Halloween Hit by J. Michael Taylor

My first happened to be on Halloween. It was easy, and not a little fun. Carter Young holed up in an old farm house, surrounded by fields of pick-your-own pumpkins. Smoke puffed from his chimney. No other houses close by. We’d be the only trick or treaters.

Bascom drove that night. He parked his shiny Continental on the dirt lane beneath some trees with the last crisp leaves clinging to their branches. A soft breeze rattled a few onto the roof. He’d have the thing washed of farm dust and grime by noon tomorrow, he loved that baby so much.

Beneath a waning moon, we made our way through the crops. I thought about that Charlie Brown cartoon, the first thing I watched when I bought my new color set just a couple days ago. Funny how the Christmas one last year was all about the warm fuzzies, but in this one, the memorable part is that Snoopy plays the World War One flying ace, shoots down the enemy, gets shot down himself, then goes bird-doggin’ through Paris. I like the cartoons, ’cause they’re easier than the funny papers.

Me and Bascom marched through the field, dodging smashed and rotting pumpkins. I managed to twist an ankle. We got to the house, and Young was in his kitchen, a bottle and glass in hand. He saw us at the back door, and must’ve known what was happening. He poured himself a triple, and we let him finish it.

“I’ll have the money after the Halloween rush,” he said, without much hope we’d let him off.

“That’s what you said about the summer corn season,” Bascom told him. “Face it, farming ain’t your forte.”

“Gambling’s gambling,” Young intoned. “Don’t matter if it’s cards or crops.”

“You seem to lose either way,” I agreed.

“We all do, sooner or later.” He picked up two glasses from the sink and rinsed them out under the tap. He poured shots for each of us.

Bascom gestured with his glass and Young led us into the living room. An autumn blaze lit the fireplace and we sat in three old stuffed chairs. The warmth soothed the ache in my twisted ankle.

“You know, I thought this place was going to be a cash cow. The building itself is historic, goes back to the 1700s. Was gonna fix it up, sell it for a mint to some history-loving rube from the city.”

“Which reminds me,” Bascom said off-handedly. “Any cash hanging around?”

Young waved his glass towards a cigar box on the mantle. Bascom nodded for me to check it out. I found almost two hundred in crumpled ones, fives, and tens. Getting in on the ground floor of the pumpkin business really wasn’t the happening thing these days. Young owed our boss upwards of ten grand from the past year. Cards, horses, dogs, he lost at them all.

“When you leave, you should take a pumpkin,” Young said. He finished his drink. “They’re just gonna rot anyhow.”

Bascom nodded, finished his own drink. He reached for the bottle on the floor by Young. I thought we were all going to have another round so I knocked back mine, too. But instead Bascom swung it hard enough to cave in Young’s skull. Young’s false teeth slipped halfway out of his mouth, and as he collapsed to the floor. I swear he looked just like one of his rotted pumpkins.

The place was old, all right. You could smell the dry rot. We left the body on the floor and I used the poker to drag the burning logs onto the rug. We waited long enough to make sure the flames caught, and by the time we were approaching the car, the pumpkin-orange glow of the fire lit our way through the twisted vines.

I picked a great big pumpkin for my stoop. It’s not so long since I used to trick-or-treat myself. I guess Young gave me a treat, too, not making a fuss. Anyhow, when I woke up the next morning, kids had splattered it all over the street.

​© 2025 J. Michael Taylor

About the author:
J.M. Taylor cooks up his sinister fantasies in Boston where he lives with his wife and son. He has appeared in Tough, Black Cat, and AHMM, among others. His books include Night of the Furies, from New Pulp Press, Dark Heat, from Genretarium, and No Score from Unnerving. When he’s not writing, he teaches under an assumed name. You can find him at jmtaylorcrimewriter.com and on Facebook at Night of the Furies.