That's Pretty Scary

 

                “There’s a Pumpkin Man standing on the front lawn, Jeffrey,” said Margie. 

                “What’s that you say,” asked Jeffrey. 

                “A Pumpkin Man, he’s  just standing on the front lawn. It looks like he’s waving, or maybe, dancing or something,” said Margie. 

                Jeffery put his mug of hot apple cider down on the near by end table, tossed the cozy fall blanket off his legs and rose from the warmth of the well-worn leather couch. His shadow flickered against the wall of the study as he crossed in front of the crackling fire in the fireplace. He stood next to Margie at the window and separated the blinds. 

                On the lawn, just as Margie had said, was a lumpy looking Pumpkin Man standing on the lawn amid the recently fallen Autumn leaves. He seemed to be doing some sort of primitive dance, raising each stubby arm up elbow high as if he were playing maracas, but slowly and out of sync with any actual tune. 

                “Well, that’s weird,” said Jeffrey, “I wonder if it’s some sort of Halloween thing. Some kids or some goofy neighbor. You remember how weird the Gonzalez's were don’t you honey.” 

                Margie looked out the window again at the oddly shaped being, so orange in the face, the green stem on the top somewhat yellowed rotten and old. It was clad in a wrinkled and ill-fitting suit, just sort of dancing on the lawn to a song it didn’t really know. 

                “I don’t think it’s a Halloween thing. I think it... wants something,” said Margie. 

                “What could it possibly want,” asked Jeffrey as he looked back out the window. He was sad his apple cider was starting to cool rapidly on the end table. He was starting to feel a little annoyed Margie had interrupted him. It was her idea to light the fireplace and have a cozy night under the blanket. 

                “I think it wants our vote,” said Margie. 

                “Our vote? For like, best pumpkin at a State Fair or something,” asked Jeffrey. 

                Margie leaned closer to the window to get another look. Jeffrey sighed and looked longingly at the mug on the end table. He’d added some whiskey when Margie wasn’t looking. 

                “Yes, I see it now. His little leafy hand is holding a Vote for Me for President sign,” said Margie, “It’s a small sign, but it’s holding it, holding it in the weirdest way possible.” 

                “President? President of what, the produce aisle,” asked Jeffrey as he looked out the window again. 

                Margie grabbed at her shoulders and shuddered. “I just got a terrible feeling”, she said. 

                Jeffrey snorted slightly through his nose but they both kept staring at the swaying Pumpkin Man on the lawn. 

                The doorbell rang and both Jeffrey and Margie jumped. The sudden chiming had startled them both. 

                “I’ll get it,” said Jeffrey. But Margie grabbed him by the crook of his right arm and pulled. 

                “Let’s both go to the door,” said Margie. 

                The doorbell chimed again, and Jeffrey and Margie stiffened their backs. They headed toward the front door. Jeffrey flicked on the porch light and peered through the peephole. He could only see someone’s back, their body swaying back and forth on the balls of their feet. 

                “Who is it,” questioned Jeffrey through the closed door. 

                “Just a minute of your time if you would sir. We’re just looking to talk to some registered voters and get their opinions on some of the most important issues facing our time,” said a grumbly yet strangely youthful voice from the shadows. 

                “Um, we’re not accepting any callers at this hour,” said Jeffrey as Margie squeezed his arm. 

                “Sir, the fate of our way of life is in serious jeopardy, so we would sincerely like to talk to you about what you can do to make this country great again and save it from the evil within that is rotting it’s soul,” said the voice in the shadows of the front porch. 

                “Um, no thank you. We’re not interested. Thank you,” said Jeffrey. 

                “We’re not going away sir,” said the voice, “You need to stand up for your county sir.” 

                “Are you affiliated with that… thing on the front lawn,” asked Margie. 

                The figure on the front porch paused for a beat. He shifted on his feet and cracked his neck loudly. 

                “Ma’am, that man is the holy savior, given divination by God to save this Country from the rats and liberals that have destroyed the holy Christian fabric of our nation. He is the only one that can save you if you elect him as President,” said the man on the porch. 

                “Um,… this nation was founded by Protestants,” said Margie. 

                There was another long pause from the figure on the porch. 

                “Can I leave some literature with you folks,” asked the figure on the porch. 

                Jeffrey and Margie looked at each other, both shaking their heads. 

                “No. No thank you,” they both said, “Please just be on your way,” added Jeffrey. 

                The figure on the porch shuffled lamely, as if one of it’s legs had been seriously injured at some point in the past. It shuffled and limped into the chilly Autumn night. 

                Margie shuddered again and Jeffrey rubbed her shoulders. 

                “That was extremely weird,” said Jeffrey. He straightened his sweater from where Margie had been holding him tight. He turned from the door and headed back to his now cold apple cider and whisky.  Margie returned to the window and looked outside. 

                She shrieked and stumbled backwards as the Pumpkin Man was now pressed against the glass. It was moaning and mumbling incoherently about tariffs and dealing with the deals that only he can deal with the dealers who do the dealings, tariffs and that he loved women, and enemies, and then it stopped and just stood there, sleeping it seemed, but still dancing. 

                Jeffrey helped Margie up and hugged her tight. He reached out toward the window and quickly whisked the curtains closed. The Pumpkin Man, still mumbling against the glass, slobbering and mixing metaphors with unintelligible ramblings. Until it just stopped, seemingly forgetting what it was doing, until there was no sound at all. 

                “Just a few more weeks darling,” said Jeffrey as he soothed the terrified Margie, “Just a few more weeks and he’ll be gone. Back to the dead zone from which he was spawned.” 

                The fire crackled in the fireplace, the flames casting eerie shadows on the walls.