Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
BUT WHERE DID THEY COME FROM?
VAL
We slam the barn doors shut and throw our weight into them. Wood shudders. Hinges scream. Shaun shoves a table into place. Then another. Then a third, legs scraping across the floor until my teeth buzz with the noise. All the work we did earlier scatters across the floor.
For a few seconds, the pounding outside fades into a dull, distant thrum. Not gone. Just muted. Like it’s curious what we’ll do next.
That thought makes my legs shake.
Shaun drags a crate over and wedges it against the doors, patting it into place like that somehow seals the deal.
Cole slides down the wall and slumps onto the floor.
His face is gray under the dirt and sweat, glasses crooked, breath coming fast and shallow.
He cradles his arm like it might fall off if he lets go.
“Lie flat on your back and elevate your legs above heart level,” I tell him, sharper than I mean to. “We don’t need you passing out right now.”
He tries to laugh. It comes out thin and broken. He swings his head toward me, pain spread across his face. “Passing out feels low on the list right now.”
I grab my bag from the floor and pull out my red flannel.
My hands shake as I tear the sleeve seam with my teeth.
“It’s still something I would like to avoid since we can’t carry you everywhere.
” I knot the fabric and loop it under his elbow, easing his arm into a sling.
It’s not pretty, but it’s solid. Close enough to the ones I’ve binge-watched on hospital shows since I got home two weeks ago.
Turns out trauma TV is great background noise when your life feels like it’s on fire.
I tighten the knot. “This should hold until we get help.”
Cole snorts, eyes flicking toward the barricaded doors. “If we get help.”
I swallow and force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Hey. One crisis at a time. Right now, the goal is not bleeding out on a barn floor while possessed produce plot our deaths.”
He huffs despite himself.
Outside, something scrapes along the wood. Unrushed.
Shaun snaps a look at Cole. “We’ll get help. And we’ll destroy those assholes.”
Cole doesn’t even blink. “With what? There’s an army of sadistic pumpkins killing people, chopping off heads, and wearing our friends.”
My stomach twists. Because he’s not wrong.
Shaun drags a hand through his hair and starts pacing. “Okay. Stop. We need to figure this out. What are we actually dealing with?”
“Pumpkins,” Cole says.
Shaun glares. “Helpful.”
I edge toward the doors and peer through a narrow crack. Cold air presses against my face. The pumpkin field stretches out under the sinking sun, rows glowing soft orange as the moon climbs higher. Dozens of pumpkins sit there. Quiet. Perfect. Normal.
“Not all of them,” I whisper.
Shaun stops pacing. “What?”
I point through the crack. “Look. Those pumpkins aren’t moving. None of them are.”
Cole pushes himself up on his good elbow and squints. “So?”
“So,” I say, pulse thudding, “only the ones from Fred’s ‘special patch’ attacked us. The ones he wouldn’t shut up about. The ones he fed whatever nightmare fertilizer he bought.”
Shaun tilts his head. “Demonic pesticides?”
“Honestly,” I say, rubbing my arms, “that wouldn’t surprise me at this point.” I glance back through the crack in the door. The cornfield is calm. “My guess? I don’t think this was on purpose. I think the company tried to boost crops and went way too far.”
Whatever that fertilizer did, it didn’t just grow pumpkins.
It made monsters.
My brain latches on to the thought like a dog with a bone. Crops to Die For.
Catchy. Horrifying.
Maybe marketing is my calling.
Not now, Val.
“Fun fact,” I say, because humor is the duct tape holding my brain together, “your brain hates not knowing more than it hates danger.”
Cole stares at me like he’s deciding whether to scream or laugh. “Is now really the time?”
I swallow and point toward the door with my chin. “Yeah. Because whatever’s out there knows exactly what it’s doing. And it’s waiting for us to catch up.”
Cole exhales, sharp and humorless. “Great. So the evil pumpkins are patient.” He limps off, muttering about dumb old men and even dumber business decisions.
Shaun drifts toward the back corner of the barn and crouches near a stack of empty fertilizer bags. They’re smeared with dirt and streaked with dried orange sludge that looks way too much like old blood. He lifts one carefully, pinching it between two fingers, and squints at the label.
“I think,” he says, grimly, “I found the bags from Satan.”
We all stare.
The white plastic crinkles softly in the still air. A smiling seed with a shovel slung over its shoulder beams up at us. Smiling Seeds. Cheerful font. Friendly colors. Absolute nightmare fuel.
The logo is laughing at us.
Cole’s voice drops to a whisper. “So we know how. Now what do we do?”
Shaun paces in a tight line, shoulders locked up, jaw grinding like he’s chewing glass. “I don’t know, Cole. We’re clearly outmatched. You got any bright ideas?”
“You two are still breathing,” Cole says. “So I figured maybe you had a plan.” He hesitates, then looks between us. “Why are you two alive?” His eyes flick to me. “No offense, but you were closer to them than I was. Why didn’t they go for you first?”
Shaun stops cold. “That’s a messed-up question.”
I lift a hand. “Actually, it’s a good one.”
He turns on me. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah.” My pulse ticks faster as the thought clicks into place. I drop onto a crate, wood creaking under my weight. “We were two barns over. Hell, we both know that thing knew we were in the house. If they wanted us dead, we’d already be compost.”
Both of them stare at me now.
“Something set them off,” I say. “Something specific.” I look at Cole. “What happened with Drew?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I went to load the tractor with pumpkins. Drew stayed behind to set up the games.”
“Anything weird when you came back?”
He snorts. “Other than him ditching me? No.”
Shaun steps in, sharp. “Think harder. Anything new? Blood. Drag marks. Anything out of place?”
Cole frowns. “There were smashed pumpkin pieces near the games. I figured Drew was testing the smashing station. That’s it.”
My stomach tightens. “Maybe that is it.”
Shaun squints at me. “Explain.”
“Maybe each one of them did something to the pumpkins,” I say, my pulse finally slowing into something usable. “They pissed the pumpkins off. That’s what put targets on their backs.”
Cole shakes his head. “I didn’t do anything. So why come after me?”
I look at him. Really look at him. Pale, shaking, dirt streaked, still alive by dumb luck and timing. “You were loading them up to be smashed, carved, destroyed. You were the distributor.” I wince even as the thought finishes forming. “Basically, you were like a pimp.”
Cole recoils. “Gross metaphor. Absolutely not. I refuse to be compared to a sleazebag who exploits women.”
Shaun sighs. “You know what she meant.”
“Fine,” Cole mutters. “Still hate it.”
Their bickering fades into background noise as my brain races ahead, piecing together the evidence like a crime board made of hay and glitter glue.
Drew smashed one. Trigger pulled.
Fred turned pumpkins into baked goods. Candy. Drinks. Everything in the gift shop screamed harvest season monetized to hell.
Sandie was probably setting baked goods out for the fall fanatics. Would that be enough to piss them off? Or maybe she ate something pumpkin flavored in the main barn?
Or maybe I’m forcing a pattern because I don’t have an answer and my brain hates that.
And Shaun and I? We straight up murdered two.
I swallow.
So yeah. We’re on their shit list.
Anyone who hurts a pumpkin. Any pumpkin. Murderous vine monster or innocent porch decoration. Smash it, carve it, roast it, sneeze on it wrong, and congratulations. You’re next.
I glance at the shotgun. At the pitchfork. At Cole’s broken arm.
We don’t have enough bullets to fix this.
We’re outnumbered.
We’re weaker.
And because the universe hates me personally, my mom is supposed to be here soon.
I press my lips together, fighting a laugh that wants to crawl out at the worst possible time.
Great.
Absolutely great.
If we survive killer pumpkins, I still have to explain why the fall festival turned into a crime scene before dinner.
Shaun and Cole are still bickering about metaphors when the answer snaps into place, cold and clear.
“We have to burn it.”
Both of them look at me.
“Burn what?” Shaun asks.
“All of it.” My voice doesn’t shake, which surprises me.
“The crops. The fields. The barn if we have to. The soil’s poisoned.
Whatever that fertilizer did, it didn’t stop at growing pumpkins.
And every time we blow one apart, the seeds spread.
” I swallow. “One pumpkin can carry around five hundred seeds. I am not signing up for a sequel. Or a franchise.”
I scrub a hand down my face. “We burn everything. It’s the only way to be sure.”
Silence drops hard.
Cole exhales, long and defeated. “Fuckin’ A.”
None of us laugh. That might be a first.
Shaun’s jaw tightens as reality sinks in. “We burn the field. If this started there, we end it there. Roots. Soil. All of it.”
I glance at the clock nailed crooked above the supply shelf. Just past six. “We can’t wait. My mom will be here in two hours.” Like hell will I let one of those things touch her. “If they get past the field, if they find anyone else . . .”
Shaun crosses the space between us and cups my jaw, forcing my eyes up to his. His thumb is warm. Steady. “We won’t let that happen.”
I want to believe him. God, I do.
I scan the barn one last time. Half-finished kids’ crafts sit abandoned. Paper pumpkins dangle from string, their cartoon smiles frozen mid-cheer. Everything was meant for cider and laughter and harmless autumn nonsense.
Now it looks like a setup.
Like a joke someone told right before the blood hit the floor.
“I’m going to enjoy destroying them,” I say, and I mean it.
Shaun’s mouth curves into a tired, reckless grin that mirrors the thrum in my chest. “Hell yeah.”
For a second, we just stand there, the three of us locked in place. The fear hasn’t gone anywhere. It buzzes under my skin, sharp and electric. But something else slices through it now. Focus. Purpose. The kind that flips a switch and keeps you moving.
Outside, wind drags through the fields. Vines creak against dirt, leisurely, like something stretching before a fight.
The pumpkins aren’t finished.
Neither are we.
“So,” Cole says, squinting at me. “What’s the plan, random-fact girl?”
I smile, sharp and bright. It feels a little unhinged. I decide that’s fine. “Oh, I’ve got a few ideas.”