The Origin of Pumpkin Carving
Carving pumpkins for Halloween is a classic tradition. This tradition has a rich history and an appropriately spooky origin.
The tradition of making jack-o-lanterns started in Ireland. But, pumpkins are not native to Ireland; they actually used turnips first. They would create spooky faces in the turnips to scare away Jack, a wandering soul from an Irish myth. This is how they got their namesake, jack-o-lanterns.
The tradition of carving pumpkins became associated with Halloween because of the Celtic festival Samhain. This holiday marked the end of summer and the beginning of winter. It was thought that during Samhain, spirits would roam around much more. So they used their carved turnip lanterns to ward off evil spirits. Later, Roman influence caused Coltic holidays to change name but not tradition. So, Samhain became All Hallow's Eve, or Halloween. As Europe and their traditions came to America, they switched carving turnips for the native pumpkin. Now, carving pumpkins is a classic staple of Halloween activities.
Pogo the Clown: American Serial Killer
Pogo the Clown, otherwise known as the infamous serial killer of Chicago: John Wayne Gacy, was a twenty-nine year old man who was well known for his career as a friendly clown who performed in children’s parties. However, one day this view of him would be changed forever when he began his six year long killing spree. Gacy was known during his killing spree to murder young teens and men ranging from the ages of fourteen to twenty-one. All of Gacy’s known victims were male, his first being sixteen year old boy Timothy McCoy.
McCoy first encountered Gacy at Chicago’s Greyhound bus terminal in the early hours of the morning on a chilly day in January, 1972. McCoy had been waiting for a connecting bus to his father’s home in Nebraska that was due to arrive the following afternoon. Timothy’s body was later buried in the crawlspace underneath Gacy’s house, which was noticed to be a pattern made by the serial killer. McCoy’s body was only discovered following Gacy’s arrest in December, 1978, and his body was not identified until May of 1986. Following his identification that May, McCoy’s remains were returned for his family so that they could give him a final resting place.
Over the course of six years, Gacy killed thirty-three young men, twenty-six of which were found in the crawlspace underneath Gacy’s home at 8213 West Summerdale Avenue, three of which were buried elsewhere on Gacy’s property after he had run out of room in his crawlspace, and four of which had been dumped in the Des Plaines River.
Fifteen year old Robert Piest was Gacy’s final known victim, having gone missing in December of 1978. Piest had worked at a pharmacy at the time when Gacy entered during his shift to offer him a new job that would have better pay, twice as much money he was currently making to be exact. Piest said he would think about it, leading to an agreement between the two for Gacy to come back after Piest’s shift was over so they could discuss the opportunity further. At nearly nine o’clock that night Piest’s mother came by the pharmacy to pick him up from his shift. It was her birthday that day and the family was waiting to celebrate at home. Little did they know that nothing would be celebrated that night. Piest came out to greet his mother, asking her to park and wait for him because he was waiting on a man to talk to him about an opportunity for a job in construction. During the conversation between Piest and Gacy, Piest was convinced to go back to Gacy’s house in order to sign paperwork before he officially had the job. After a while of waiting, Piest’s mother became suspicious. She began looking around for her son, and upon discovering his absence she gathered her family and two german shepherd dogs to search for their missing relative. After nearly three hours of searching to no avail, Piest’s mother made an appearance at the local police station ready to do the one thing all parents could never imagine doing: file a missing person’s report for her child. Despite the tragedy of the loss of the teen, Piest’s case was what ultimately led to the capture of Gacy as he was the key suspect in the investigation.
The following information includes the names and ages of Gacy’s known victims: Timothy McCoy, sixteen years; John Butkovich, nineteen years; William Carroll, sixteen years; Michael Bonnin, seventeen years; Rick Johnston, seventeen years; Gregory Godzik, seventeen years; Jon Prestidge, twenty years; JohnSzyc, nineteen years; Matthew Bowman, nineteen years; Robert Gilroy, eighteen years; John Mowery, nineteen years; Russel Nelson, twenty-one years; Robbery Winch, sixteen years; Tommy Boling, twenty years; David Talsma, nineteen years; William Kindred, nineteen years; Timothy O’Rourke, twenty years; Francis Wayne Alexander, age unknown; James Haakenson, sixteen years; William Bundy, nineteen years; Randall Reffett, nineteen years; Samuel Stapleton, nineteen years; Frank Landingin, nineteen years; James Mazzara, twenty years; and Robert Piest, fifteen years.
Gacy’s past criminal record consists of various sodomy conviction and sexual assault charges. On May 10th, 1994, John Wayne Gacy was finally executed after remaining on death row for fourteen long years.
The Fallen
ydia can feel the breeze wafting through her hair, almost knocking her off balance. She purses her lips and squeezes her eyes shut, arms out at her sides as she tries not to fall. When she reopens her eyes to see how long she has left in this godawful place, she lets out a groan of annoyance, which then causes Lydia to wobble and almost scream. It smells like rope and burnt skin, and as she looks down, she can see the pile of bodies. Bodies of people who were forced into this before her, some old, some new, but none as distinct as the one closest to the end of this hell. She fixates on that body, forcing herself to keep going to at least get to that point.
“Don’t fall, don’t fall…” The words tumble from between her lips before she even realized she was shuffling forward again.
One wrong step - one wrong breath - and she falls to her death like the rest of those people. She stands straight up, arms out, one foot directly in front of the other like her life depends on it, because it does.
She’s been up here for hours, maybe even days. She doesn’t know, can’t remember. The days here don’t bleed into nights like normal. It’s been daytime for god knows how long, and the sun beating down on her is unforgiving. She only remembers waking up here, and then discovering that the only way out is this way. There were no directions, no supplies, nothing. Her body feels weak, likely because she hasn’t had water in however long she’s even been up here.
She doesn’t let herself dwell on it anymore, avoiding looking anywhere but below her, not wanting to fall off. Lydia is so exhausted that she sways with every step forward, only to immediately remember where she is and get frustrated. Before this, her life was amazing. She had a dog, her own apartment, and a decent job. She didn’t worry for much, and what she did worry for was minor inconveniences. Except, now, she’s stuck in the middle of some place she’s never seen, wishing for anything except this.
She can see the end of the rope, and out of excitement, Lydia stumbles forward, only to trip on her own feet and go tumbling down. She screams, loud and terrified, the sound ringing through the emptiness spanning in every direction she looks. She doesn’t realize she grabbed onto the rope until she feels it digging into her hand. She breathes in utter relief before trying to climb back on top of the rope like she did before. It doesn’t work, because she’s so close to the end that the rope sways with the end too much for her to climb back on top of it.
Lydia takes a deep breath and wraps her legs loosely around the rope, inching her way towards the edge of the cliff, towards the random door she’s had her eyes on since she saw it.
“Please, please, please let me get to the end.” She begs whoever - whatever - brought her here, hoping and praying.
She reaches her hand out as far as she can, her fingertips just barely brushing against the cliffside, causing her to get overly excited. Lydia lunges for the cliff, grasping at anything she can get her hands on, to no avail. She misses the edge of the cliff, and the rocks to grab onto afterward. She tries grabbing onto the tightrope again before she falls, but her hand slips, worsening the rope burn as Lydia then plummets 100 feet down, to the ground. The last thing on her mind is the fact that everything down here smells like rope and burnt skin, and she just barely opens her eyes. She only gets to see the tightrope she was on just moments ago before her body goes limp and lifeless.
“The Fallen” is a fictional short suspense story written by Chloe. If you would like your short story to be shown in ESN, please email exclusivelyspookynews@gmail.com with your name, a description of your story, your story’s title, and your story itself. The story must be a minimum of 100 words and a maximum of 800 words.