Page 92 of Haunt the Mall
“She was, but Jen got mad about the smell.” Tori cringed and glanced at the nearby open window.
I scowled and closed some windows so the night air stopped slithering in. Jen was such an ass. “If she hates Mom's cooking so much, she should move out.”
Dad shouldered open the garage door, his arms full of bags and his tone flat. “That's not going to happen.”
“Dad.” We ran over to greet him. The man had food, after all. Tori put away the groceries while he and I went to the trunk for the second load. We popped open his trunk and my heart skipped a beat. Six cute pumpkins sat atop a tarp, their stems curved in glorious celebration.
He kept his gaze trained on the tarp. “Heard you had a rough day.”
I swallowed against a lump in my throat. What else had Tori told him? “Yeah.”
“Want to carve 'em?”
“Yeah.” I flung my arms around his side and squeezed hard. “Thanks, Dad.”
He grunted and tapped my arm. “Easy, Katherine.”
There were five normal pumpkins and one no bigger than my hand. The last one flopped onto the counter with a satisfying thud. I got the biggest knife we had and smirked at my reflection. Such a cinematic shot. Bet Victor would've loved it.
“Hi-ya.” I stabbed the vegetable at the top.
Tori gasped.
“It's just a squash, hun,” Dad said, flipping steaks with endless patience. He helped Tori with dinner while I sawed the top off my pumpkin.
This was a damn good workout. Great for stress. Externalized pain. Stab a vegetable, not a jerk. Or a stalker. I jammed the blade in again.
Tori squeaked and stared.
“Do you want to carve one?” I offered her the handle.
She backed away. “No thanks. Too scary for me.”
“Aren't you going to wield all kinds of sharp stuff in the hospital?” I asked her.
“Not yet.” She snuck her hands inside her sleeves. “Next semester is anatomy.”
“Oooh, the corpse stuff. Good luck with that,” I said.
She paled and looked to our dad.
He patted her shoulder. “You’ll be fine. You’re tougher than you think.”
For some reason, I didn’t think that applied to me. I was tough on the outside and gooey underneath. Much like this pumpkin.
I popped open the top of my gourd. Earthy sweetness wafted in the air. Orange guts clumped under sticky webbing in the cavernous belly. I scooped the lukewarm mash into a bowl and flung the excerpts from my fingers into the sink.
Dad peered over his shoulder. “You don't want to use a spoon?”
“Or gloves?” Tori offered.
“Nope. I want to feel it.” I bit my tongue and scraped the vegetable flesh with my nails. This was a gross, slimy mess. But it was mine. Washable. Stabbable. Edible. A mess. My mess. At least the rotting flesh would look cool on the doorstep.
My phone pinged.
Tori perked up. “Who is it?”
“No one.” I scrunched a paper towel, then turned off my phone. I didn’t want to get her, or my, hopes up.