It was a silly tradition, a remnant back from when the Marston family still had their milk deliveries. Every Halloween morning, along with the milk, a pumpkin would appear on the doorstep. The family would never admit to it, but everyone knew it was them. I was of that number, until a few seconds ago. The shrouded figure on my doorstep stood up, the small pumpkin carefully placed on the wooden planks. The empty hood turned to face me, and I stumbled back into the doorframe.
"Leave her." It was a black cat who spoke and he jumped onto the step as well, front paws resting on the pumpkin.
The empty fabric turned to him, head tilted, tracking the movement of the cat as he jumped onto the step, weaving between its legs.
"Humans have short memories. She doesn't know." The cloak turned to me before stepping back onto the ground, following the cat away from the house in the middle of nowhere, bathed in starlight.
I wish I could say I followed them, that I called after them and got some answers. That I befriended them, and they now come over for tea every night, and that I learned what was forgotten years ago. But I stayed in place, stranded with my thoughts until the sun rose. Each year, the night before Halloween, I leave out a bowl of cream. The next morning, the pumpkin is always on the step, the cream drunk, and I tell myself I'll catch them next year.
YOU ARE READING
WritOber 2022
Short StoryA few short autumn writing exercises for the month of October.
