Page 3 of There's Pumpkin About You
“Is the place cute?”
“The men in it definitely are.”
“Oh, really?” I hear her fumble around on her phone, the background noise of the hospital, complete with heart monitors and PA announcements, coming through the hospital speakers. “Oh, sweet mother of God.”
I can imagine her staring at the photo. Brown eyes wide like a child at Christmas.
“Bitch, this is your idea of cute? This is not cute, Wren! This is every woman’s favorite porno come to life! God, the things I could do with these three.” She mumbles the last part and I’m glad I’m stopped at a red light, given my eyes are pinched closed with uncontrollable laughter.
“What are the chances that they’re all single?” she asks dreamily.
“Very, very low, sweetie. The world doesn’t offer one gift like that very often, let alone three.”
“One is all I need, sugar.” After a moment of laughter, I hear her pause and then sigh. “A patient needs me, boo.”
“No problem. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Take a photo of the hot farmers for me, please. Preferably one without their shirts on if they’re okay with that.”
I chuckle as I indicate my right-hand turn. “If any of them are single, did you want me to kidnap them and bring them to you?”
The sound of my best friend pretending to cry fills my car. “I love you so much, do you know that?”
We say our goodbyes and I bring my full attention back to the road as I drive out of Beckford and start on the windy backroads that lead to Eaglewood. Despite only living two towns away, I’ve never actually taken the time to visit. Compared to Beckford’s town center, with a Target and a McDonald’s, Eaglewood lives in the dark ages. It isn’t surprising that you often see a lot of people from there popping over to use our amenities, since the most they have is a general store and some chic cafés on their main road.
Even the roads leading to the town are almost devoid of technology, with nothing but spotty signal along the whole road. But one thing that’s for certain is that even these roads seem to have more character than my town. Mine is uniform, minimalistic and with a distinct lack of color. The houses all need to look the same, the signs on the fronts of the stores need to be in the same font; it’s all very monotone.
And yet, as I drive closer to Eaglewood, I can see the houses start to change. There are only a few, every mile or so along the road, but each one is completely different. Some are time capsules showcasing the house’s history in every layer of cement and brick. Others are the kind you see in movies: white picket fence, wraparound porch, a dog perched on the steps basking in the autumn sun.
I wish I lived somewhere with more character like this, but at the time, Adam had insisted on staying in Beckford. Being the naive, love-struck woman I was at the time, I thought that giving up my choices was the same as compromising. Whilst I still hold some anger within my chest, my house still holds the good memories Adam and I made, and that makes it hard to think about selling and starting over somewhere new. But recently there has been a sense of longing brewing within me, a need for somewhere more than where I am. Last I heard, Adam had moved somewhere near New Jersey, but I have no plans to move so far. My family is spread out between these five towns, and it’s comforting knowing that there is only one lake separating us. I wouldn’t want to move any further from my parents and brother than was completely necessary.
As I enter Eaglewood, and signal becomes a thing again—almost—I pull up the website for the directions.
“Drive to the end of the main road and turn left. Then continue down for about a mile until you see a willow tree on your right,” I recite to myself as I put my phone away. “Sounds easy enough.”
As I drive down the main road, I fall in love. The friendly smiles that are exchanged between locals as they pass one another, the fairytale atmosphere as I drive in between trees that separate the sidewalk and the road. As I drive over russet leaves and fallen berries, I crack open the window and the smell of coffee and cinnamon welcomes me. I indicate left at the end of the road, take a deep breath and excitedly drive towards Goldleaf Farm.
* * *
The farm is just as charming in real life, but it definitely needs some TLC.
The barn is even more bruised and battered than it was in the photo, dead grass and discarded tools surrounding its exterior. Corn husks are lined up in neat rows behind it, the grains not yet ripe enough to harvest.
To my right is the farm’s main building, which could be better described as a shack. Peeling blue paint covers the outside and a crumbling white door stands wide open at the front.
Between the barn and the shack, you can just about catch a glimpse of one of the pumpkin patches, with a gorgeous variety of amber, burnt orange and cream pumpkins dotted with green. Some are the size of one of my tires, while others look no bigger than a newborn baby. Curling vines wrap themselves around each one, as if they are protecting them from the elements and raising them as their own.
The satisfied bleating of a goat reaches my ears, and yet, only the scent of pumpkins and fresh air fills my nose. A kind of contentment overcomes me as I stare out at the open space.
I smile to myself as I hop out of the car and wander around. I imagine myself harvesting pumpkins with my future children, their smiling faces and lighthearted laughter making me feel complete as they work as a team to lift up one of the larger pumpkins. Children that were ripped away from me by a man who wanted all without giving anything.
Up close, the barn doesn’t look to be in any better condition than it did at first glance. The blue and red paint had peeled off long ago, leaving a wet, old brown color in its wake, and though one of the windows on the side is broken, no one has bothered to even attempt a patch job. Curious, I peek around the open door, wanting to see inside.
The barn looks as if it was once used to house farming equipment, big enough to hold at least two good-sized tractors. Even with the autumn sun flowing through the broken window, the space remains in eerie darkness, a haunted look clinging to every crevice. Farm tools sit discarded on the cracked wooden floor, and hay bales are piled up in each corner, hiding from the elements. Cracked wooden boards form a makeshift balcony overhead, some boards missing from the worn railing at the edge. My heart races as I let my eyes float over to the edge of the barn, where shadows seem to live and breed.
“Okay, Wren,” I whisper to myself, “pull yourself together because there is no way that something is going to jump out and attack you.”
The creaking of the floorboards rushes each beat in my chest and cracks the silence. Whilst the barn’s potential shines, that doesn’t stop me from seeing it for what it currently is… creepy as hell. No amount of science is persuading me that the noises I’m hearing aren’t the echoing of a ghost’s footsteps, or that the straw that glides across my feet isn’t the stuffing from an evil scarecrow lurking in the corner.
