— the ambulance’s siren cut off as it began to weave; only slightly at first, then much more erratic and violently.

Dear God, thought Marian.

It’s happening.

Though the car was a good quarter-mile from the ambulance, Marian could clearly see what was going on. The ambulance tried slowing to a normal speed, couldn’t, then veered right and ran up on the curve, crashing into and then plowing over a mailbox before slamming into the side of brick building, shattering the windshield and popping open one of the rear doors, fumes from the engine obscuring everything in smoke and steam.

Boots yelled, “Oh, Holy Mother!” and braked quickly, throwing both herself and Marian forward into the dash. Once they’d recovered, Marian pushed open her door and jumped out of the car just as one of the attendants came out of the back, his uniform covered in blood, and collapsed to the ground. Marian felt her legs go weak as she ran toward the ambulance. The windows were smeared with dripping darkness from inside. The driver scrambled out, his back drenched in blood, and dropped to his knees, softly laughing.

Boots was now beside Marian. “Oh, Dear God—Laura!” She ran from Marian, who quickly followed her aunt to the opened door in back and looked inside and saw—

—blood, a lot of blood and tissue, but no Laura and no baby, only the blood and tissue and something that looked like deep scratch marks on the inside roof—

“—do now?” shouted Boots.

Marian ran over to the driver and tried to bring him back, but his laugh and the hollowed look of his eyes told her in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t coming home for a while, so she ran to the other EMT and rolled him over—

—a deep gash along the side of neck was still spurting blood, albeit slowly now, the artery severed, his life gone, gone, gone.

Keep it together, for chrissakes!

She jumped in the front seat of the ambulance and grabbed the mic from the radio unit, pressed down on the button, and said, “Hello? Hello? Listen, I’m calling from inside the ambulance that was dispatched about ten minutes ago. There’s been a wreck and—” Her thumb slipped off the button. “—shit!”

The radio hissed and crackled, and buried somewhere in the noise she heard the sound of singing: “A goblin lives in OUR house, in OUR house, in OUR house...”

“Hello!” she shouted into the mic once again.

“...goblin lives in OUR house, all the year ‘round!”

Then Boots was there, grabbing her arm and pulling her from the ambulance. “C’mon, hon, let’s get back in the car and get to a phone, okay? There’s nothing we can do here.”

She didn’t so much guide as almost toss Marian toward the car. In moments both were in and doors were closed and Boots was turning around and then they were moving again.

Too much, Marian thought, pressing closed her eyes as if wishing alone would make it all a dream. Too much, too fast, dearGod make it slow down, make it stop, anything!

“Hang in there with me, hon,” said Boots, reaching over and squeezing her hand. “We’ll get through this somehow.”

Marian opened her eyes as Boots tore around the next corner and accelerated.

Marian saw it first. The street was blocked, filled with dozens, maybe hundreds of people; children, adults, old folks, all of them carrying pumpkins that glowed with a deep, otherwordly light.

Boots jerked the steering wheel to the left and stood on the brake but it was too late; the car fishtailed over the curb, spun sideways, and smashed into a section of Cedar Hill Cemetery’s iron gate, slamming Marian against the dashboard as the windshield exploded.

It took less than five seconds.

Later—she had no idea how much later, but it was later, nonetheless—Marian pulled herself up and wiped the blood out of her eyes. A low pressure in the back of her head swam forward. She felt like she was going to pass out again. She hoped she didn’t have a concussion. Her door was wrenched open. She turned and saw Jack Pumpkinhead. And next to him, wearing her favorite old housecoat, his pumpkinhead wife. Marian began tumbling back toward darkness. “Everything’s going to be fine,” said Jack, reaching for her. “Just fine,” said Mom. Then darkness took her.

7

You still need to go back and cut off the corners to eliminate bulk!

* * *

“I’m so glad you came home.”

Mom’s voice. So near, so warm. For a moment, Marian thought she was back home in bed, eight years old again, with a fever. She grinned, hoping that Mom would fix her a cup of hot cocoa and read to her from her favorite book.

The touch of brittle twig-fingers against her cheek tore her from her reverie. She opened her eyes and saw, at first, only the bright harvest moon above, then a twig-finger touched her face again and a pumpkinhead eclipsed the moon.

“I missed you, hon,” said the thing with her mother’s voice.

Marian swallowed a shriek and kicked back, trying to get away. A sharp pain stabbed her in the ribs as something inside of her shifted. Her chest hitched and she fell backwards, realizing that some of her ribs were broken.

The Mom-thing was next to her then, cradling her head in dry branch-arms. “You’ll be all better soon, hon. I promise.”

“Get a-w-w-way from me.”

The thing froze, then lowered its face. A thin trickle of blood ran out of its rounded, glowing eye. “I’m so sorry I made you ashamed of me,” it said, its voice cracking just like Mom’s used to. Before Marian could try to move again, Alan was next to the Mom-thing, laying a hand on its shoulder. He’d put his baseball cap back on.

“She’s just scared, Mom, that’s all. She loves you, she told me so. Isn’t that right, Sis?” He looked at Marian with pleading in his eyes.

Marian said, “Where’s Aunt Boots?”

Alan pointed toward the church. “She’s over there, talking to Dad.”

Boots, her blouse torn and bloodied, her hair matted with dark splotches, was standing next to Jack Pumpkinhead. He had one of his arms around her shoulders and was leading her toward one of the church’s collapsed walls. Marian could see a staircase inside the church, through the rubble. Jack leaned over and covered Boots’s lips with his crescent mouth, then sent her on her way.

Limping and shuddering, Boots began climbing the stairs which, Marian now saw, led to the exposed organ loft.

“Isn’t that sweet?” said the Mom-thing. “He’s gonna have her play a song for our anniversary.” It leaned close to Marian, its breath the reek of rotting vegetables mixed with dirt. “I always used to kid your daddy about how I knew he was gonna forget our anniversary, but he never did. He’s a charmer. And he invited the whole family, did you know that? What a thoughtful fellow.”

“That’s why you married me,” said Jack Pumpkinhead, taking one of Mom-thing’s hands and pulling her to her feet. Two corners of the Story Quilt were tied together under his neck, the rest of it flowing behind him like a grand cape. Jack pulled the Mom-thing toward an open patch in the cemetery. They stared at one another for a moment, then embraced. The brittle sound of wood scraping against wood filled the air. They pulled back, still looking at one another, as a low, deep, throbbing hum crept from the organ loft and unfurled over the cemetery; softly, at first, then steadily louder, the pained cacophony became progressively more structured and only slightly prettier as a tune struggled to break the surface of the chaos.

A tune that Marian recognized.

“The Anniversary Waltz.”

Jack Pumpkinhead and the Mom-thing tossed back their heads and laughed the laughter of Marian’s parents; younger, happier, stronger, a couple in love long before the world had beaten them down. They danced away, gliding and twirling through the tombstones. Mom-thing’s housecoat flowed in the nightbreeze like the grandest and most elegant of gowns; Jack’s Story-Quilt cape flew up and out like the wings of some giant, majestic nightbird. Their laughter cut through the whistling wind.