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Pumpkin Bones

by



M

Y GRANDFATHER SHOWED SIGNS OF SEVERE DEMENTIA after grandma died. It took about eight years, but the poor man slowly slipped away from us. The Alzheimer's left nothing of us, his kids, or his wife in his memory. We were all strangers to him. But it afforded us the interesting opportunity to see grandpa as a rebellious teenager. Needless to say, it was strange. My older brother Charlie used to say grandpa went nuts because he saw something called Pumpkin bones. I didn’t believe it, but I was obsessed by that. That idea was magical too me, and frightening.



Every Halloween, I’d ask my brother to explain to me what this thing was, and his cheesy answers only fueled my love for weird stuff.
Grandpa hurtled toward us, yelling, “Follow me!” He flashed past us over the side walk and through the crowds. We heard Uncle Jim somewhere swearing while Charlie stood up. Grandpa limped away on his old knees, I was terrified he’d buck


“Where did Pumpkin Bones come from again, Charlie?” I asked, the night before halloween. I was warm under my blankets, listening to the quiet accrue around our house like the frost.

Charlie grumbled. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“But it’s halloween,” I said.

I heard him sigh and sit up in his bed. He clicked on his flashlight, and he held it up to his face. He paused. “Pumpkin Bones rattles in the night,” he hissed. I loved it. “Sometimes it’s waiting in the woods or lurking under sewer grates. You know, typical monster bull. You remember the McQueen family?” he asked. “Their daughter, Mandy, I have a class with her, she saw it,” he said.

“Really?” I asked.

“She’s in some hospital, I think, I don’t know.” Charlie said.

I swore out loud. “Keep it down, Nathan,” Charlie said.

I watched the door. I wouldn’t put it past mom listening at the door. “Sorry,” I said. Charlie threw his pillow at me.

“Go to sleep. Tomorrow’s Halloween.” His flashlight clicked off.

I woke the next morning to the smell of pumpkin pancakes. Charlie was already up. I flung my blankets to the floor and stumbled to the kitchen. Dad stood by the stove, frying eggs and pancakes.

“There’s the man,” he said.

He put down his spatula and wiped his hands on his Bela Legosi apron leaving a spider web of greasy finger prints on the classic Dracula’s face. I looked down at the hideous Frankenstein’s monster slippers, the rattling eyes stared up at me. Dad pushed his glasses up his nose.

“You ready to eat, boy?” He plated me up some grub and I sat down next to my brother who heaped another helping of bacon on his plate. Mom lowered the newspaper when I sat and looked out at me from behind her bat wing eye glasses -- fashionable for Halloween -- and smiled.

“Hi, baby cakes,” she said. I grunted.

“You excited?” she asked.


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About Dan Morin


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Born in California, raised in weirdo Oregon, haven't seen father in 20 years which one could argue all social anxiety and artsy-fartsy tendencies come from. Loves bizarre and strange people like Oregonian hippies who've sold out and drive Mercedes.

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