The Carver's Pact Elias swore he hated Halloween. He hated the forced cheer, the smell of cheap polyester costumes, and most of all, the pressure. This year, the pressure was monumental: he had foolishly accepted a dare from his friend, Sam, to win the town’s annual pumpkin carving contest. If he failed, he had to wear a fluorescent pink bunny suit to school for a week. It was 6:00 PM on October 31st, and his attempt lay on the garage floor, a lumpy, scarred casualty of dull knives and bad planning. Time had run out. The contest entry deadline was in three hours. Elias stared at the pumpkin, feeling the humiliation of the bunny suit already creeping up his spine. "I need a miracle," he muttered, kicking a stray gourd. The word brought back an old town whisper—a local legend about the Hollow-Field Patch. It wasn't a standard farm; it was a small, abandoned corner of land far past the creek, rumored to be tended years ago by a recluse known only as The Carver. The story claimed the Carver grew pumpkins of impossible perfection, gourds so flawless they seemed sculpted from light itself. But they came with a price. Elias, desperate and fueled by the fear of pink faux fur, ignored the warning. He grabbed his keys and drove his sputtering old truck toward the creek. The deeper he drove, the thicker the fog became. When he finally found the Hollow-Field Patch, the world was silent and damp. Gnarled, moss-covered trees loomed overhead, and the air smelled sharply of cedar and damp earth. The ground was a tangle of dead vines, but in the center, underneath the thickest branches of an ancient oak, a single pumpkin glowed. It was colossal, a deep, rich orange, its surface utterly unblemished. It looked less like a vegetable and more like polished stoneware. As Elias reached for it, a voice—dry as the fallen leaves underfoot—spoke from the shadows. “A fine choice, boy. The last one of the season.” Elias spun around. Standing there was a figure so tall and thin he seemed woven from shadow, dressed in an old-fashioned coat and hat. His face was obscured by the low brim, but Elias could see the glint of an unnervingly wide smile. This had to be The Carver. “I... I need it for the contest,” Elias stammered, pulling out his wallet. “I’ll pay you whatever you want.” The Carver shook his head, the movement slow and deliberate. “No coin, no credit. The legend is true, son. These gourds are a gift, but they carry an obligation. You may take it, but you must carve it with a genuine, lasting fear.” Elias frowned. “You mean like a scary face?” “No,” the Carver hissed, stepping closer. Elias could now smell clove and something metallic. “I mean your own fear. The thing that truly hollows you out. If you carve it with anything less, the pumpkin will be ruined, and your original fate—the one involving the pink suit—will be the least of your worries.” Before Elias could ask what that meant, the Carver dissolved back into the mist, leaving only a faint shimmer of green light and the massive pumpkin. Elias loaded the gourd and sped home. Once in the light of his garage, he started carving. But the skin of the flawless pumpkin was strangely tough. He tried carving a classic scary face, a grimace with triangle eyes. The blade wouldn't bite. He paused, remembering the Carver’s words. A genuine, lasting fear. Closing his eyes, he thought not of monsters, but of failure. The fear of being a laughingstock. The fear of being utterly exposed and ridiculous. He pictured the scorn in Sam’s eyes, the pity of his classmates, the shame. As he plunged the knife back in, the blade slipped through the tough skin like butter. He began to carve the visage of his own terror—a face contorted in a silent, screaming horror, its mouth a gaping void, its eyes wide with raw anxiety. The pumpkin didn't seem to resist; it seemed to absorb the emotion. As he worked, Elias felt lighter, strangely empty, as if the genuine fear he put into the carving had truly been removed from his chest. When he finished, the result was breathtakingly terrifying and perfect. The judges agreed unanimously. Elias won the contest. Later that night, the contest over and the dare defeated, Elias sat admiring his masterpiece. The firelight flickered across the pumpkin's smooth, gorgeous surface. But as he watched, something shifted. The horrific, screaming face he had carved with his deepest fear slowly began to melt, the expression softening. The gaping mouth closed. The anxious eyes narrowed. In its place, the pumpkin now wore a bland, empty, and strangely joyless smile—Elias’s own face, drained of all surprise, excitement, and dread. The Carver had taken his fear, and with it, the emotional spark that made life—and Halloween—worth experiencing. He realized the hollow in Hollow-Field wasn't about the pumpkin; it was about the lack of feeling left inside him. The pink bunny suit was gone, but Elias had lost something far more essential.