Pumpkin soup...

 I opened the door and (hey presto!) there was he, large as life and twice as… well not exactly ugly, but if he’d been a picture I’m not sure he’d have been described as pretty. His orange pumpkin head was definitely vibrant though, and his white cotton shirt - all buttoned to the neck like some country boy parson - a fine contrast. I could see that his dust-me-down suit had seen better days (what sort of dust was that exactly?) and as for the holy-roller bible - well let’s just say it didn’t look very holy with all that char around the edges. Yes, he sure was a sight for eyes as sore as mine.

“Trick or treat!” I asked, holding out the dish of candy and taking in the crosses and hearts, the veil of tears that were etched across his purdy Pumpkin face.

“You decide.” He said as he fiddled with his shirt buttons and opened his shirt on emptiness. No heart, no lungs or ribs, no gizzards, just thin air inside his clothes. “Call me Jack,” he grinned, “It’s as good a name as any… can I come in?”

I nodded in dumb acquiescence. Well, he’d invited himself.

Stepping over the threshold he closed the door behind him and turned. His smile became impossibly wide as he stepped towards me. I smiled back as I picked up the cleaver, running over my recipe for spicy pumpkin soup. Garlic, coriander, cumin, chilli, a pumpkin head - it almost sounded like a spell. I loved soup.

I swung my cleaver. The treat was going to be mine. I guess he’d pulled the trick card after all.