Chapter 10
TEN
I GOT CHILLS
SANDIE
This cannot be my life.
I stack another sleeve of disposable coffee cups at the station, lining them up like it somehow matters. Like any of this matters.
I’m supposed to be in Peru right now. Or London. Somewhere with bright lights, cameras, and people who don’t know my name from high school. Not stuck in this dusty barn, setting up coffee for strangers who think pumpkin spice is a personality trait.
I slam a box of tote bags onto the floor.
They spill everywhere. I blow my bangs out of my eyes and crouch to gather them, irritation buzzing under my skin.
As I reach, the sleeve of my shirt rises, exposing the butterfly inked along the inside of my arm—black lines, sharp wings, very detailed for something I got one drunken night after celebrating my first day in the city. A cold reminder of my failure.
I tug the fabric back into place.
I can’t believe Dad dumped me here. Just because he’s friends with Fred doesn’t mean I owe this place anything. I need out. Again. But this time I’ll do it right. I’ll be smarter. Track my money. Stop handing my future over to the first person who promises fame with a smile.
My stomach twists.
That so-called agent flashes through my head. Two thousand dollars. Gone. Promises of auditions that never came. Messages left on read. Nothing.
I shove the bags back into the box.
Stupid, Sandie.
I drop the box behind the register, wedging it next to the trash can stuffed with my empty pumpkin muffin wrapper. I haven’t seen Fred in a while, and I was hungry. I don’t feel bad about it. He left me alone here for hours.
Serves him right.
That damn machine is still buzzing somewhere out back. Low. Constant. How long does it take to toss a few pumpkins into a grinder anyway?
I slip my headphones on and let the opening riff of “You’re the One That I Want” flood my ears, drowning out the hum of the old refrigerator and the buzz crawling under my skin. I start humming along, hips swaying as I line up pumpkin-flavored lollipops near the register.
Cute sells. Always has.
I step back and snap a photo.
The glass catches my reflection. Perfect hair. Glossy lips. The lighting hits just right, warm and forgiving. For a moment, I look like the version of myself that belongs somewhere better than this place.
God, New York has no idea what it’s missing.
I scroll through my camera roll. Half selfies. Half shots tagged for sponsors who think I’m grinding through auditions and callbacks. They imagine runways and dressing rooms, not a dusty farm gift shop stuffed with pumpkin junk and fluorescent lights.
Let them believe it. Their money still spends.
I pop my hip, lift the phone, and take a few more. Lip caught between my teeth. Chin angled just right. A smile that says luxury. Desire. Want.
Perfect.
I turn the screen toward myself to check the shots.
And freeze.
There’s something behind me.
Tall. Broad. The shape is warped by the glass. It stands near the back of the shop, partially hidden behind the candy display. Too still to be a person. Too solid to be a shadow.
My pulse spikes as my eyes zero in on the red and white letterman jacket.
“Drew?” I tug one earbud loose, turning around to face him. “If you’re trying to scare me, I swear to god—”
He steps forward.
“Drew, stop messing around.”
He moves into the light, and the hairs on my arms stand at attention.
I know that body. I’ve seen it a thousand times leaning against lockers, slouched in trucks, filling doorways like he owns them.
But there’s a pumpkin where his head should be.
A jagged, carved grin splits the rind. Seeds and pulp ooze down his collar, mixing with thick, dark streaks that soak into his shirt.
I laugh. The sound comes out too loud. Too fast. “Jesus, Drew. You scared the shit out of me.”
He doesn’t answer.
He keeps coming.
My back slams into the counter. Cold wood bites into my spine. “This isn’t funny.”
That’s when I see the doorway.
Another shape fills it. Taller. Wider. Familiar in a way that makes bile rise in my throat. Farmer Fred’s overalls hang stiff on the body, soaked dark and crusted. Vines push through torn fabric, threading his arms like veins.
A jack-o’-lantern sits where his head should be. Its mouth is carved too wide, pulled into a damp grin that drips strands onto the floor with a sticky plop.
“What the fuck?”
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my—
He raises one arm. Vines spill out from his sleeve, slithering across the floor and wrapping around the door handle. The wood groans as it slams shut.
The lock clicks.
No.
I grab the nearest thing and hurl it. The lollipop rack crashes to the floor, candy shattering across the boards as I run.
I sprint down the aisle, shoulder checking a display of pumpkin jam. Glass explodes. Sticky orange slop coats my shoes. I nearly slip but catch myself on a hay bale centerpiece and shove it behind me. It does nothing.
The sound follows. Heavy footsteps. Dripping. Vines scraping like something being pulled out of the ground.
“Help!” I scream, lungs burning. The grinder roars from the back, swallowing my voice whole.
A vine snaps around my calf.
I hit the floor hard, palms skidding through spilled jam. Pain flares as broken glass tears into my skin. Red mixing with orange. I twist and grab the vine with both hands. It’s warm. Pulsing. I jerk, teeth clenched, and slam my foot down again and again until it loosens.
I scramble up and bolt.
Another vine lashes out and wraps my wrist. I grab a jar and smash it against the counter, then saw the jagged edge into the vine. Thick orange pulp spills out like infected blood. The vine shrieks. Actually shrieks. I rip free, heading toward the rear of the building.
Before I can reach the back door, hands grab me. Not hands. Vines. They wrap my waist, my arms, my throat.
“Fuck you!” I kick and thrash, nails tearing through my skin as I claw at them. One coils around my arm and pauses, its slick tip tracing the edge of the butterfly tattoo.
One of my sneakers lands on something solid and I feel it crunch. A pumpkin bursts nearby, spraying seeds across my legs, and its vines fall slack.
I scramble and duck behind a shelf, chest heaving so fast it rattles my ribs. The air reeks of blood and burnt sugar. Caramel apples and copper. My stomach turns.
The back door sits right there. Ten feet. Maybe less.
“I can make it,” I whisper. “I can make it.”
I bolt and slam into it. Locked. My bloody hands smear against the wood. Against my freedom.
Something slick coils around my ankle.
I hit the floor hard, sending a flood of pain up my spine. My phone flies from my hand and skids across the boards, the screen cracking like a gunshot.
“No!” I scramble, palms scraping raw wood. My nails bend, split. Pain sparks bright and useless.
The vines surge up through the cracks in the floor, wrapping my calves, my thighs, my waist. They squeeze until my bones ache. Another snakes around my wrist and pins my arm above my head. Then the other.
I’m flat on my back, spread out like a sacrifice on a carving table.
Blood drips into my hair. I don’t know if it’s mine.
“Please,” I choke, snot and tears streaking my face. “You don’t have to do this.”
Drew steps into view.
The pumpkin head tilts. Seeds spill from its mouth and plop onto my chest, sticky and warm. One rolls into the hollow of my collarbone. Another slides between my breasts.
Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.
A vine snakes up my throat and presses just enough to steal air, not enough to knock me out. It wants me awake. It wants me scared.
I kick, bucking my hips, managing to smash my shoe into one of the smaller pumpkins nearby. It bursts with a pop, guts spraying my leg.
“Yes,” I gasp, hysterical. “That’s right. Bleed, asshole.”
The vines cinch tighter, cutting off my scream.
Fred’s body lurches forward, boots dragging through pulp and blood. The front of his shirt is soaked dark, skin split where vines have threaded through muscle and bone. In his hand is an exposed wire, copper ends sparking faintly, still humming with stolen power.
They loom over me together.
One vibrating.
One dripping.
A family photo from hell.
“No,” I sob, thrashing uselessly. “Please. I’ll leave. I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”
Drew kneels. His—its vines writhe faster now, excited. The carved grin widens as seeds spill onto my stomach, warm and slick.
Fred’s dead triangle eyes don’t shutter as it draws the wire closer to my chest.
Tears drip down the sides of my face. “Please . . .”
The wire hits right over my heart.
Cold.
Then heat.
It can’t end like this.
Agony explodes through me. Every nerve lights up at once. My back arches as electricity rips through my body. My jaw locks. My heart slams against my ribs, frantic, trying to outrun the pain.
The smell hits next. Burnt skin. Hair. Copper and smoke.
The lights flicker.
The grinder whines once, then dies.
The barn falls silent.
A scream escapes me as my vision fractures into white and orange and black. The last thing I feel is the vines loosening, satisfied, as my heart stutters and stops.
Guess fame really does kill you in the end.