Jack by Ronald Schulte

“I don’t want to.”

Even to her own ears, Sylvia’s voice sounded whiney.  Hard to win an argument with a voice like that.  Not that she’d ever won an argument with Jack that she could recall; when it came to Jack, the argument was usually over before it started.

Sylvia glanced sidelong at Jack from her rocking chair.  He glared at her from across the room, eyes practically glowing with hatred, mouth twisted up in a toothy grin.  His mask hung down around his neck, unused.  That made Sylvia’s blood boil–this space was much too small for such recklessness–but the pandemic meant little and less to Jack.

“You can’t make me,” she snapped.  To prove her point, she walked over and calmly pulled Jack’s oversized mask up over his mouth.  She would have covered his nose too, as was proper, but Jack didn’t have a nose.

“You can’t make me,” she repeated as she backed away.  Her cheeks felt wet suddenly; when had she started crying?  She angrily wiped away the tears as she fingered the fresh bruise on her cheekbone.  None of the trick-or-treaters had paid it any attention; the few adults who’d noticed had likely dismissed it as part of her costume.  There were bruises on her ribs and buttocks, too, nasty bruises, black and blue and purple, but those were hidden from view beneath her clothes.

Jack continued to stare at her with those fiery eyes, undoubtedly smiling under that mask, and it was more than Sylvia could bear.  She stormed into the kitchen and grabbed the carving knife from the magnetic holder near the fridge.  She brought it back into the front room, walked over to Jack…

And slit his throat.

“Careful,” Jack hissed from behind the mask.

Jack’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere and sent shivers up Sylvia’s spine.  It had been many years since Jack had spoken to her.  Truth told she thought he’d died long ago.  Yet here he was, pushy as ever, telling her what to do just as he’d always done.

He’d first spoken to her when she was seven.  He’d been small that year, with a face painted rather than carved because her mother had thought her too young to handle a carving knife.  When Uncle Frankie had forced her to put her hand in his pants, Jack had explained to her what to sprinkle in his coffee so that he’d never make her do it again.

Over the years, Jack had spoken to her many times.  The faces varied–triangle eyes, round eyes with pupils, nose, no nose, square teeth, triangle teeth, orange flesh, white flesh–but the voice was always the same.  He didn’t speak to her every year, and that was probably a good thing, given where their conversations typically led.

She continued her cut all the way around Jack’s neck, opening a large hole in the bottom of the pumpkin.  When she was done she picked Jack up, up and over the flickering battery-powered candle that had been inside, and placed him over her head.  He was heavy, but he rested partially on her shoulders, and was tight enough on the sides of her head that he stayed in place.  She wished she’d cleaned out his innards a little more thoroughly; the stringy fibers were grossing her out, and a few stray seeds were digging into her scalp.  She could also smell a bit of mold starting to take hold, and the eyeholes were too high and far apart to look through.  But after removing Jack’s mask she realized that she could see nicely through his mouth, so that was okay.

“I don’t want to,” she whispered one more time.  No conviction in her voice whatsoever.

“You do.”

Sylvia crept toward the stairs, right hand clutching the carving knife, left hand massaging her sore ribs.  How many times had she played out this scene?  Most times it was someone who deserved it.  Someone who’d wronged her, someone who’d hurt or abused her in some way.  She almost wished her bruises this time had actually been administered by her husband, that they weren’t self-inflicted as insurance in case a self-defense scenario was needed afterwards.

No, her husband hadn’t touched her.  He was innocent.

But sometimes Jack was simply out for blood, and Sylvia knew better than to deny him.

She tiptoed up the stairs, avoiding the creaky steps.  Down the hall, avoiding the loose boards.  Into the bedroom, opening the door slowly so it wouldn’t squeak.  Controlling her breathing as she crawled into bed next to her husband.

“Hi babe,” he muttered.

She readied the knife behind her back with one hand as she reached over through the darkness with the other.  Her hand settled on his chest, and she felt his heartbeat through the flannel of his pajamas.  She traced her fingers up, up to his bare neck, up further to caress his face…

And she recoiled in shock and horror as her fingers found not the warmth of her husband’s cheek, but rather the cool, firm skin of the pumpkin adorning his head.

—

Ronald Schulte is an avid reader and writer of speculative fiction. His work has previously appeared in several online and print publications including Theme of Absence, The Literary Hatchet, Dark Fire Fiction, Bewildering Stories, and Fiction on the Web. He lives in upstate New York with his wife, son, twin daughters, and two cats. Follow Ronald on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/ronaldschulteauthor/.