The Pumpkin Man (A dark Halloween novella)

by Luis Samways

  Chapter Fourteen

  "They got him!" Ashton bellowed as he turned in his seat toward Hunt.

  DI Hunt, Ian and Ashton were driving in the 4x4 on their way to the house party where the suspect was last seen. Hunt had his hands firmly wrapped around the steering wheel. The news was just breaking on the radio. They’d t gotten the killer.

  "What do you mean they got him? How?" DI Hunt said, changing gear and slowing down.

  "Apparently the flying squad overheard our conversation on the two-way. So they decided to drop in themselves and give the local police a helping hand."

  "So the guy is dead?" Deputy Ian asked in the back.

  "Just got confirmation from the guys at Royal Devon & Exeter hospital. Guy is most definitely dead. Three bullet holes to the heart. Just like training tells you. Aim for the widest target."

  "Jesus. I didn't even get to ask him why he did it."

  "Who knows why? Who cares? It doesn't really matter. The local police confirmed that he was indeed carrying a knife. The same sort of knife that would best serve you when disembowelling members of the public. Obviously, we'll get our friends at SOCO on it, just to confirm that the blade was indeed used in the murders. Judging by how violent those crime scenes were, even if the killer tried wiping the blood off the blade, he’d have a hard time. Blood likes to soak into wood. So even the handle will be drenched in the stuff."

  "Did they get a name?" Detective Hunt said as he pulled into the hard shoulder, letting the engine idle as he turned toward Ashton.

  "They did get a name. The killer's brother was there with him. Apparently he had no idea. Said he’d been acting weird, though. Not to mention the fact that he was carrying a damn knife in public."

  "So, what's the guy’s name, then?"

  "Dean Male. That's his name. Some weirdo related to a bunch of other widows in town. Apparently, he’s kind of infamous around these parts. So, it looks like none of this is gonna come as a shock to most people here."

  "Well, I still find it extremely hard to believe that someone could do something like this," Hunt said as he tapped his fingers on the leather steering wheel.

  "When you’ve been around as long as I have, Detective Inspector Hunt, nothing comes as a surprise to you anymore."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Last night had been a success. They thought they had their right guy… Their right man. But they were wrong…

  On the edge of town, around 10 miles away, a man was waking up from an alcohol induced coma. Thankfully, he'd only been under for a couple of hours.

  Before that, he was busy, busy working hard…

  He could hardly still believe that he'd gotten away with it… Away with murder.

  Who gets away with such a thing? It's not like he was trying to. He didn't have a plan. He just woke up yesterday feeling like the world needed to pay. There needed to be answers to his many, many questions. Answers that could only be corrected in blood.

  Now he'd gotten what he’d wanted, it was time to celebrate. Celebrate a well-oiled machine of mayhem. Mayhem that he'd accomplished all by himself. Sure, he felt a little sorry for the kid that the cops had blown away out of desperation, but he understood that it meant something…

  It meant that he wasn't supposed to die. He was supposed to live. To live for another year. Until he surfaced again. Surfaced and did what he was meant to do.

  Make people pay.

  But until then, he'd drink and he'd celebrate a job well done. And the police would soon come to know that they had gotten the wrong kid. Good thing is, he's no kid. He's just your everyday man. A man you wouldn't look twice at or twice to on the streets. But he knew that he was significant. So significant that there was no escaping his genius.

  One day, people would know exactly who he was. They'd know his name and they'd know his motivations. But until that day came, he still had work to do.

  He fully expected that the police would come to know that they'd gotten the wrong guy soon enough. But they’d just save face. There's no way in hell that they'd admit publicly that they shot a teenager in the heart three times because he was wearing a pumpkin suit on Halloween.

  His pumpkin head was sat at the end of the bed. It was a custom-made pumpkin head. Something he'd made himself. It was fashioned out of papier-mâché, and had quite a distinct smell. A smell he put down to the fact that he'd used recycled material to assemble his alter ego.

  You've got to save the planet when you can, right?

  The man took a swig from his drink and contemplated his next move. He had two options… He could stay low and bide his time or he could go out all guns blazing right now.

  He thought about it for around two seconds and then he smiled.

  "There's always next year…"

  The End

  From one holiday, to another! Keep on reading for a sample of All Inclusive!

  Chapter One

  Hope. That’s what this is all about. It’s about hoping that everything will end up working out just fine. It’s about hoping that it isn’t too late and there’s a reason for me being alive.

  It’s why most of us get up in the morning.

  Hope…

  And God knows I’ve been hoping for a long time now. Hoping that things turn around and something positive happens to me. My life has been quite the shit storm these past couple of months. I’ve been having trouble sleeping. I’ve not been eating. And to make things worse, there’s a niggly voice in the back of my head telling me that maybe it’s best if I slit my wrists sometime soon.

  Don’t be alarmed.

  It’s not a loud voice. It’s just a tiny voice. Like an unwelcome constant friend in the background. But hey, we’ve all been there, right?

  Or am I the only bloke that feels like topping himself at times?

  Not gonna answer my question? Fine. I’ll move on.

  I can tell you’re uncomfortable and I wouldn’t want that now, would I?

  Anyway, this isn’t really about me slitting my wrists. It’s kind of the opposite actually. I don’t know how to really explain it, but I guess I should start from the beginning…

  Three months ago, I was getting out of bed at about seven in the morning. It was a Monday, and I was dreading going into work. But I didn’t have much choice, it was either that, or starve. My flat costs more than I make and the rest of my bills just put me that little bit further into debt each month, so missing a day at work was not an option.

  As usual, I was taking my sweet time getting out of bed. The covers were cradling me much like my mother used to when I was ill. Being in bed reminds me of my childhood. Any time I spot a nice thick duvet, I’m transported back to a time where life wasn’t so menial and I wasn’t such a fucking loser.

  The astute ones reading this would have realised that it’s rather sad that a bed reminds me of my own mother. As you can imagine, it pretty much proves that I’m not exactly living a bachelor lifestyle here. I’m what you would describe as a virgin. A thirty-one-year-old male virgin living in the greatest city in the world… Exeter, Devon.

  Okay, maybe it’s not officially the greatest city, but it’s a city, okay?!?

  Anyway, as I was saying, I was taking my sweet time getting out of bed and was most likely lamenting my very plain and boring life, a life that does not and will probably never involve a passionate night with a woman.

  My bedroom was full of posters of bands I’ve never seen in concert, films I’ve seen a hundred times and video games I’ve devoted thousands of hours to. Not exactly Casanova’s sleeping quarters, but it’s mine.

  Unlike a lot of my socially awkward friends out there (yes, there’s more of us), I actually live by myself. I have my own flat and pay my own bills. Probably not out of choice though. Given the opportunity, I’d probably be living at home with my parents. I’d save a lot of cash and I miss home cooking, plus there’s no girl to make me feel bad about hanging on to the nest for dear life.

  However, my mother died two years ago and
my father split when I was younger, so living ‘at home’ is out of the question. This was home, whether I liked it or not. And on that particular day three months ago, I wasn’t feeling my best.

  I’d awoken with a cold and felt like a walking corpse. But duty called and I’d been summoned in for the early shift that week, so all hands were on deck, including mine.

  After wallowing in my own self-pity for a while, I finally made my way to the kitchen and started the kettle. Feeling brave, I decided to check the front door for any mail. The hallway was bitterly cold, so I didn’t like approaching it wearing my pyjamas. It was nearly May, so I figured that it couldn’t hurt.

  I was wrong.

  The cold soaked me to the bone as I approached the door and checked the mail on the floor. Staring up at me was an assortment of junk mail and I’d quickly began regretting my decision to check for any correspondence.

  Luckily, I spotted something that wasn’t junk mail and picked it up. Turning around, I jogged back toward my open-plan kitchen and placed the letter on the worktop. The kettle stopped boiling and clouds of steam billowed up toward the extractor fan as I poured myself a brew.

  Stirring some sugar in, I turned back around and sat on my island stool, the letter was smack bang in front of me as I chugged on my tea. I hadn’t paid much attention to the it, only noticing that it wasn’t a leaflet for Specsavers, or Domino’s Pizza, hence why I’d picked it up off the floor in the first place.

  But the more I stared at it, the more intrigued I became. The envelope was bright gold and my name was written in some fancy font. Putting my mug of tea down, I picked the letter up and opened it.

  Taking an A4 sheet of paper out, I read it.

  It was some sort of invitation:

  Dear Bradley Withers,

  My name is Paul London and I’m a producer for the KNT Entertainment Company. We own various television channels on both Freeview and Sky.

  I am contacting you in regards to your name being forwarded for our new show, ALL INCLUSIVE. We received your nomination for the show from a friend of yours, a Mr. Nathan Rigley.

  He assured us that ALL INCLUSIVE would be quite an exciting opportunity for you! The show is a reality based gameshow where sixteen male contestants and sixteen female contestants compete against each other in a classic battle of the sexes, but this is where our show differs from others.

  Not only is ALL INCLUSIVE shot on location on a tropical island paradise, it’s also basically a paid vacation where all contestants can unwind and have fun (while the cameras are rolling, of course!)

  We think that the competitive nature of the show mixed in with holiday fun feel factor will make for great television. We are looking for people who want new experiences and don’t mind showing their true feelings towards others.

  From what we can establish, the show will be part reality based competition, and hopefully, if everyone is willing, part romantic island tale. We believe our contestants will not only have fun, but could fall in love as well!

  ALL INCLUSIVE is not just a reality TV show, though. The people chosen for the show will be paid for their efforts and we would very much like you to be a member of the cast.

  We’ve already received your headshot and biographical information from your friend. As a formality, we would like to invite you to a meeting where we can discuss the terms of the contract and your pay.

  To give you an idea of how much you’ll be paid, the cast of the popular ITV show The Only Way is Essex earned only a measly £50 per day in the first two seasons. They now earn around £100 a day, but we are much more competitive, at a rate of around £250 a day.

  As the show’s title suggests, the experience will be all inclusive. You’ll all be staying in a five-star resort and won’t have to pay a thing!

  Food, drink and transport is all free. As well as receiving your daily wage for filming, you’ll all be entitled to spending cash on filmed excursions on the show, such as nights out and dinners.

  During our face to face meeting, I’ll have more in terms of money and days, but if everything goes to plan, filming will go on for six months. You’ll be paid for every day that you’re on the island, so after six months, you’ll be looking at nearly £50,000 take home, before tax.

  As I said, we’ll get into the particulars at a later date. For now, I’d like you to think about the opportunity at hand, and when you’re ready, shoot me an email, and I’ll arrange an interview.

  Hope to hear from you soon,

  Warmest regards,

  Paul L.

  “Holy hell,” I said as I let the paper fall back to the counter…

  That was little over 13 weeks ago, and today I was finally meeting Mr. Paul London at his office. I’d originally resisted the idea, but now that I was here, sitting in the waiting room, looking at the various production posters on the walls, I was starting to regret giving Nathan a hard time for signing me up to this.

  I hadn’t even suspected it, but months prior, Nathan, my best friend (and only friend) had seen a classified ad in the paper regarding this All Inclusive TV show. He’d thought of me immediately and contacted them.

  They liked what they heard and now there I was, waiting to be seen.

  “Mr. London will see you now…” The pretty receptionist at the desk said to me as I looked up from staring at the floor.

  Truth be told, I found it hard looking girls in the eye. Especially pretty ones. And this particular girl was exceptionally pretty. But if I was truly going to consider doing this job, then I’d need to grow a thicker skin and a little confidence when it came to conversing with the opposite sex.

  If I was going to take part in this reality show, then I’d need to get my act together soon. I could see it now… The bright lights, the cameras, the boom sticks and the white-hot sun hitting my back as a hipster looking director attempts to get me to open up on camera. It’s not exactly the way I envisioned my life unfolding, but for so long now I’d been reserved to my own little bubble.

  And it was about time that I popped this bubble of mine and escaped into the exciting world of television! Hell, I’ve got nothing else to do… My schedule is empty!

  “Mr. Withers?” I heard the receptionist say as I snapped out of my introspective haze.

  “Sorry, I do apologise. This is a lot to take in,” I said as I got up from my seat.

  She gave me a courteous smile and pointed at a door a few metres from her desk.

  “Mr. London is just through there. He’s expecting you, so don’t look so terrified!” The girl said, giving me a wink.

  Or at least I thought it was a wink. Maybe it was just a twitch. I do have a habit of making girls a little nervous.

  I suppose we all have our crosses to bear…

  Slowly walking toward the posh looking oak door, I reached for the golden handle and pushed down. The hinges creaked loudly as the thick door parted from its latch and opened slowly, revealing a tremendously lavish looking office. I stood there for a few seconds, admiring the many paintings on the wall.

  I’m not into art, but even I knew some of the pieces that were hanging proudly in front of me. My eyes were transfixed by the wash of colours splattered on the various canvases dotted around the office. I was just about to divert my attention to the desk in front of me when I was startled by a set of eyes boring deep into my soul.

  Standing a few metres from me with his hand held out was a young looking executive. He was handsome and rather tall. He had a James Bond air about him. But I guess that was partly down to me… Any time I see a man in a suit I automatically think of Britain’s favourite spy.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you there, my name’s Paul London. I take it you’re Bradley Withers?”

  He clasped my hand and shook it. I reciprocated with a firm shake of my own. The last thing I wanted to do was make myself look weak with a tepid handshake. I don’t know why, but any time I end up shaking another man’s hand I always let myself down with a weak grip.

  There�
�s just something off-putting about meeting another bloke for me. I don’t know what it is, or why it happens, but I usually become quite nervous. So nervous, I end up either mispronouncing common phrases, or screwing up in some comically slapstick manner.

  I just hoped that today the universe would give me a bloody break.

  “Nice to meet you. You’ve got a really posh office…”

  Mr. London looked at me and then shifted his eyes to the floor as he released my hand from his grip. I immediately sensed that I’d said something to make him feel uncomfortable. Thinking about it now, it had only taken me a total of thirteen seconds to make myself look like a tit.

  Nothing new there then…

  “I suppose it is a little posh,” he said as he looked back up, the previous uncomfortable look on his face had disappeared and now he was smiling. “But hey, we aren’t here to talk about my office. We’re here to talk about you. So please, follow me, and take a seat. We’ve got a lot to talk about!”

  I did as he said and followed him toward his large chrome desk. He sat down on his chair and relaxed as he clasped his hands behind his head like he was on a sun lounger in Spain.

  “So, how was the train from Exeter?”

  “It was a little bumpy. They do like to take corners fast. I tend to get a little anxious on public transport. You never know when things could go wrong…”

  Mr. London pulled another face. I’d done it again! When would this torturous existence of mine come to an end? When would I be able to talk to people without putting my foot in it?