It all started the day Lydia moved into the old farmhouse. Set on the edge of a sleepy, forgotten town, the house was surrounded by a dense forest and fields that had long been abandoned. The air was thick with the scent of decay, autumn leaves carpeting the ground in hues of red and gold. She had inherited the house from an aunt she barely knew. The will had been a surprise, but Lydia, recently divorced and craving solitude, accepted it as fate. She liked the isolation, the quiet. The house was old, but charming, with creaking floors and peeling wallpaper that told stories of forgotten lives. But what intrigued her most was the sprawling pumpkin patch out back. Rows and rows of pumpkins, large and small, stretched into the distance. They looked neglected yet thriving, as though they had been growing for years untended.

It was mid-October when Lydia first noticed something strange. As she was working in the garden one chilly afternoon, she heard it—whispering. At first, she thought it was the wind, rustling through the bare branches of the trees. But the voices were low, urgent, and distinctly coming from the direction of the pumpkin patch.

Curiosity, mingled with unease, led her to the field. The pumpkins sat still under the gray sky, their round forms casting long shadows. She knelt beside one of the larger ones, running her hand over its smooth, cool surface. And then, faint but unmistakable, she heard it again—a whisper, just below the threshold of her hearing, like the words were being drawn from deep within the ground.

Lydia pulled her hand back. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she scanned the field, but there was no one. The stillness of the place seemed suddenly heavy, oppressive. She backed away from the pumpkin patch, the whispering following her, though it never grew louder, never more than a soft suggestion on the air.

That night, Lydia couldn’t sleep. The sound of the whispers lingered in her mind, like a melody she couldn’t shake. She told herself it was nothing, just the wind and her imagination. Yet, as she lay in bed, she couldn’t help but glance out the window. The pumpkin patch was bathed in pale moonlight, and for a moment, she swore she saw movement. But nothing stirred.

The next day, driven by an unsettling curiosity, she decided to carve one of the pumpkins. She selected the largest, roundest one, hauling it onto the back porch with some effort. As her knife sank into the thick orange flesh, a strange sensation washed over her—something akin to nausea, but darker, more insidious. She shook it off and continued carving, scooping out the seeds and pulp, shaping the eyes, the jagged mouth.

When she finished, she stepped back to admire her work. The jack-o'-lantern leered back at her, its hollow eyes gleaming in the afternoon light. She felt uneasy looking at it, but she couldn’t say why.

That night, as the wind howled outside, the whispers returned. Only this time, they were clearer. Lydia sat bolt upright in bed, straining to listen. The sound was coming from the direction of the porch. She grabbed a flashlight and crept downstairs, heart hammering in her chest.

As she stepped outside, the cold night air bit at her skin. The jack-o'-lantern sat where she had left it, its carved face now casting twisted shadows in the dim glow of the porch light. And then she heard it—coming from the pumpkin itself. Faint, but unmistakable.

A voice.

“Free us,” it whispered, the words rasping like dry leaves. “Free us.”

Lydia stumbled back, dropping the flashlight. Her mind raced. This wasn’t possible. She had to be dreaming. Yet, the voice persisted, growing more desperate. She turned to run back into the house, but her feet froze as a chilling realization struck her.

It wasn’t just the one pumpkin.

From the entire patch, whispers rose into the night, dozens of voices overlapping, some pleading, some angry. All of them echoing the same refrain: "Free us."

She backed away, hands trembling, barely able to breathe. Then the voices changed. They weren’t asking anymore.

They were demanding.

“Carve us.”

Terrified, Lydia rushed back into the house, slamming the door behind her. She locked every window, pulled the curtains tight, and sank to the floor, hands clasped over her ears, trying to block out the voices. But they wouldn’t stop. They filled the night, growing louder and louder, until she thought her mind would crack from the noise.

And then, as suddenly as they had started, the whispers stopped.

The silence that followed was worse. Lydia lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, too frightened to move. Hours passed, or maybe it was minutes—it felt like an eternity.

Just as she began to think it was over, a soft tap came from the window.

She didn’t want to look, but her eyes moved on their own. Through the gap in the curtains, she saw it—the jack-o'-lantern, grinning at her through the glass, its hollow eyes glowing with an unnatural light. But there was something else, something inside the pumpkin, shifting beneath the surface of the carved face. A shadow, writhing and twisting.

It moved, pushing against the inside of the pumpkin, as though something was trying to crawl out.

With a scream, Lydia tore herself from the floor and fled, running out the back door, away from the house, away from the patch. The voices rose again, chasing her into the night, their whispers filling the air, hissing and shrieking, "Carve us. Set us free."

The last thing Lydia saw before the darkness swallowed her was the sea of pumpkins, their faces turning toward her, glowing with malevolent light, each one whispering her name.

The next morning, the town’s sheriff drove by the old farmhouse on his rounds. He noticed something strange about the pumpkin patch—every single pumpkin had been carved. Grinning faces leered up at him, hundreds of them, stretching out across the field like an army waiting to march.

And in the center of the patch stood a new jack-o'-lantern, larger than the rest, its eyes gleaming with a twisted, hungry light.