The Piper Who Stole Halloween

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On the thirty-first of October, at eleven minutes past eleven, the pumpkins of Gloomwick began to march. This was odd for three reasons. First, pumpkins preferred sitting. Second, none had legs until that evening. Third, they were taking the town's decorations and dignity with them. At the head strode a skeleton in a feathered hat, playing a flute. He was Bartholomew Bones, and he had waited three centuries for payment. The trouble began in 1726, when Gloomwick's mayor hired Bartholomew for the Pumpkin Parade. The fee was twelve silver crowns and supper. Bartholomew played for six hours, including an encore for a headless duchess. He had loved that evening. For once, people danced to his music instead of laughing at his appearance. The mayor promised payment "next Halloween," died the following Tuesday, and left the debt to successors who considered it folklore. Bartholomew never forgot the applause. Nobody remembered the musician. For three centuries he returned every October, presenting his yellowed invoice. Each mayor offered an excuse. One claimed the treasury had been eaten by rats. Another insisted that skeletons were legally classified as musical instruments and could not receive wages. Mayor Prudence Puddle suggested paying him in exposure. "I have plenty of exposure," Bartholomew replied, indicating his ribs. "I would prefer currency." Prudence laughed. Bartholomew did not. He wanted someone to admit his music had mattered. Instead, the town celebrated without him. That was when he decided to repossess Halloween. His flute was carved from the Hangman's Willow and tuned by a witch expelled from the Royal Conservatory for turning the examination committee into turnips. When Bartholomew played the first note, every pumpkin in Gloomwick blinked. At the second, their candles flared blue. At the third, little arms and legs burst from their orange skins. One pumpkin screamed, "I've got knees!" Another inspected its feet and announced, "I demand comfortable shoes!" Then every jack-o'-lantern followed the skeleton toward the forest. Mayor Puddle woke to knocking. It was Constable Crowley, a werewolf who worked nights because daylight made his uniform itch. "Madam Mayor! The pumpkins are leaving!" "Then arrest them," Prudence snapped. "On what charge?" "Unlicensed walking!" Crowley looked embarrassed. "They threatened to report us for vegetable harassment." Prudence pulled on her slippers. "This is ridiculous. Vegetables don't have rights." Outside came a hundred orange voices: "WE DO NOW!" Prudence hurried to the window. Down the road wound a glowing river of pumpkins, following the skeleton's flute toward Blackthorn Castle. Chaos followed. A vampire watched his decorations march away with his welcome mat. The pumpkin-pie contest was cancelled when every contestant escaped through the kitchen window. Mrs. Crumble chased her prize pumpkin with a rolling pin. "Come back! You're supposed to be dessert!" The pumpkin replied, "And you're supposed to be civilized!" Mrs. Crumble fainted. By one o'clock, problems appeared. Some pumpkins wanted dancing. Others wanted silence. Miniature gourds demanded a children's area, while His Rotundity insisted on being addressed as Your Immense Roundness. Reginald climbed onto a stone and shouted, "We need rules! We need representation! We need a union!" The pumpkins cheered. They founded the United Association of Independent Pumpkins, Gourds and Other Misunderstood Produce. Its first decision was to shorten its name to PUMPKIN, because nobody could remember the initials. Their second decision was to elect Reginald chairman. Their third was to demand that Bartholomew stop playing. "The music is lovely," Mildred explained, "but we've been marching for two hours and my feet are developing blisters." "You haven't had feet for two hours," Bartholomew objected. "Exactly. They're completely inexperienced." Reginald unfolded a leaf covered in demands. "We want paid candle breaks, protection against pie-making, freedom of facial expression, and an end to compulsory smiling." Bartholomew stared. "I stole you to make a point about unpaid labor." "Then you should understand our position," Reginald said. The skeleton lowered his flute. For three centuries he had wanted someone to listen. Now he was being asked to do the same. Annoyingly persuasive. At half past one, Prudence Puddle reached Blackthorn Castle with Constable Crowley and sweets. "Bartholomew!" she called. "Return our pumpkins!" The skeleton lowered his flute. "Pay my invoice." "That invoice is three hundred years old!" "And remarkably well preserved. Unlike me." Prudence examined the parchment. "Twelve silver crowns and supper?" "Plus interest." "How much interest?" Bartholomew produced a scroll that unrolled down the castle steps, crossed the courtyard, and vanished into the moat. A frog croaked. Prudence went pale. "That's more than our annual budget!" "Then perhaps you should have paid on time.”