It's been seven days since I buried my brother.
Seven days since Nathan stopped the Hollow's god by giving up what was left of himself.
And seven days since I told myself it was over.
But I haven't slept.
Not truly.
Because every night, when the fog rolls in,
when the wind rattles the porch slats and the scent of dead leaves sneaks under the door,
I hear it:
Scratching.
Soft at first. Barely audible.
Then louder.
More deliberate.
It's coming from the backyard.
From the pumpkin.
---
I should have burned it.
I knew that. I know it now.
But how do you set fire to something that smiles like your brother?
That holds the last piece of his soul in its crooked grin?
I buried it beneath the old oak tree, wrapped in a linen cloth.
I even whispered prayers, though I didn't know who I was praying to.
The Carver?
The Gourdfather?
Some mercy still left in this cursed earth?
None of them answered.
But the pumpkin did.
---
It started small.
A light behind its carved eyes—
flickering, even though I hadn't lit a candle.
Then the mouth began to widen.
Each night, a little more.
The grin grew too deep.
Too many teeth.
Teeth that didn't belong on something made of squash.
And then came the whispering.
---
Last night, I stood at the window and watched it.
The pumpkin sat nestled in the soil where I buried Nathan, motionless.
But the earth around it pulsed.
Soft movements, like worms shifting beneath it.
Like something breathing.
And then, without warning…
It turned toward me.
---
I slammed the curtains shut and backed away, heart racing.
Nathan was gone.
But something of him had stayed behind.
And it wasn't right.
It wasn't him.
---
Tonight, I went outside with a shovel.
It's raining. The sky bleeds rust-red.
The yard smells like copper and decay.
I stood over the pumpkin.
It was smiling wider than ever—split nearly to the base.
Inside, I could see something black growing.
Roots? Flesh?
I dug around it carefully, hands trembling.
But the deeper I dug, the more the earth resisted me.
Like it had arms. Like it was holding onto the thing I'd tried to bury.
> "Stop."
I froze.
The voice didn't come from behind me.
It came from beneath.
From inside the soil.
Inside the pumpkin.
---
I dropped the shovel and stepped back.
The pumpkin pulsed once. Then twice.
Its glow flickered. Then died.
And then I heard my brother's voice.
> "Chloe… don't forget me."
---
I screamed.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I almost answered him.
---
I ran back inside, slammed the door, locked every bolt.
Now I sit in the hallway, blade in hand—the last fragment of the Carver's shattered knife, still sharp enough to split truth from memory.
The house groans around me.
And the scratching has returned.
Not from the yard.
From under the floorboards.
---
I crawl across the hallway, ear pressed to the wood.
There it is.
Slow. Rhythmic.
Something—or someone—is moving beneath me.
I raise the blade. Tap the floor.
The movement stops.
Then… three knocks.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Like a game.
Like a door being politely knocked from inside the earth.
---
Suddenly, the lights go out.
Not a flicker.
Just total black.
I hear footsteps on the roof.
Not fast. Not heavy.
Shuffling.
Like someone dragging something behind them.
I hold my breath.
And then, from above me…
> "Sister."
My blood turns to ice.
---
I race to the attic.
The trapdoor groans as I pull it open, flashlight beam slicing through the dark like a blade.
Empty.
Dust. Cobwebs.
And a single object sitting in the center of the wooden floor.
A mask.
Not the Carver's.
Not flesh.
It's made of pumpkin rind.
Painted with my face.
Smiling.
---
I step back slowly, heart hammering in my ears.
Then I hear it again—this time from behind me.
"Don't forget me."
I spin around, blade raised—
And see Nathan.
Or something that wears Nathan's face.
He stands in the hallway, barefoot, dripping soil and rain, wearing the torn clothes I buried him in.
His eyes glow faintly orange.
"Chloe," he says softly. "Why did you bury me? I wasn't done."
---
I step back, tears rising.
"You're not him."
He tilts his head.
"Aren't I? You held my hand. You cried for me. And now I'm all you have left."
He lifts a small object in his hand.
It's the candle I left at his grave.
Still burning.
---
"The Gourdfather is gone," I say. "You stopped him. You saved the town."
He nods.
"I did. But something stayed. A root. A seed. It found me. And now I know what I have to become."
I grip the blade.
"No."
He steps forward.
"You can't stop the Hollow from breathing. You can only choose what it breathes through."
He places the candle down at my feet.
Then hands me the pumpkin mask.
---
"I don't want to wear this," I whisper.
"But it remembers you."
He smiles.
"Wear it, Chloe. And you'll remember me too."
---
I look down at the mask.
The smile carved across it stretches from cheek to cheek.
But behind the eyes—
I see something flickering.
A memory.
A life.
A curse.
And then I understand:
This was never just about stopping a monster.
It was about stopping a story.
And some stories never die.
They're carved into us.
---
I raise the blade.
Trembling.
Tears falling.
And I say: "I'm sorry."
Then I stab the mask.
---
It shatters like glass.
Nathan screams.
Not loud.
Not human.
A scream of a seed being crushed.
A scream of something unfinished.
And then he vanishes—
Like fog in the sun.
---
The lights return.
The rain stops.
The scratching fades.
And outside… the pumpkin is gone.
Nothing remains.
No smile.
No flame.
No Nathan.
---
Only me.
And the silence.
And the Hollow that still waits.