The Whisper in the Pumpkin Patch
Every Halloween, the old Miller farm lit up with jack-o’-lanterns. Hundreds of them — glowing faces stretching across the foggy fields. But this year, only one pumpkin sat carved: a single, crooked grin flickering weakly in the dark.
Ellie didn’t remember carving it. She’d gone to bed early, tired from helping her dad with the harvest. Yet, when she woke, the pumpkin sat outside her window — and it had her handwriting on it.
That night, the wind carried a low whisper through the corn. “Light me again.”
Thinking it was her brother playing a prank, Ellie relit the candle inside. The flame flared blue. The pumpkin’s grin widened — stretching, warping. And then she heard her own voice from inside it.
“You shouldn’t have lit me twice.”
By morning, the candle had burned out. The pumpkin was gone. But on the porch, carved deep into the wood, were five new words:
“Light me again next year.”
ID: nichshum