’ve been out in the sun too long, Manuel.” 
    “This is not a joke, senor ,” Manuel said in grave tones. “The other men do not feel it as strongly as I, but they also will not pick this pumpkin. We will all leave if it is cut, and we will not come back.” 
    Amanda felt a vague chill, as if someone had blown a cold breath against the back of her neck. She said, “Where is this pumpkin?” 
    “The east field. Near the line fence.” 
    “Have you seen it, Harley?” she asked her husband. 
    “Not yet. We might as well go out there, I guess.” 
    “Yes,” Manuel said. “Come with me, see for yourself. Feel for yourself.” 
    Amanda and Harley got into the pickup; Manuel had drive in from the fields in one of the laborers’ flatbed trucks, and he led the way in that. They clattered across the hilly terrain to the field farthest from the farm buildings, to its farthest section close to the pole-and-barbed wire line fence. From there, Manuel guided them on foot among the rows of big trailing vines with their heart-shaped leaves and their heavy ripe fruit. Eventually he stopped and pointed without speaking. Across a barren patch of soil, a single pumpkin grew by itself, on its own vine, no  
    others within five yards of it. 
    At first Amanda noticed nothing out of the ordinary. It seemed to be just another Connecticut Field, larger than most though nowhere near exhibition size, a little darker orange than most. But then she moved closer, and she saw that it was…different. She couldn’t have said quite how it was different, but there was something…. 
    “Well?” Harley said to Manuel. “What about it?” 
    “You don’t feel it, senor ?” 
    “No. Feel what?” 
    But Amanda felt it. She couldn’t have explained that, either; it was just an aura, a sense of something emanating from the pumpkin that made her uneasy, brought primitive little stirrings of fear and disgust into her mind. 
    “I do, Harley,” she said, and hugged herself. “I know what he means.” 
    “You too? Well, I still say it’s nonsense. I’m going to cut it and be done with it. Manuel, let me have your knife….” 
    Manuel backed away, putting his hand over the sharp harvesting knife at his belt. “ Por Dios , no, Mr. Sutter. No. You must not!” 
    “Harley,” Amanda said sharply, “he’s right. Leave it be.” 
    “Damn. Why should I?” 
    “It is evil,” Manuel said, and looked away from the pumpkin and made the sign of the cross. “It is an evil thing.” 
    “Oh, for God’s sake. How can a pumpkin be evil?” 
    Amanda remembered something her uncle, who had been a Presbyterian minister, had said to her when she was a child: Evil takes many forms, Mandy. Evil shares our bed and eats at our own table. Evil is everywhere, in every size and shape. 
    She said, feeling chilled, “Harley, I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but that pumpkin is an an evil thing. Leave it alone. Let it rot where it lies.” 
    Manuel crossed himself again. “Yes, senora! We will cover it, hide it from the sun, and it will wither and die. It can do no harm if it lies here untouched.” 
    Harley thought they were crazy, that was plain enough. But he let them have their way. He sat in the truck while Manuel went to get a piece of milky plastic rain sheeting and two other men to help him. Amanda stood near the pickup’s front fender and watched the men cover the pumpkin, anchor the sheeting with wooden stakes and chunks of rock. 
    Harley had little to say during supper that night, and soon afterward he went out to his workshop in