There is a legend in this town. A legend of mystery, a legend of horror.
It has been many years since the last incident. Many years, but a shiver of the old fear still runs through the town. The very air seems to chill, and the last leaves quake on their skeletal branches, a reminder as autumn closes that the time of the legend has come again.
Legend has it that pumpkins dance. They dance for their queen, both to choose and to honor her. It is told that if the pumpkins dance for you, you are doomed to become their ruler, doomed to a life of malevolence as wicked as the pumpkins themselves. When the pumpkins dance for their queen, they celebrate and commemorate her cruelty as a vehicle of their own. Their last queen ruled for time untold, keeping the balance between the pumpkins’ violence and the humans’ suspicion, but she grew old. A successor had to be chosen.
The legend says that a young girl, following family tradition, was out gathering pumpkins early one fall morning. She became separated from her parents, picking her way over twisted vines and through planted rows by the light of the harvest moon - on the hunt for her perfect jack-o-lantern. Her earthy brown eyes gleamed innocently as she wandered along. Her green jumper swished over her orange shirt, her braids bounced behind each ear. Maybe that’s why they took her – she looked like them.
Whatever the reason, the pumpkins danced for her that morning. Standing half a field away, her brother saw it all. A dry wind blew, rustling their vines into a whispery roar. They rose from the ground slowly and surrounded her, an imposing sea of orange. Each one swirled and danced, spinning around each other; faster and faster, the wind matching their pace: a scene of chaos and menacing force. She was in the center – the eye of the maelstrom. Seized in their terrifying, alien power and torn by their unconscionable base emotions, she flung her head back, arms straight out from her sides, and screamed. The wind whipped at her braids and carried the sound, long and piercing, as the dance reached its peak. Then the wind died, and the scream dropped.
All was still – the pumpkins merely pumpkins once more. Her brother could only gape. The girl’s parents came running towards the sound and found her collapsed on the ground. All she would say was that she tripped.
The next day, a couple was murdered. The perpetrator was never caught; the only clue was a pumpkin. Her coronation act. That night, a whispery roar rose from the pumpkin patch as a dry wind blew.
It has been many years since that day. Many years, and the queen still holds a tight rein; keeping the secret of the pumpkins’ menace, keeping them quiet until, by the light of the moon, they dance for her. The humans don’t need to know their danger. But every so often, something slips. A voice must be silenced. The girl’s brother has long been gone, a pumpkin found in place of his head. Only the few who have connected the odd disappearances to the legend remember, and they quake with fear. They whisper that the pumpkin queen’s still out there, biding her time. Only after horror sufficiently fades into distant memory does she strike again – her nefarious subjects must be satisfied.
Most folks are scared to speak of it, so on this October day, the sound of the legend carrying through the chilly air on children’s voices is unusual. Their teacher has just told them the story. Now, they tease each other as they race around the playground, the afternoon sun and the rush of the wind burning away the last cobwebs of fear clinging to them.
After the school day ends, a young girl skips along the tree-lined path, delighting in the crunch of dry leaves beneath her orange Converses. At the end of the path is her grandmother’s house. The comforting scent of cinnamon and apples wafts over her as she runs through the door, to be greeted with a floury hug.
At dinner, she tells her grandmother, “We learned about legends today!”
“Really? Which ones?” Grandmother asks casually.
“The one about the pumpkins dancing!” she chirrups, “And now we have to find stories to share with the class! I want to tell the one about the corn-maze boy. You know, years and years ago, when he goes missing, and they find his body in a maze in the morning with a pumpkin but no head? And there’s no evidence, so no suspect was ever tried? That was long enough ago, right? Right Grandma? That counts as a legend, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, dear. That certainly was long ago.” She replies nonchalantly, despite the sudden leap in her heart. “But don’t you think it’s a bit scary for class?”
“But that’s the point! I bet the boys that I could tell the scariest one!”
“Alright, dear.” She says with a slight laugh. But the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Now finish your dessert, and let’s get you off to bed. We’re getting up early to pick pumpkins tomorrow! It’s a tradition, you know.”
“Yeah! I’m going to get the biggest one ever!” The girl yells, running down the hall to her room, as if getting there makes the morning arrive faster. The woman smiles amusedly after her.
Later, after the girl has been put to bed, the woman sits in her rocking chair. The embers of the fire light up her face, casting warm shadows over the room and hiding the corners. “Yes, that was a long time ago, wasn’t it,” she muses quietly, staring intensely into the flickering flames. She glances up at the mantelpiece, her eyes seeking the small pumpkin sitting there. It tremors in response to her gaze. “It’s been a long time, but the pumpkins still dance for me…”
“Maybe it’s time for a new Queen.”