Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall,
Pray for those who hear the call,
Death on the wind, in the night, at the door,
The voice of the King hungry for more.
****
Autumn had swept in early this year, the evenings drawing in faster than any with living memory could recall, casting the village of Alberg and the surrounding forest in a blanket of darkness when the sun should still have touched the tops of the trees. Inside The Dripping Bucket, with the roaring fire in the hearth and lanterns casting a warm glow in the corners where the light of the flames didn’t quite reach, and spiced cider warming his insides, it was hard for Emil to remember that the changing seasons meant danger for the village. Hard, but not impossible, because all around him he could hear the whispers. Elders sharing old rhymes and stories, people reciting the names that had been carved into the old oak at the heart of Alberg so they would never be forgotten, spoken as though the ghosts of those who had fallen before were sat beside them – superstitious fear shared in fevered whispers and sideways glances.
“…Autumn has come too early…”
“Did you hear about Otto’s crops…?”
“It’s not the crops…”
“…you don’t mean…”
“It’s him.”
Him. Emil hid his grimace behind his tankard. He had never been sure what he thought about the legends of the Pumpkin King that ran rife in the village. As a child, he had been fascinated and terrified in equal measure by the tales, the horrific details that seemed to be pulled right out of a nightmare. His fear had been fed by the fact that he and his siblings had never been allowed outside past dark, and they’d had to help put the charms at the door and to keep the candles lit during the night. As he’d grown older, he’d started to question the legend more, even going so far as to spend countless hours in the dust-clad archives under the church. He couldn’t deny that people disappeared every autumn, never with any rhyme or reason – locals and outsiders equally likely to fall prey to whatever stalked the darker nights. Nor could he deny the bodies that were found, sometimes not until after the winter snows, but ofttimes freshly slaughtered. Bodies without heads, just as the rhymes and legends told, but something about the story niggled at him.
Then he’d left the village, gone to fight in the army. Between the mockery of his fellows when they’d shared customs and stories from home and he’d reluctantly dredged up the old tales, and the fact that he’d had a taste of just what humans were capable of, he couldn’t help but become more sure that the villagers were wrong.
Oh, he knew something or more likely someone was out there killing people, but rather than some mythical being with a pumpkin head, he was sure it was a human – or maybe more than one. Of course, suggesting that when he’d returned home had gone down like a millstone in the village pond and he’d had the worst argument he could ever remember with his parents, and they were currently acting as though the topic had never arisen. Wisely, he hadn’t mentioned his thoughts to anyone else. Yet still he worried at the idea, the spiced cider not enough to dull his thoughts, and as he heard yet someone else join the conversation, he found himself pushing his drink away and climbing to his feet.
“Emil, you’re walking home alone?” A voice rose above the din just as he reached the door, reminding him that at least one other person was glad to have him back, and he turned to look at Anna, who had paused in the middle of pouring a drink to frown at him.
“It’s not that far,” he pointed out, trying not to scowl back at her. He had forgotten that people didn’t go out alone in the dark here, and part of him bristled at the question. After all, he was a soldier, and he had survived worse than a short walk in the dark. “I’ll be fine, Anna, promise.” He flashed her a grin instead, stuck his tongue out at her sleepy-looking daughter Maria, who was perched at the end of the bar, and darted out of the door before Anna could come up with an argument he couldn’t defeat. He heard her calling after him until the heavy door closed behind him and cut off her voice.
Even with the lanterns and candles in the windows, the darkness pressed close as he wound his way through the village. Emil shivered, pulled his coat closer and wished he’d brought a scarf as he sped up. Out here, with the hush that had settled over the village with the arrival of night, it was easier to understand why people still believed the old tales. Despite himself, Emil found himself glancing around, casting uneasy glances towards the forest that curled around the village, dark and silent and watchful, an itch between his shoulders as it seemed to return his regard.
“This is ridiculous…” he muttered, starting a little at how loud his voice was in the quiet and immediately falling silent again.
It took him a moment to notice that it wasn’t as quiet as it had been before. There was a noise behind him that almost sounded like feet pattering on the ground, and he whirled, hands raised in case of an attack and found himself staring at…
…nothing.
The path behind him was empty, and the moment he had moved the noise had disappeared. Had he just spooked himself with the sound of his own footsteps? He waited a moment longer and turned away with a muffled curse. Great, now I’m imagining things. He had already been starting to regret coming home, and now he was jumping at shadows, he grimaced. His old captain would have a field day with him acting like a skittish rabbit. That thought had him squaring his shoulders and striding forward, refusing to look left or right or turn around as after a pause the sound resumed.
There’s nothing there. There’s nothing…
Something brushed against his ear like a finger had caressed the curve of it, and Emil shuddered. A chill seeping through his skin, he whirled around, lashing out and again but hitting nothing. There was nothing there. The night was quiet and still, with not even a breeze stirring the leaves in the trees or the flames of the lanterns, and yet Emil could feel it. There were eyes on him. A gaze that had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, and yet no one was there, and nothing stirred as he waited, barely daring to breathe, half-expecting something to lunge out of the darkness at any moment.
You’re imagining things, Emil. You had too much to drink and listened to all those silly stories and…
Emil held his ground for a moment longer, and he was just starting to believe what he was telling himself and relax when he heard it. It wasn’t a voice, or not as he knew voices to be, and there were no words or at least none that he could make out, but it drifted to him, filling the air around him for all directions, so faint that it must’ve come from a distance even without wind to carry it.
Wordless, meaningless and yet it called to him, and his heart skipped a beat as an old rhyme bubbled up.
Pray for those who hear the call…
He’d been to war; he’d seen and done horrors that he could never have imagined before he’d left the village and had laughed at the superstitions that he’d grown up with. Yet at that moment he forgot all of that, emitted a noise that was far too close to a whimper, and bolted.
A blast of cold air hit his face as a wind rose around him, lifting the leaves already painted red and orange and swirling them around as he pounded down the path. The wind didn’t touch the flames of the lanterns as he ran past; didn’t stir the forest, the trees that pressed closer now unmoving in the darkness.
Death on the wind, in the night…
Why did they have to live on the outskirts? To the point that they all but lived in the forest? Emil had never questioned it before, never minded the longer walk to get home. But tonight, with his heart hammering in his chest and an icy lump of terror taking root in his chest, he cursed that distance.
He had no idea if anyone or anything was following. Couldn’t hear anything beyond the roaring in his ears and the strangely distant pounding of his feet on the ground. Could barely see past the leaves that were being whipped into a frenzy around him. It didn’t matter. He knew the route better than any other, and as he turned onto the small path that led from the street up into the trees and to where he thought he could just make out the lights of their own lanterns, he dared to hope as he sped up again. He was almost home, and soon he would be out of the dark, away from this chill, and it would all seem like a bad dream, a trick of his mind, a…
The door was open.
Death on the wind, in the night, at the door…
He froze, one hand stretched towards the garden gate, eyes locked on the brightly lit doorway. During the day it was common for the door to be left wide open; his parents were always around, tending to the animals and the garden, with neighbours coming and going. But at night? It was unheard of for the door to be left unlocked, let alone open. The lanterns were still lit, though, he tried to tell himself, so maybe they had just forgotten? Or fallen asleep after dinner as they were wont to do these days. But they’ve never forgotten before, his traitorous mind whispered, refusing to allow him even that comfort. He swallowed before forcing himself to open the gate, wincing when the hinges screeched in protest – his father had asked him to oil them that morning, and he’d forgotten.
Nothing stirred at the noise, and Emil felt sick now with how hard his heart was pounding as he all but crept up the garden path. Spying his father’s spade upright in one of the vegetable beds, he grabbed it, hefting it in trembling hands, missing the weight of his musket more than ever.
The door when he reached it was undamaged as far as he could tell, the hinges intact and the lock looking untouched too. He took a deep breath, hoping that was a good sign, before stepping over the threshold, and it seemed to him that the wind rose in intensity for a moment before disappearing. His heart was in his throat as he glanced behind him to see the leaves landing in a pile on the doorstep before turning back.
“Mother? Father?” he called as loudly as he dared, moving down the small hallway towards the living room. Once more he heard that whisper of sound behind him, like someone pattering along in his wake, but Emil refused to look back, because the fire was burning brightly in the living room, which suggested that someone had been stoking it. “Did you forget to lock the door, after giving me all that grief about…”
His voice died in a strangled whine, because there above the merrily blazing fire, on the wrought iron hooks his father had made for his mother to hang flower baskets from…
Heads.
Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall…
They stared at him, his mother and father, from empty, accusing eyes. He thought they were screaming at him, their mouths twisted and grotesque – or maybe that was because of the hooks, the curved tips glistening in the firelight. A low, pained noise rose in his throat, halfway between a sob and howl as he took a trembling step forward, as though waiting for the image to shatter if he moved.
It couldn’t be real. It wasn’t real.
They couldn’t be dead.
The blood was still trickling, painting the once green wall with macabre patterns before sliding down to pool on the mantelpiece, covering family pictures and trinkets of lives cut short. His bile rose, and Emil dropped the spade as he found himself pressing a hand to his mouth. All the horrors he had seen and done paled in the face of this nightmare. This isn’t real, it isn’t… He couldn’t look away, couldn’t tear his gaze away from his mother’s weathered features, which had softened into a smile for the first time since their argument just that morning as she shooed him out the door, and his father’s stern face twisted with fear and grief.
Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall…
He had reached the back of the armchair that he had been expecting to find his father asleep in, walking into it and jolting in sudden fear at the contact. He looked down.
His father was sat where he had expected…
For a brief moment the world stilled, Emil feeling too much for him to make sense of anything in that second, and then he was doubled over and vomiting. Because his father was sat where he had expected, or rather the rest of him was – with a cruel addition. And even as Emil squeezed his eyes shut, tears flowing, as he choked and gasped and heaved, bringing up what felt like everything he had ever eaten, all he could see was the smiling face of the Jack-o’-lantern that had been set on the ruined stump of his father’s neck.
It felt like a lifetime before he managed to stop throwing up, by which point he had been reduced to bringing up the foulest bile, and he felt hollow and wrung out, as though someone had just reached inside him and scooped everything out. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to straighten and lift his head. Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall… He didn’t want to see those accusing eyes, he didn’t want to look at the other chair, knowing what would wait for him there.
For the first time in his life, he wanted to be a coward, to run away and pretend that this wasn’t happening.
There were footsteps behind him, no longer the light pattering of a stalker in the night, but the heavy tread of death prowling closer. Move. Run. Fight, Emil willed himself as terror unlike anything he’d felt descended over him, the world beyond his eyelids turning dark as a sudden chill swept through the room and the fire and lanterns died in a swift breeze.
“No…” he whispered, voice cracking and breaking, just as the footsteps came to a halt behind him and he felt warm breath tease the back of his neck, before a cold finger brushed against his neck, as though marking out a line.
The touch made him recoil and forced him into movement as he stumbled forward and away from it, turning around and trying to see who or what it was in the darkness that now filled his house.
Laughter followed, a deep, throaty chuckle rolling through the room.
“Emil…” It was a whisper amongst the laughter, and he knew, even though he hadn’t heard the voice clearly before, that it was the same one that had called to him on the way home, and he couldn’t breathe again, couldn’t even move, as he felt it coil around him. He was trembling, his heart beating a staccato rhythm in his chest, and yet that single word was like a siren song, locking him in place, his arms falling helplessly to his side even as his eyes bulged. “They called for you, Emil.” The owner of the voice was moving, and all Emil could do was track the sound with his eyes, and even as the words inflicted bloody gouges on his already aching, broken heart, the voice called to him. Soothed him. “Pleaded for you.”
“P…” Emil tried to speak, not sure if he was trying to beg for mercy, for forgiveness, or to hear more of that eerie, wonderful voice. His lips were locked in place, and a tsking sound emanated from the darkness.
“There is nothing left for you to say, Emil…” Was that a threat? Disappointment? Emil didn’t know, didn’t understand how his heart twisted with fear and then fell at the thought that it might be the latter. “Come here, Emil.” The voice was softer now, a request not a command, and yet Emil couldn’t have disobeyed if he’d wanted to, his shaking legs carrying him forward before he even knew what was happening. He couldn’t see in the dark, but his body wove around a low table as though guided, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he was now stood between the armchairs. The chairs where his parents… Oh God, what was he doing? He had to fight, had to…
“Stop.” Just like that, all thoughts of defiance or fighting faded as though the command had stopped everything, and he froze again.
Hands stretched out of the darkness, clawed fingers stroking along his jaw, and Emil couldn’t pull away, didn’t want to pull away, even as he screamed silently at himself to do so. Then the fingers were moving lower, stroking over his throat, and he distantly felt himself swallowing convulsively, terrified and at ease all at once, his traitorous body trying to lean into the touch.
Then it was gone, and he was alone in the dark for a moment, unable to breathe or move or think.
When the light came, it blinded him for a moment, his vision swimming in shades of red and orange and yellow, too much after the darkness. The sight of the light brought no relief, though, no childish hope that the flames would keep the monsters at bay, because as his vision began to clear, the flames looked back at him.
No, not flames.
Eyes and a mouth slashed deep into the flesh of the pumpkin head that stared back at him, smirking and hungry and alive in a way that shouldn’t be possible. The Pumpkin King. But it was a legend, a story they told to children…
Emil’s denials trailed off, because the Pumpkin King had tilted his head, drawing his attention away. Like a puppet on a string, Emil felt his head follow the unspoken command, and he looked at his father’s body. Or, rather, at the Jack-o’-lantern that had replaced his head, and Emil saw that it was alight too, lit from within by an unholy blue light that flickered and danced and yet held none of the life the Pumpkin King’s did. A whine rose in the back of his throat, and then his head was moving again, twisting to the other side and something in his heart splintered and broke as he finally laid eyes on his mother’s body, the Jack-o’-lantern on her neck carved into a cruel mockery of the smile she had given him that morning. The whine became a keening noise that built and built with nowhere to go.
Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall,
Pray for those who hear the call,
Death on the wind, in the night, at the door,
The voice of the King hungry for more.
The Pumpkin King moved then, the smirk turning to something almost soft, and Emil found his head drawn back to the front, meeting his gaze. Terrified and grieving, entranced and hopeful all at once, he was engulfed by a bewildering sense of relief when clawed fingers brushed against his cheek wiping away the tears that were falling, even as Emil continued to come undone on the inside, unable to stop the noise he was making, the Pumpkin King tilting his head to the side as though listening to it. And too late, Emil realised he was being permitted to make that sound, that he was playing into whatever this monster wanted, and he tried to stop it, but it was a feeling that couldn’t be contained.
“Emil,” the Pumpkin King whispered, trailing fingers down to his throat once more, and this time Emil felt the claws break his skin, warm blood beginning to ooze across chilled skin. “Will you give me more?” It was a plea, and Emil was already nodding, not sure if it was his will or the King’s and not sure he cared any longer, even before the Pumpkin King added softly, “Will you give me everything like they did?”
There was a loosening around his throat. Not physically, because the claws were still there, biting a little deeper now as though the Pumpkin King was too impatient to truly wait for a reply, but somewhere inside. Emil took a ragged breath as finally, the keening faded to a whine and then a whimper before his own voice betrayed him.
“…Yes.”
“Kneel for me.” This time it was a command, given almost before he’d finished replying, and Emil fell to his knees immediately, as though someone had just cut the strings holding him up, the hold on his throat disappearing for a moment and leaving him with an eerie feeling of loss.
When no other command followed he lifted his head, and he knew it had been wanted when the Pumpkin King’s eyes blazed brighter for a moment. Beyond the pumpkin head, Emil could see his parents, could see and feel their haunting gaze, and he couldn’t look away, distantly aware that he was still crying as the Pumpkin King stepped close to him again and leant in low, letting him feel the heat of his fire. “I have just the Jack-o’-lantern for you, and maybe, just maybe, Emil, yours will glow as bright as mine.” Emil didn’t understand the many-layered meaning of those words, but he found himself nodding and smiling even through his tears, entranced despite his terror and grief, pleading and desperate for something he didn’t understand as though the world had narrowed down to the flaming gaze that met his.
“…please…”
Laughter again, softer this time, and the feel of the Pumpkin King pressing what Emil supposed was supposed to be a kiss to his forehead. “As you wish…” The flames flared. Emil’s parents watched on in silent, eternal condemnation as claws settled on his throat, and Emil quailed before their gaze, even as his lips pulled up in a smile and agony tore through his throat.
It wasn’t quick. The Pumpkin King softly recited the old rhyme as though it was a prayer, and Emil’s world was pain and blood and death…
…until he knew no more.
The voice of the King hungry for more.
****
One year later:
Autumn was coming.
Deep in the forest, in a mansion that had long since fallen out of all memory, the Pumpkin King stirred within his coffin, called back to life by the chill in the air and the promise of the season. He had come to hate this time, this awakening to a world that he didn’t belong in anymore, where loneliness stalked him, as he stalked the people who lived in the shade of the forest.
This year was different.
As he stepped out of the coffin, his flames sprang to life, a pleasant warmth inside and out that spread through the mansion, lighting the torches and candles that had been dark since the onset of the previous winter. And as he stretched and straightened, he felt a stirring in the air. Anticipation and dread mingling in equal measure, he crossed the room to the other coffin that had lain unoccupied for far too long, a constant taunt against his loneliness.
It was no longer empty, and as he reached it, he could just make out the scratching of clumsy fingers against the lid. For the first time in centuries he felt hope as he reached out and pushed aside the lid. A light burned in the darkness, not the empty, lifeless blue that was all he could give most people, but a bright echo of his own flames, and as he leaned in, eyes snapped open and met his gaze. The Jack-o’-lantern he had lovingly, tenderly carved the previous year, twisting into a smile that he echoed as he held out a hand in invitation. An invitation that was immediately accepted, the other man allowing himself to be pulled upright and the Pumpkin King laughed, soft and delighted as they stood facing one another, holding hands.
“Welcome home, Emil.”
Heads, Heads, Heads on the wall,
Pray for those who hear the call,
Death on the wind, in the night, at the door,
The voice of the King hungry for more.
*
Autumn comes, without a call,
No blood on the floor, or heads on the wall,
No death on the wind, in the night, at the door,
For the Pumpkin King is lonely no more.
Copyright Copyright © 2023 Rowena Andrews All rights reserved.
Beneath A Thousand Skies 