In the Pumpkin Patch

As this appalling organ descended toward her open and vulnerable core, the Melvin-thing leered in sadistic delight at her renewed furious and futile struggles. She felt the tip of it touch, had time for one final insane thought – at least it was smooth, not covered in tiny sharp barbs like so many pumpkin stems were – and then it rammed into her.

This time the vine at her neck loosened, as if the Melvin-thing wanted to hear her agonized scream. She couldn't have withheld that scream if she'd tried. The pain of it, that huge stem splitting and tearing her, this hellish rape ... Annie screamed until it felt like a sliver of glass lodged in her throat. Again and again, screaming and screaming.

And all the while, the Melvin-thing jerked atop her, thrusting and thrusting, the scrotal pumpkins bouncing against her buttocks with each stroke, the stem battering in and out.

The grinning pumpkin-head descended toward hers, wafting that stink of burnt candles and rot into her face. She tried to turn away but the vines held her, wouldn't let her move. The orange tongue, ropy with its strands and seeds, invaded her mouth.

It fucked faster and faster, harder, slamming each thrust home with such force that she felt pummeled into the earth. The Melvin-thing slavered slime-trails from her mouth to her breasts, bit her nipples with teeth that were the pointy ends of pumpkin seeds.

Then the knotted-vine-leafy body atop hers went into a shuddering series of spasms, and Annie was still sane enough to realize that the Melvin-thing was coming. Coming in her, jetting her full of itself, pumping even more vigorously as gush after gush of thick liquid flooded her insides.

It rose from her almost at once, as if it could no longer bear to touch her. As it did, Annie caught sight of long runny strings and streamers of its ejaculate, sludgy-orange and seed-filled, stretching from its now-shriveled stem to her ravaged vagina.

That did what nothing else had been able to do, and drove Annie over the edge into a black faint.

She was aware of nothing else until the first birdsong woke her, shivering and dew-covered, in the morning.

Naked, bruised, scraped raw, aching, she sat up and looked around. She was in the pumpkin patch, at the center of a clump of vines that was brown and dead, matted down. The rejected pumpkins glistened in the early light.

But the one, the particularly hideous one with the cancerous lumps and gnarled growths, was gone.

So was her shovel.

Annie got to her feet, grimacing as gobs of moist, pulpy mash oozed down her thighs. Spraddle-legged and limping, she made her way back to the farmhouse.

The shovel was there, leaning against the front door. Her tattered clothes had been draped around it in a makeshift scarecrow, her floppy hat set on top.

A note had been pinned to the wooden handle. The handwriting was familiar, though she hadn't seen it in seven years. Melvin's writing.

"See you next Halloween."

**