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My tale begins on Hallowe'en night. No, not THAT Hallowe'en but the one the year after. I hadn't really planned for Hallowe'en at all, not openly anyway. But I suppose I'd been planning all along in the recesses of my brain, knowing that it would have to be dealt with, that it could not be denied. And what plans I had made simply called for a quiet evening alone, indoors.

Turn out the lights. Ignore the doorbell.

And yet, there I was, at the supermarket in the late Autumn afternoon light, as the evening of October 31st crept closer on it's black cat paws. One bag of candy, I'd told myself. That's all I'd buy. Just something to hand out to any wayward trick-or-treaters who pressed the bell or knocked upon my door. And so I stood in line, clutching my bag of Milky Way miniatures. Heck, I might as well buy candy that I liked, right? What if no kids showed after

all?

That's when I noticed the pumpkins. A big bin of them, surprisingly full considering the lateness of the hour on the last afternoon of October. I can't really say what made me do it but within a few minutes, I was loading seven of them into the trunk of my car, bright orange pumpkins of a variety of

shapes and sizes.

And so it came to pass that I sat in my living room on Hallowe'en night, alone but for the seven vegetable orbs that sat in a circle around me. A storm had kicked in, a real howler, unusual for Hallowe'en night but, for me, a blessing. It was highly unlikely that any trick-or-treaters would brave this downpour; unlikely that I would have to look into their masked eyes as I dropped my Milky Way bars into their open bags.

The kitchen knife was in my hand. I tried to remember the last time I'd carved a jack-o-lantern. I'd been somewhere in my teens, I think. It was probably around the same time that I'd stopped trick-or-treating and had gone out with my more thuggish friends to smash the pumpkin artwork of others. I'd only done it that one night. Something about it had felt so dreadfully wrong that I'd never made another jack-o-lantern myself, as if the smashing of pumpkins had forever lost me the right to carve my own.

Yet here I sat, some thirty years later, the tip of my knife puncturing the pumpkin skin and flesh as I sought to recall just how this was done. I opened a hole in the lid and scooped out the slimy innards. Two triangle eyes, a

triangle nose, and a jagged mouth later and I had a face. I lit a candle and placed it inside. The result looked amateurish, like the face a young child might have carved. I looked uncomfortably away from my creation as a

voice came, unasked for, to my mind.

"I want you to see my pumpkin, Uncle Jack. It looks just like a REAL jack-o-lantern!"

I frowned at the other pumpkins. I was a grown man. Surely, I was capable of more than this poor attempt.

I grabbed a large pumpkin with strange bulges on it's surface. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, remembering the yoga classes I'd taken in my youth. Calm down. Relax. Breeeaathe!

As I slid my knife into this second pumpkin, I did find myself in a meditative state of mind. Now, every bit of my energy seemed focused on the carving of this jack-o-lantern and, indeed, as it's face began to form, I could see a marked improvement. There were subtleties to it's design that seemed remarkable to me from someone so long out of practice at this time honored Autumnal art. I'm not really sure how long I immersed myself in its creation but, when I was done, I could not deny that I had made an amazing jack-o-lantern. A thing of true beauty, it seemed to hold hidden secrets that those not of it's vegetable world might never understand. And yet wasn't there something oddly familiar about it's features? The way the corner of it's mouth curled down? The eyebrows that nearly met above the nose? That little twinkle in the eye, once it's candle was lit inside?

I must have stared at it for a good five minutes before it came to me. It was the spitting image of my Uncle Ned! Of course, it was just a pumpkin but there was an undeniable Uncle Ned-ness about it. I had captured the man brilliantly without even intending to. Would that I could have taken a photo and sent it to him but, of course, Uncle Ned had been dead these past twenty years, felled by a heart attack while I was away at college.

Encouraged by my unusual but undeniable success, I cut into the next pumpkin, taking an equal amount of concentration to carve each feature. Again, I had no clear cut design in mind but this time, when the carving was finished, the similarity to a loved one from my past was instantly recognizable. My maternal grandmother, felled by the flu before I was in my teens, gazed back at me.

I felt an odd tingle run through my body, excited by my newfound genius as an artist and yet disturbed by the subconscious ease with which I seemed to be drawing upon the loved ones of my past and translating them into bright orange vegetable art.

I was carving faster now but with no less precision or attention to detail. My father who'd been felled by a stoke six years ago soon joined the strange family gathering as did my sister, killed when her jet plane did a nose dive into the Pacific ocean. Last of all came my sister-in-law who'd died just eight months ago, technically from some sort of complication to an ear infection but everyone in the family knew that what she'd really died from was a broken heart.

As I sat looking at my family of intricately carved gourds, I felt an overwhelming sense of foreboding. One pumpkin remained, the smallest of all of them. Although I was carving with no conscious intent or purpose, I had no doubt what face would emerge on that small pumpkin if I put my knife to it.

The wind whistled around the house and the rain beat down upon the roof as I rose and purposefully began to wash the knife with which I'd carved my masterpieces. No lights shown in the house save the lights from the faces of my pumpkin relatives. As I dried the knife, an image came to my mind of Mexican villagers gathered in cemeteries on Hallowe'en night to pay their respects to those relatives who had passed on to the other side of the veil.

I put the knife back into my kitchen drawer but as I slid it closed, the relative silence of the stormy night was broken by a knock at my door. My back stiffened and I told myself that whoever was at that door, it was someone of flesh and blood, no phantom called forth on the Eve of All Hallows to demand justice from the living.

Forcing my hand not to shake, I undid the lock and opened the front door. A sole trick-or-treater stood before me on the porch, his soaked sheet of a ghost costume sticking to his frail form. What child would dare such a night

as tonight to trick-or-treat, alone and without even an umbrella? We regarded each other for a moment and I stared into his eyes, searching - deeper and deeper- to see if they were HIS eyes. But, in the end, they were just eyes. "Trick or treat" his small cold trembling voice said, breaking me out of

my trance.

I walked inside to grab my bowl of treats and found myself remembering that conversation from a year ago tonight.

"Billy wants to talk to you, Jack" my sister in law had said. "He has something very important to tell you."

After a moment of fumbling with the phone, six year old Billy's voice had come through, full of pride and excitement. "I want you to see my pumpkin, Uncle Jack! It looks just like a real jack-o-lantern!"

Who was I to refuse the request of my favorite nephew when asked so excitedly to his favorite uncle? Within a few minutes, I was in my car and driving to their homeâ€¦

I dropped the Milky Ways into the boy's bag. At least half a dozen. It was more than one would usually give but who else were they going to go to? Perhaps that's why he'd dared this night, knowing that people would have lots of extra candy on hand. As he started to depart, I found myself saying "Wait a moment" although I wasn't sure why.

I stepped inside and picked up the first jack-o-lantern I'd carved that night, the one with the rough-hewn childish face, so much like that one that HE had carved must have looked.

I don't know what had distracted me as I pulled into their driveway. Perhaps a group of children had yelled happily across the street. All I know is that I wasn't expecting him to be out in the driveway waiting for me.

He must have slipped out when his mother wasn't looking, so eager was he to show me his first jack-o-lantern.

He was so light that I barely felt it as the front of my car knocked him down in the driveway. I only felt those two

sickening thuds as my front right wheel crushed, first, his pumpkin, and then his head.

The rest is a blur to me. I don't really recall fleeing the scene or cleaning my car or making that call to my brother - an acting performance worthy of an Academy Award- to express how sorry I was that I'd gotten caught up with work and wouldn't be able to make it by, followed by my expressions of shock and dismay as he tearfully managed to choke out the horror of what had happened to his only son that night.

Nobody had suspected me. They had just thought some drunk driver had killed little Billy. My performance had been so convincing that when I had stopped being able to cope with life and had retreated reclusively into my home, it was widely believed that I was simply unable to cope with the death of my favorite nephew, a half-truth that I was only too grateful to let stand.

Now I handed the pumpkin to the trick-or-treater on my porch. He seemed puzzled and I managed to choke out the words, "You're the only trick-or-treater I've had all night. I don't think I'll be getting anymore." As if this explanation seemed to make some sense, he nodded and said, "Thanks", carrying the jack-o-lantern off into the night with him.

I closed the door and returned to my living room. They were waiting for me. In some strange way, I wasn't surprised that they had bodies now. This one wore Uncle Ned's familiar tattered jeans and that one Grandma's old

shawl. The five figures stood in a semi-circle, regarding me with those familiar expressions now carved in pumpkin flesh. My sister-in-law's pumpkin headed doppleganger held out the last tiny pumpkin to me. The task must be finished. There could be no avoiding it.

I withdrew the knife from the kitchen drawer and began to cut into the pumpkin, spilling it's insides out as I had once spilled poor Billy's brains onto his driveway. Only the flickering light of the jack-o-lanterns watchful

stares illuminated my work as I carved in those delicate features that I knew so well. As I lit his candle, Billy's eyes gazed up at me, trustingly as they had so many times before. So many times before last Hallowe'en.

I set Billy's head down amongst the semi-circle of my dead relatives. Their gazes seemed accusing and hateful although their expressions were, in reality, no different than when I'd carved them. I closed my eyes, unable to

bear the stares any longer. When I opened them, Billy stood before me, his trusting jack-o-lantern head on that frail little body I remembered so well.

The others clustered around him and they waited. I could not fathom what it was they wanted from me but they waited still. I put the knife to my wrist but Billy took my hand and pulled the knife away, shaking his pumpkin head

"no."

At last I knew what they required from me and I picked up the receiver of the telephone. I knew my brother would be home. Where else would he be on this rainy Hallowe'en night?

Five Hallowe'en nights have passed since then, all of them behind bars for me. My family doesn't call or visit, not the living ones anyway. They have no capacity for forgiveness and I can't blame them.

But my other family members come, at least on that one night a year. Oh, the guards don't let me have pumpkins and they certainly don't let me have a knife. But Billy and the others are beyond the need for that with me now. While the living may be unforgiving, I have made my peace with the dead. The guards no longer open the door when they hear us talking on Hallowe'en night. I think they're just afraid of what they might find.