Voices Beneath the Jack-O’-Lantern Glow

Voices Beneath the Jack-O’-Lantern Glow

The Night I Learned to Be Afraid

I used to look forward to Halloween every year. There was something about jack-o’-lanterns on porches, the scent of pumpkin in the air, and the way the night felt almost like the world was holding its breath. But, I don’t love Halloween anymore. Not after what happened last year. I wish I could laugh about it or say it was just my imagination, but I know what I heard.

Eager to Impress

Okay, so last year I got this idea in my head that my house should be the “scary one” on the block. I’m not talking about cheesy ghosts from the dollar store I wanted to go big, you know? I bought three huge pumpkins and spent most of the afternoon carving them. They had these little sound chips I’d never seen before just press a button and you’d get some spooky whisper. It felt like a silly upgrade, but why not? Parents would roll their eyes, the kids would shriek. Perfect. But I remember there was this weird label on the box. “Made in Hollow Hill.” It meant nothing to me then. Now? I wish I’d just... I don’t know, bought the plastic ones from the supermarket.

When the Whispers Started

Around dusk, I was testing out the pumpkins. Two worked fine, say some generic line about “tricks and treats.” The last one, though it was off. I pressed the test button and it whispered, Don’t leave me in the dark. But the way it said it made my skin crawl. I thought maybe I was tired. I’d been carving for hours. But even after I took out the sound chip, it kept saying stuff, like: They’re watching you. Or I was here before you came. The candles weren’t even lit yet. No batteries. My neighbor, Linda, stopped by and said my porch smelled like something was burning, but I don’t think she noticed the voices. At least, she didn’t mention them.

Kids Won’t Come Near

Once it got dark, the pumpkins took on this mean look. Like someone had dug the mouths out with a claw. When the first kid came up the walk, he stopped halfway and just went cold, wouldn’t even get near the porch. He stared right at the pumpkins, then bolted like something bit him. I looked at them and maybe it was my eyes playing tricks, but I swear those grins had gotten bigger, sharper. Deep lines. I tried rubbing one with my sleeve, but all I got was sticky wax on my hand. And the voices this time, they were louder. Like someone was stuck inside, whispering, “Let. Me. Out.”

The Recordings and Real Fear

I tried to record it, thinking maybe I was losing it. The playback made me feel sick there was more than one voice. Whole phrases, panic in them. The sort of breath you’d hear from a scared animal or something trapped. I shut the recording off after ten seconds. Just… pushed the pumpkins to the edge of the porch, tried to ignore them, but even with the candles out, I swear I kept hearing them.

Looking up Hollow Hill

I couldn’t sleep. Around two in the morning I was lying there, phone in hand, looking up this Hollow Hill place. It wasn’t a brand. It was a field, somewhere upstate, and there was this news clipping about a bunch of bodies found in the soil just heads. The land turned into a pumpkin patch years later, but people wouldn’t buy from it. I guess I did, accidentally. That was when I started to get scared. Not jump-scare, haunted house scared this was cold dread, the type that makes your hands shake.

The Ground Moves

A little past midnight, I lit the pumpkins again. I don’t know why. Habit, maybe, or just hoping it was all over. But now the flames were wrong, almost greenish, and the one in the middle started to sag like the wood underneath had softened. There were voices this time more of them, not just one. It was like listening to a conversation underwater. Then, one phrase, clear as day (God, I still get chills thinking about it): They buried us beneath you. I looked down and felt the floorboards dip a little. My heart started pounding building and building and building.

Something Inside Cracks

The smallest pumpkin split open. There was this disgusting crack, then a tooth an actual human tooth rolled out into the wax. I almost vomited. The smell got worse, like rot mixed with burnt sugar. And no joke those jack-o’-lantern faces moved. They didn’t, but somehow they did. My brain kept telling me to run. One voice, clearer and louder than before, rasped out, They gave us faces again.

I Can’t Forget

I destroyed the pumpkins by noon the next day. I just smashed them into the bin and soaked the porch with bleach. But the smell, and the way the wood feels… it’s never really gone back to normal. Sometimes, late at night, there’s this faint sound from beneath the house. Not always. Just sometimes.
Building. And building. And building. Every October, I wonder if this is the year something else finds its way into the jack-o’-lanterns. Maybe next time it won’t settle for whispering.