As a kid growing up in my neighborhood everyone knew about Farmer Fred’s, partly because it was an abandoned farm in the middle of the Pittsburgh suburbs, but largely due to the fact that it was haunted. A farm in my neighborhood was probably commonplace at the turn of the 19th century, but by the time I was a kid we were surrounded by strip malls, fast food restaurants and housing developments. That being said, there was and is still a good deal of green space, and at least one farm, albeit no longer operational. According to local legend, Farmer Fred had come from a long line of dairymen who had called our little patch of western Pennsylvania home. He could trace his lineage back to the Quakers, and his small farm in Ross Township, while not profitable, was his pride and joy. As the legend goes, at some point in the 1950s, developers had purchased all of the surrounding farms, leaving Farmer Fred as the only remaining hold-out. No one can say for certain how it happened, but one Halloween night, a group of trick or treaters stumbled upon the body of Farmer Fred, hanging from a rafter in the entrance to his house, eyes red with blood and an expression of terror on his face. Some say that the farm was going under and that he was going to be forced into bankruptcy. Others say that developers murdered him and staged a suicide in order to get the farm. What everyone can agree on is that Farmer Fred cursed that house and his land, and swore to seek vengeance on anyone who would ever disturb his property.
As time went by and the developers attempted to bulldoze the farmhouse, horrible accidents befell the workers. A backhoe and its driver were killed in a rock slide, the road leading to the farm gave way, crippling two other construction workers, a sinkhole prevented further construction vehicles from accessing the property, and a random pocket of methane gas caused an explosion that could be felt as far as downtown Pittsburgh, almost ten miles away. Eventually the land was deemed unsafe to develop further, and the developers’ plan for a mall had to be moved a few miles north. In time they developed the other properties, building an elementary school, and several homes, but no one touched Farmer Fred’s property. So there it sat, falling into disrepair, aging more like a man than a house. As a kid I learned about Farmer Fred through the football team. Our home field was at Ross Elementary, and where we practiced was a literal stone’s throw from Farmer Fred’s property. The older boys would pass on the legend to the younger ones, and when we got to about twelve or thirteen years old, most of us would go through a terrifying right of passage.
After the last practice of the year, our parents would have a cookout at the field. While most of the younger kids were eating and playing games, the rising eighth graders would sneak off to Farmer Fred’s. I still remember approaching the house that year, trembling with fear as the sun was beginning to set, casting hues of magenta and rose across the cloudy sky. The breeze picked up, tossing leaves in its wake like hundreds of bees swarming around a hive. The farmhouse sat at the edge of an overgrown field, sprawling over the hillside and tucked against an old-growth forest, many of the trees becoming increasingly threadbare as October rolled into November. You could almost feel the bitter cold of winter closing in, especially on nights like that. The abandoned homestead loomed in the distance, warped and gray from years of neglect, the yellow paint long peeled away, revealing only raw planks, splintered over time, but still holding strong. Two dark windows on the top floor stared out at us like a pair of hollow eyes, giving a glimpse of the possible terrors that lived inside. The roof sagged in the middle, shingles missing, allowing for autumn leaves to accumulate inside the walls, blanketing whatever evil may lurk inside. Mounds of ivy and dead vines engulfed the walls, snaking through decrepit pillars and onto the front porch. The front door hung ajar, barely holding onto its hinges, swaying in the breeze, sending a low groan out into the crisp autumn night. Occasionally, the wind would carry the faintest hint of decay, as if the house itself was rotting from the inside out. Tonight was one of those nights, as the air was thick with the weight of something unseen, something unknown, something old, lurking just beneath the surface waiting for us. With Halloween the following night, our group’s collective anxiety was palpable.
A hand grabbed my shoulder pulling me close, sending a jolt of fear through my body.
“What’s your game plan? I think I am going with the stone,” my best friend Jimmy whispered in my ear as we slowly approached the property line.
Our right of passage involved one of three options, none of which were an easy task for a middle schooler. The first was to throw a stone through one of the windows of the farmhouse. The rock had to shatter glass, so as years went by, there were fewer and fewer options. It also meant having the arm strength to accomplish the feat from a safe distance. On top of that, it was well known that the Ross police would patrol the elementary school around Halloween, and if they heard a crack of glass you ran the risk of capture and the inevitable trip to the magistrate that followed.
Option number two was far less of a risk for trouble, but in my opinion was the most terrifying option. In front of Farmer Fred’s house was an old skeletal scarecrow. This figure had already haunted my dreams from the time I first set eyes on it. He stood at least seven feet tall, his body long and thin, arms outstretched, oddly resembling a crucifixion. His red flannel shirt worn of almost all its color, his denim pants a patchwork of holes and tattered fabric, barely hanging on by a thread. His head resembled a lumpy volleyball in size and shape, covered in an old burlap sack, dark eyes cut menacingly into whatever filled this monstrosity’s head. A terrifying crooked grin had been stitched into the sack below the eyes, and he was topped with a flat brimmed cowboy hat, something you might see Clint Eastwood wearing. Somehow this creature had stood the test of time, through nearly five decades of spring rains, summer sun, fall winds and winter snow. He somehow remained, terrifying generations of youngsters who dared cross his path. Only the bravest rising footballers dared to cut a piece of cloth from his shirt, and from what I’d heard the last kid that did ended up in a coma. Needless to say, I would not be going near that nightmare creature.
The final option, and the route I would likely be taking was to steal a Jack-o-Lantern from a home in the neighborhood and place it on Farmer Fred’s front porch as an offering. For this reason, every Halloween you would find a dozen or so glowing Jack-o-Lanterns illuminating Farmer Fred’s house of horrors. I turned to my best friend. He lived only a few minutes’ walk from Farmer Fred’s, and the last three Halloweens I had gone trick or treating in his neighborhood and spent the night at his house. Jimmy was a tough kid, afraid of nothing. He was the kid on the football team that would literally run through a wall if the coaches told him to. Before the concussion craze, Jimmy would damn near knock himself out every game we played, plowing through our opponents, leading with his head. I knew there was only one option for him when it came to the right of passage, and he would make sure everyone knew it.
“I’m going with the Jack-o-Lantern, I think that’s the safest bet,” I whispered, making sure none of the other guys could hear me.
“I’m going for the Scarecrow,” Jimmy exclaimed, making sure the entire group heard him.
“Bullshit! You don’t have the balls, Jim. I bet you five bucks you chicken out and whip a rock like the rest of us,” said one of our teammates.
Jim flashed me a half smile, relishing the attention of the other guys.
“Oh you’re on buddy,” Jim snickered at his doubter.
Jim turned to me grinning like an idiot. “Easiest five bucks I’ll ever make,” he said smugly.
Next, his doubter, a kid named Greg Spinelli, brushed his greasy black hair out of his eyes and turned his sights on me. He knew I was low hanging fruit, and could likely sense my extreme anxiety over the whole situation.
“What about you Mendez? You gonna join your butt buddy or will you tell me you Mexi-can’t do it?” He and his buddies roared with laughter.
“I’m Puerto Rican, dick!” I growled at him in anger.
“Screw you Greg,” Jimmy interjected. “You’re just pissed Oscar stole your job on defense.”
I was thankful for Jim. Even though he was an arrogant, pompous, loud mouthed, cocky bastard, he was a damn good friend. For a brief moment I had forgotten that we were quickly approaching Farmer Fred’s. As we cut through an overgrown rhododendron, the house appeared, as nightmarish as ever. There was already a small array of Jack-o-Lanterns and uncarved pumpkins on the decrepit old porch, offerings from some of the superstitious football players who had the foresight not to wait until Halloween to complete their ritual. I envied those kids.
Slowly but surely we trounced through the overgrown thickets in front of the farm house, and were standing no more than twenty yards from the front porch. I could feel the sweat beginning to pool between my shoulders, my heart began to thump heavily in my chest. I had no idea how I was going to muster the courage to go up there. The group stopped and Greg stepped out in front, the sun nearly gone now, his shadow silhouetted on the house behind him as the last of the light faded away.
“Alright then,” he said, “Who wants the honors?”
My teammates and I looked around at each other, no one willing to be the first, no one except Jimmy that is. He stepped forward, head held high, like a knight of old stepping forward to slay a dragon.
“What will it be Jimmy?” Greg asked. “An offering or a tempting of fate?”
Jimmy stared him down for a moment, though only a few seconds it seemed like an eternity. I held my breath, knowing what he was going to pick, but the anticipation of it was killing me. He looked around the group, making sure to lock eyes with each of his teammates, really savoring the attention. He turned back and pointed to the scarecrow waving in the breeze, almost beckoning us in.
“I think it’s been too long since our friend down there has had some company, I think I’ll change that this year!”
Our group erupted with cheers, all but Greg that is, who looked on in disgust. His chagrin at Jimmy’s popularity with the team was evident. At that very moment, my dad’s voice could be heard calling from the parking lot above.
“Oscar! Let’s go, we have to pick up your sister!”
Everyone turned from Jimmy and looked at me. I knew what they were all thinking.
He’s not going to do it. He’s going to cop out. What a wussy.
Growing up when I did, toxic masculinity wasn’t quite the taboo it has become, and the only thing I could think of worse than being ripped apart by the ghost of Farmer Fred, was being called a coward by the entire football team. For a thirteen year old boy, that would have been a fate worse than death. I was in a tough spot, but as if by divine intervention, Jimmy once again came to my rescue.
“I know you were all looking for a show tonight, but those of you with actual balls will be here tomorrow night after trick or treating. Oscar told me that he wanted to place his pumpkin up there on the most terrifying night of the year, isn’t that right Oz?” He looked at me and winked.
“Yeah, ugh, absolutely,” I stumbled over the words. “Just figured we only get one eighth grade ritual, should probably make it count, right?”
Jimmy was a genius, I had never thought about completing the ritual on Halloween. It was a gamble, but it was almost assured that none of the other guys would even show up, either out of terror of the idea of doing it on the anniversary of Fred’s death, or the fear of missing out on all that Halloween has to offer a thirteen year old boy. Either way it was almost a guarantee that I wouldn’t actually have to do anything but show up and say that I did the ritual. Worst case scenario, I would have to place my pumpkin on the porch the following night, but at least I would have Jimmy there, and I would gain some clout with the guys for completing the deed on Halloween night. I turned to walk up the hillside and meet my dad, a little more confident and extremely relieved.
“Catch ya tomorrow, Oz,” Jimmy yelled as I climbed back through the rhododendron, “Keep an eye out for a good Jack-o-Lantern. You’ll need it.”
***
After a sleepless night, Halloween morning arrived and I was soon filled with dread. It was actually disconcerting the level of fear I was feeling that morning, knowing that I would possibly be completing the ritual. In all my years, not before and not since have I ever felt dread like that, to the point where it literally weighed me down. As evening approached I tried to set my mind to trick or treating, hanging out with my best friend, and possibly meeting up with the girls that we were both talking to. For a thirteen year old boy chalk full of hormones, it’s amazing that I could think of anything outside my romantic interest, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was slowly being drawn into something horrible. The prospect of talking to a girl I was into seemed like such an easy task compared to the daunting feat of putting a Jack-o-Lantern on Farmer Fred’s porch.
As evening drew closer I could barely eat. My mom had to remind me to get my costume on, and she could tell something was off.
“Are you sure you want to go to Jimmy’s tonight? You haven’t really been yourself today,” she said as she placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“Yeah, mom I’m sure. It’s tradition. I’ll get changed at Jimmy’s though.”
I packed up my costume, a bright orange suit complete with top hat and cane. Jimmy had the matching suit in baby blue. Our favorite movie of all time was Dumb and Dumber, so the chance to be Harry and Lloyd for a night was too good to pass up. After a short drive that felt like an eternity, anxiety filled me to the point where I felt like I couldn’t walk, until we got to Jimmy’s. It wasn’t Jimmy’s house that had relieved my anxiety, but his neighbor’s across the street. There, on the third step leading up to their porch was a Jack-o-Lantern, and carved into this pumpkin was a grim reaper. I am not sure why, but I knew this was going to be what I used for my offering, and for some reason knowing that put me incredibly at ease. Perhaps it was how the candle light glowed softly behind the silhouette, but I became indifferent to my fears and allowed myself to enjoy the evening.
I was astonished at how much fun I had trick or treating that night, and shocked at how at ease I was with the idea of completing the ritual. After we finished trick or treating we returned to Jimmy’s house to change, before heading back out to Farmer Fred’s.
“Did you find a good pumpkin?,” Jimmy asked as we snuck out his basement door.
“I think so, yeah,” I said as I sneakily jogged up his driveway, beckoning him to follow behind.
We stood, hidden in the bushes across from his neighbor’s house and I pointed across the street. When he saw the pumpkin I had chosen he nodded in agreement and we moved across the street as quietly as we could. We made sure there wasn’t anyone around and I snuck onto the porch to snag the Jack-o-Lantern. My heart began to race, more from excitement than anything else. I crept across the wooden porch, trying not to make any noise. When I got to the Jack-o-Lantern I carefully corralled it in my arms and dashed off into the night, Jimmy following just behind. We chatted as we made our way through the massive rhododendron and onto the property of Farmer Fred. Up until this point I had been feeling pretty good about the whole thing and was starting to think that even if no one else showed up, I was going to complete the ritual and place my Jack-o-Lantern with the others.
Jimmy and I stood on the hillside just above Farmer Fred’s, peering down at the slowly rotting house that hadn’t been properly lived in for almost half a century. Though it was a cloudy night, the crescent moon shone bright, directly on Jimmy’s foe, the scarecrow.
“Well Oz, looks like you lucked out. No one else showed.”
I swallowed hard and re-lit the candle in my Jack-o-Lantern. It shone through, acting almost as a flashlight, guiding my path down to the rickety old porch, and a dozen other offerings.
“I’m still doing it Jim, I have to.” I told him, my confidence waning a bit and anxiety slowly creeping in.
“Hell, yeah! I’m proud of you buddy,” he said through a massive smile.
As I walked down to complete the task, Jimmy made his way over to the scarecrow. I took a few steps onto the deck and glanced up at Jim, now standing directly in front of his adversary, pocket knife out, preparing to cut off a piece of the flannel shirt that wrapped the boney figure. I took a deep breath and held it as I placed my Jack-o-Lantern next to the others. Just as I stood up, I heard a noise coming from behind me, coming from inside the house. Again my heart began to pound in my chest, but this time it was racing from pure, unadulterated fear. I turned slowly to peer into the house, beyond the front door, barely hanging onto the frame, and just as I thought I could make out a figure just beyond the hallway, lurking in the darkness, I felt a powerful blow to the back of my head.
***
As I regained my composure and reached for my throbbing head, I looked up from the porch to see Greg, in full superman costume, smashing the other pumpkin offerings. My grim reaper Jack-o-Lantern had rolled through the doorway, and somehow had remained lit. It was now watching me from inside Farmer Fred’s. As I tried to get back to my feet Greg pushed me down, continuing to destroy the other offerings.
“Greg, what the hell are you doing?,” I said groggily.
By this point Jimmy was running at a full sprint from the scarecrow towards Greg, lowering his head ready to spear him through a wall. I tried to warn him, to tell him to stop, but it was too late. He had put his forehead square in Greg’s back, wrapping his arms around him tight, driving his feet all the way through Farmer Fred’s front door, knocking it completely off the hinges. I regained my footing and peered into the house to see Jimmy throttling Greg in the hallway next to the main stairwell. Behind the flurry of fists, seemingly unnoticed by Jimmy and Greg, was someone I had never seen before, but recognized immediately. There, standing in the hallway, noose still wrapped firmly around his neck, was the spectral image of Farmer Fred. He glowed with a soft white light, and was slightly opaque, but his eyes were fierce and red. I stood there stunned that Jimmy and Greg failed to notice the ghost who had cursed this property.
All I could do was stare in disbelief as the specter raised a hand and pointed at me.
“Get out!” His raspy voice hissed in my ears, yet Jimmy and Greg continued to go at it.
I was frozen with fear, but slowly started backing out onto the porch. Again the spirit pointed, but this time to my Jack-o-Lantern which lay intact by my feet. He raised his blood red eyes to mine and again I could hear his voice inside my head whispering. “Get out . . . or die!”
At this my pace quickened and I tried to call out to Jimmy, but again the spirit spoke, and this time his voice boomed through the entire house. He pointed shakily to the scarecrow out front and roared. “RISE! RISE UP AND REAP MY VENGENCE!”
Jimmy and Greg froze, Greg still underneath Jimmy fending off blows, but as they both realized the very real horror that was playing out just behind them, the true terror began to move outside. Following the command of Farmer Fred, the scarecrow stirred with an unnatural twitch, its rail-like limbs jerking in short bursts. Its crude sack of a head tilted awkwardly to one side, its neck creaking like a rusty old gate. For just a moment it was still, then it lurched toward us, arms hanging stiff at first, then rising slowly to reveal two gleaming hand scythes. It had set its sights on Jimmy and Greg, and where before there had been just dark sockets, now glowed two bright red eyes, matching those of Farmer Fred. Each step was disjointed, its arms stiff and legs dragged in the dirt with slow, grueling motions, struggling to maintain its balance. The scarecrow’s knees buckled inward and its torso swayed, collapsing forward before jerking upright. It began to move with renewed purpose, gaining speed and flashing the two implements of death in its hands. The scarecrow blew right past me as it buried the first scythe directly below Greg’s collar bone. Jimmy looked on in terror as blood fountained from Greg’s chest, covering Jimmy in a stream of crimson.
The ghost of Farmer Fred stood at the end of the hall, watching with delight as the scarecrow raised its other scythe, bringing it down with immense force into Jimmy’s back. He and Greg both screamed in agony, as the spirit beconned to his minion.
“Bring them to me,” Fred ordered.
The scarecrow grabbed the scythes and began dragging them down the hall. As it made its way toward the basement stairs, a large hole opened up in the wooden floor, surrounded by splintered boards that looked like jagged wooden teeth surrounding a sinister dark mouth. As the scarecrow slowly pulled Jimmy and Greg toward the abyss, Jimmy called out.
“Oscar! Help me!”
I couldn’t move. My best friend was literally being dragged to hell and I stood there frozen in fear. I hesitated for a moment as I tried to summon the courage to act, ultimately deciding I had to do something. I ran through the doorway and down the hall, each step sending crackles of fractured wood thundering through the house. Just as the scarecrow vanished into the floor, dragging my two teammates behind it, I reached out and caught a hold of Jimmy’s hand. Stretched out across the floor I held on as tightly as I could, elbow deep into the void. I could see into the crevice. Greg had been fileted by the outstretched boards, muscle and flesh torn from bone, he lay on the basement floor a mess of blood and pulp. One of the boards had lodged itself in Jimmy’s sternum, and I could feel the life slipping away from him.
“Hold on Jim! I’ve got you buddy.”
Blood began to pool in his mouth, pouring from the side of his lips. The color was fading from his face and he looked at me, knowing the end was near. He gurgled and tried to speak.
“Oscar. It’s not,” he stuttered, “y-your. . .fault.”
Tears were streaming down my face, and again I heard the voice of Farmer Fred boom.
“Bring him to me!”
As I held on to Jimmy I felt him being ripped away from me, dragged into the depths of the house. I peered over the edge to see the bodies of my best friend, and my worst enemy, side by side, ravaged in a way I can’t even describe. Between them glowed the spirit of Farmer Fred, staring at me with those blood red eyes. I got to my feet and ran, faster than I have ever ran in my life. I didn’t stop running until I arrived at the Berkeley Hills Fire Company. There I told them what had happened, every gruesome detail. They didn’t want to believe me at first, but I insisted they go back. As firefighters they had been exposed to numerous pranks and jokes, but as locals themselves, they grew up with the legend as well, and none of them wanted to go investigate the claim. After a while they made a call to the Ross Township Police, also assuming a prank, until they sent a squad car to check it out, confirming at least part of my story about two dead teenages ripped to pieces in Farmer Fred’s basement.
I had to give a statement to the police, who naturally thought I was crazy. They presumed that Jimmy and Greg must have been fighting in the house and fallen through the floor, at least that became the official story. Before my mom picked me up that night, one of the younger officers pulled me aside.
“Hey kid, did you really see Farmer Fred?”
I looked at him, giddy with excitement, and gave him a cold answer that turned his smile into a sullen look of guilt.
“As clear as I see you now,” I said.
“Damn kid, I remember my ritual year . . . I went with the broken window.”
Not long after that Jimmy’s grief-stricken mother burned down Farmer Fred’s house, with herself inside. The lot has since become overgrown, but the bones of the house remain. Maybe I’m a bit superstitious about what will happen if I do nothing, but every year on Halloween I return to the house and place a Jack-o-Lantern on the ruins. It’s an offering to the spirit that haunts the grounds, but also a memorial to those who were lost there, and whose spirits may not be at rest.