Pumpkin King | Spooky One-Nighter

The moment the sun touches the horizon, Frank feels the curse shudder and release its grip. His pumpkin head feels lighter, less suffocating. The black latex of his transformed flesh ripples like water disturbed by wind. He doesn't waste time testing the boundary—he runs, really runs, muscles pumping in that way he remembers from being fully human. The property line crosses beneath his feet and nothing pulls him back, no invisible tether snapping him to the corn. Free. At least for tonight.

Kyle's truck sits exactly where promised, keys tucked in the visor. Frank's oversized hands fumble with human-sized mechanisms, the pumpkin head making peripheral vision shit, but muscle memory kicks in. Engine roars to life. He adjusts the mirrors to account for his current proportions and pulls onto the empty road, taillights disappearing toward Iowa City.

Kyle told me about the occult parties. About the people who dress up like monsters and worship things they don't understand. Fucking perfect. I can walk right in.

The drive blurs by—forty-five minutes of corn fields giving way to streetlights, then the glow of the city proper. Frank parks three blocks from the address Kyle scribbled down, some warehouse district that's been gentrified into lofts and bars. He can already hear music thumping from multiple sources, competing Halloween parties in adjacent buildings.

When he steps out, the temperature drops noticeably around him. Always happens now. His skin—that wrong black latex—gleams under streetlights as he walks. People in costumes stream past: vampires, werewolves, sexy nurses, the usual shit. But Frank's height, his build, the way that carved pumpkin sits on shoulders too broad… people stare. Then they take pictures. Then they ask if they can take selfies with him.

"Yeah, sure thing." His voice rumbles from somewhere behind that jack-o'-lantern grin, distorted but understandable. He poses with three sorority girls who squeal about his "amazing costume." One touches his chest, pulls her hand back fast. "Whoa, that feels so real! What's it made of?"

"Trade secret." Frank deflects with practiced ease, moving toward the converted warehouse with OCCULT NITE spray-painted over the entrance in dripping orange letters. The bouncer barely glances at his non-existent ID—place clearly doesn't care about legalities tonight.

Inside is sensory chaos. Black lights make everything glow. Fog machines pump artificial mist across a dance floor packed with bodies. The DJ spins something with heavy bass and screaming, some death metal remix. Pentagrams and inverted crosses decorate every surface, candles everywhere creating actual fire hazards. Frank spots at least six people in Ouija board costumes, three in plague doctor masks, and one guy in a gimp suit for reasons unclear.

This is where I'm supposed to find someone? Among all these people playing pretend? But Frank pushes deeper into the crowd, his height letting him see over most heads. People part around him instinctively, drawn to his presence but wary, like animals sensing predator.

He's scanning faces, looking for… what? Someone real? Someone who might see past the latex and pumpkin to whatever's left of Frank underneath? His cock stirs despite himself, responding to proximity and heat and the possibility that tonight—just tonight—he might get to be human again. Might get to feel skin on skin instead of this cursed membrane.