Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. A young farmer woke up in the dead of night to hear a strange sound coming from his garden. Rubbing his eyes, he flicked on the lamp. The farmer sighed. Probably a neighborhood kid in my garden, messing around. He had problems with them in the past. So, with another huff, he rose from the bed. The farmer grabbed his gun he kept by his bed and made his way outside to the garden. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. The scratching sound continued as he made his way towards the garden. The yard was empty. The farmer looked around for anyone. Or anything. He saw nothing. Shrugging, he slung his gun over his shoulder and began walking back inside,
But then he heard it again. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Carefully, as to not make too much noise, the farmer crept towards the source of the sound. It eventually led him to the pumpkin patch. The farmer nodded in satisfaction. Big, plump, round. Ready to go for tomorrow’s harvest, he thought. The pumpkin patch was also empty. The farmer breathed a sigh of relief. My pumpkins are safe. The guy who sold them to me told me to keep them isolated until they got big. Told me that they’d be the best pumpkins I’d ever seen. Admittedly, the farmer knew that he could have been scammed. That was eight weeks ago. Still though, he hoped for the best. These seeds better be worth it. I want to impress Sally, and everyone else. Show them that I’m someone to take seriously.
The farmer turned around and began to walk back. He was no more than two feet when he heard it again. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. More this time. The farmer turned around, and still there was nothing there. Just a patch with pumpkins. The farmer got worried that maybe a rodent was eating his plants. So, he made his way inside the pumpkin patch. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just some plants. He looked down to see if he could find anything that was eating his plants. And then the farmer tripped. He looked down and saw that he had cut his arm. It started to bleed. He shrugged. No big deal. The farmer started walking back out of the patch.
But then he tripped again. The farmer got up but then something hard and fast curled its way around his legs and his entire body. Before he could react, he was hoisted into the air. The farmer turned his head. The green tendrils of the pumpkin plant had curled around him. The pumpkins themselves stayed still. The tendrils were all moving. Like snakes. One of them was scratching against a tree. Making the sound. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Like a predator to prey.
The farmer struggled to get free but couldn’t. He could only watch as the tendrils brought him closer and closer to the orange fruits. The last thing he saw before turning away was one of the pumpkins opening its mouth, revealing sharp, pointed teeth. A crunch echoed through the patch.
A few hours later, at sunrise, it illumined the pumpkins. They sat quietly. Last night’s meal was more than enough to satisfy them. In front of them were a pile of bones. And something to the left. A gun, and tattered clothes.
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