In today's Gutteral Scream,
John Teel highlights the importance of family traditions.
John Teel highlights the importance of family traditions.
Tradition by John Teel
Cole
gripped the side of his pumpkin and drove the butcher's knife into
the tough flesh, stabbing a circle around the stem. He set the knife
aside and gave the stem a tug, hearing that familiar sucking sound as
the top pulled free. Pulp hung from the bottom like orange entrails.
Every
Halloween, he woke up early, drove to the
supermarket, and bought pumpkins of different shapes and sizes
(twenty this time, one for every year). With his phone and laptop
turned off, he popped the first of many horror movies into the DVD
player and spent the rest of the day carving them into
jack-o-lanterns. This was how it was always done. This was his
father's tradition.
Using
a spoon, he scooped the guts out of the pumpkin and dropped them into
a large container. When that was done, he carved the jack-o-lantern’s
face: two triangles for eyes and one for a
nose. He finished it off with a sharp-toothed grin.
Cole's
grin grew wider. It was perfect. "Nineteen more to go," he
muttered.
On the TV behind him, Dr. Loomis explained how Michael was pure evil.
. . .
The
sun had just begun it’s
slow descent behind the treetops as Cole finished up the last of the
pumpkins. He positioned a few on each side
of the steps leading up to the porch and sat the rest together on his
glider. He lit a candle for each, their glowing faces welcoming the
inevitable pleas of trick or treat. Cole placed a plastic cauldron of
candy on the porch table.
It
all looked perfect. The same as last year. The same as every year as
far back as he could remember.
Cole
looked out at the street and breathed the air in. It was a chilly
night with the faint aroma of burning leaves. He could hear the
excited voices in the distance. The wind touched the dying leaves on
the branches and they danced back and forth, some of them coming
loose and twirling to the sidewalk below.
Cole
went back in the house, greeted by the screams of promiscuous teen
slaughter blaring from the television. It was music to his ears. In
the kitchen, he collected a few things: his knife, a candle, and the
container filled with all of the discarded pumpkin pulp. He carried
it to the basement door and opened it. Behind it was another door
with many locks, bolts, and chains. He unlocked and unlatched them
all, making his way into the dank basement that stunk of mildew and
dust.
A
table was set up in the middle of the basement. He placed his things
down and stripped to his underwear. By the far wall was a plastic
tote filled to the brim with all of his old costumes and decorations.
He pulled out a Grim Reaper mask with hologram eyes and a black hood.
It was the costume he'd worn when he was
ten-years-old and every Halloween since. Now it barely fit. His chin
and lower lip stuck out from the bottom of the mask. This was the way
Daddy wanted it. This was the way it was always done.
He
walked back to the table and collected the knife, shivering as the
chilly air cut through his skin. There was a shuffling noise
by the workbench.
The
boy was finally awake. He no longer looked like the skinny little kid
Cole had picked up on the first day of October. The candy and junk
food he'd been force-fed had plumped him up good and round.
“You
know,” Cole said, his voice
muffled below the mask, “you almost look
like a pumpkin now.”
The
boy’s torso was
duct-taped tight around the sturdy wooden leg of the work bench. His
belly was swollen from the constant junk food stuffed down his
gullet.
Cole
waded through a sea of candy wrappers, sliced the tape, and hoisted
the boy onto his shoulders with ease, gently laying him on the table.
He taped his forehead and legs down.
The
boy started to cry. “Please mister. I did
everything you asked. I just want to go home. Please. Just let me go
home. I want to see my mom. You don’t
have to do this.”
Cole
shook his head. “Every year I hear the
same thing. Sorry, kid, but I do have to do this. You can’t
turn your back on tradition.”
He
readied his knife and got to work.
. . .
The
kid was long gone, so Cole cut him loose and propped him up against
the cold, stone wall. He stood back and admired his work. Orange pulp
bulged from the kid’s
belly. He looked
like a pumpkin a squirrel had gotten into. Cole placed the skull piece
with the stem back on top of the boy's head.
Cole lit a
candle and inserted it into the boy’s
open mouth. The light flickered and a pale orange glow illuminated
the crudely-carved face. Cole took his mask off and picked up a
Butterfinger from the floor, unwrapped it, and popped the bite-sized
chocolate into his mouth.
“Happy
Halloween,” he said, watching the flame
dance inside the boy's mouth.