She’d not get away with it this time—oh no—not this time.  Morton Klift smiled his gap-toothed grin knowing he had her.  Finally—after all these years—he’d expose the widow Borth for what she was.  He’d be laughed at no more—oh no—not after this night.

From the center of his garden, one hundred yards from the hill at which he gazed, Morton watched the widow Borth’s lantern light bob up and down to the rhythm of her gait.  She was no more than a dozen yards from the base of the old Maple, and Morton waited for a signal she’d fallen into the grave he’d dug for her.

In the otherwise perfect darkness, Morton was thankful the moon waxed crescent—he hoped he’d glimpse the widow’s face as she fell.  He also hoped to hear her cry out—though he doubted fiends screamed.

Awaiting the widow’s fate, Morton cradled the only other living thing in his garden: a huge pumpkin he felt certain would be the largest of the year.  As his fingers traced the ribs running along the gourd’s skin, he imagined his moment of glory: accepting the blue ribbon for the largest pumpkin the village had ever seen.  After years of being cheated by the widow Borth, the thought of winning brought a smile to his lips.

Hearing the strained crackle of dried branches, his reverie broken, Morton looked back up the hill.  There was a muted whoosh as the widow Borth fell into her grave.  Though he saw nothing of her face, and heard not a peep from her mouth, the sudden disappearance of the lantern’s light let him know the deed was done.  He laughed triumphantly while gently placing his pumpkin back on the garden’s ground being cautious none of its tendrils were trapped.  Leaning forward, he kissed the gourd’s skin before rising from his seated position on the ground.

Grabbing his lantern from the top of the nearest fence rail and lighting it, Morton began the short climb to the base of the old Maple.  As he walked, he imagined a number of grotesque scenes and wondered which might play itself out.

Peering into the grave, his lantern-heavy arm outstretched, Morton spied the twisted form of the widow Borth.  She lay unmoving, her body an unnatural splay, parts of her caught on the broken Maple roots that stuck out from the sides of the hole.

Morton let out a triumphant yell.  He fancied it frightened away the last of the night’s darkness and brought forth the morning’s breaking dawn.  Letting the warmth of victory fill him, he was thankful for the breeze that came up and pressed against him.  He followed the air-dance of the fiery-colored leaves as they broke free from the old Maple’s limbs and floated down into the hole.

Gazing down, Morton watched as the leaves settled on the widow’s body and began to smolder.  The air became acrid, and he took a step back as the leaf-covered corpse burst into a ball of flames that leapt from the depths of the hole, circled his head, and zipped down the hill.  The fiery ball hovered over Morton’s garden for a moment before dropping to the ground where it exploded in a torrent of flames.

The garden was gone in an instant, and before it registered in Morton’s mind, the widow Borth stood before him in the space he’d created when he’d stepped away from her flaming grave.

The odor of burnt foliage reached Morton’s nostrils, and madness spread through him.  His arms shot forward seeking the widow’s chest.  He aimed to shove her back into the grave where she belonged, but his arms—one still possessing the lantern—passed through the widow’s form.

Looking down, he saw her movements had mirrored his.  The widow’s arms were buried forearm-deep in his chest, and he felt her fingers probing his innards.  Extracting her arms, the widow Borth’s hands were filled with a glob of pulpy, fibrous matter at the center of which was a huge pumpkin seed.

Maple leaves began to fall once again, and as he watched, unable to move from where he stood, the widow plucked several leaves from the air, and wrapped them around the glob of stuff she’d extracted from within him.

The glob began to grow in the widow’s hands, and as it did, she moved aside exposing Morton to the open grave.  When the widow moved, Morton felt himself stumbling forward, and unable to stop, he toppled into it.

He lay face up, squinting against the glare of the sun, looking up at the widow Borth who stood above him at the grave’s edge.  He heard the sound of an infant crying and saw her place something small and orange against her breast.  As a downpour of the old Maple’s smoldering leaves rained onto him, Morton Klift understood the thing suckling the widow’s breast would soon grow into the largest pumpkin the village had ever seen.

THE END

Shawn Hansen is busy writing more stuff.