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The Pumpkin Farm

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The Pumpkin Farm

There are a select few hidden among the population—those who are often keenly aware when they are dreaming. They can recall their dreams in vivid detail for days afterward. People like me, who can lucid dream with little effort. If you’re one of them, you know that lucid dreaming can sometimes draw your consciousness into liminal spaces, places that exist between the familiar and the unknown.

One of these spaces is what I call the Pumpkin Farm.

You begin on a long, straight road, driving if you have a vehicle license in real life, with a military-tan camping backpack in the seat next to you. If you don’t have a license, you’re riding a bike or scooter, the weight of the backpack pulling on your shoulders. As you travel, the road seems to decay before your eyes—from freshly laid asphalt to sun-faded and cracked, until it’s nothing more than loose, gray-white cobblestones. At the end of the road is an abandoned farm town. There’s no ‘Welcome to [INSERT TOWN NAME]’ sign, its termite-riddled remains likely hidden in the overgrown weeds that line the path. The weeds are the only green in sight—the soil is hard, dusty, and barren, with stunted, dry grass. Above you, the sky is gray and overcast, though not particularly dark.

The oldest buildings seem to date back to World War I, but most resemble structures from World War II. What was once rural farmland has been transformed into a chaotic mix of houses and factories—textile mills that once produced soldiers’ uniforms, canneries that filled rations, and assembly lines that crafted weapons and military vehicles. It all appears frozen in time, as though the town was abandoned in a rush. Half-finished uniforms still sit in the sewing machines, cans of food wait in line to be sealed and labeled, and partially assembled tanks lie scattered about. Everything is blanketed in thick dust and fallen autumn leaves, the trees they came from now bare and gnarled. The only sound is the ringing in your ears, straining to fill the oppressive silence. There’s a slight chill in the air, though not the faintest breeze stirs.

At the edge of town, where it meets the hills, you notice an earthen ramp that looks man-made. The slope is steep—about forty degrees, you’d guess. The dirt path is overgrown with weeds and dead grass, though less densely than elsewhere. One side of the ramp is bordered by a dirt wall, the other by a sharp drop. About five feet from the top stands an old chain-link gate topped with barbed wire, secured by a heavy chain and padlock. Squinting, you spot something orange at the top. You begin the climb, cutting through the padlock with ease using a chain cutter you found in the backpack.

At the top, you realize the source of the orange: pumpkins. Large jack-o’-lantern pumpkins, some towering up to five feet tall. The vines they grow on range from healthy to withered and decaying. What you thought was the top of the ramp is actually a landing, with another ramp ascending in the opposite direction. You climb the second ramp, arriving at a broad, mostly flat area blanketed with dozens of pumpkins and their sprawling vines. Only a small clearing remains in the center, with a narrow path cutting through it, leading to a third ramp.

In the clearing are two objects. To your left stands a scarecrow resembling a haggard old witch—what’s left of her, anyway. Her clothes are tattered, dusty, and moth-eaten, and the mop head meant to represent long, white hair is filthy, caked with dry mud. Her head droops, hiding her face as she stares at the ground. To your right is a large, rusty generator, draped in years of cobwebs. The generator feels very out of place.

You cross the clearing and climb the third ramp to another landing, where a fourth and final ramp awaits. At the top is the peak of the hill, tangled with more pumpkins and vines. The entire hill is a sprawling pumpkin patch. But… Why was that generator back there? You glance around the peak, and there, hidden among the pumpkins—you almost missed it—is a manhole cover. But it’s not an ordinary sewer manhole; this one is nearly twice as wide. The cover sits slightly ajar. You heave it aside, leaning it against a large pumpkin. The shaft below is too dark to see the bottom. You begin your descent, silently praying the corroded ladder holds your weight.

At the bottom of the shaft, you flick on a camping lantern from the backpack, revealing a large reinforced door that’s been blown off its hinges. You squeeze past it and enter a maze of concrete hallways. The first rooms are bland offices, their moss-covered floors littered with papers, cracked computer screens dark and lifeless, and phones disconnected and silent. Next, you pass through an empty mess hall, its debris-scattered floor hinting at broken metal tables. Then comes a barracks, filled with decaying bunk beds. You come to realize that the pumpkin patch above was nothing more than camouflage, concealing a secret military operation below the surface. Beyond another blasted reinforced door, you stumble into what at first seems like another barracks—but the bunk beds here are smaller, child-sized, and stacked three high instead of two. A second mess hall appears, with child-sized furniture. There’s even something resembling a children’s gym, the trampolines and foam blocks squishy and rotten. If this is a military facility, why were there children here?

Behind the final reinforced door is a series of labs. Many of the rooms are strewn with broken glass, likely remnants of shattered scientific equipment. At the far end are metal observation cells, each with a large acrylic glass window. The cells are rusted, and the glass is so grimy it’s difficult to see through. Dark streaks mix with the rust—blood, perhaps? The glass on the very last cell is shattered, as if something broke out. Unease growing, you backtrack to the front of the labs. The papers here are still legible—some are files on various children, while others seem to be test results. As you sift through the papers, a chilling realization dawns on you: this facility was a failed experiment in creating super soldiers. The children had been subjects in a series of unethical experiments aimed at enhancing human abilities. The files detail gruesome procedures—genetic modifications, relentless physical training, and psychological conditioning. The results were mixed at best, with many children suffering extreme side effects.

The project’s goal was to produce soldiers with enhanced strength, agility, and cognitive abilities. The children were infused with a mysterious compound meant to unlock these powers, but it often resulted in unpredictable, dangerous mutations. One notebook, filled with frantic handwriting, recounts the facility’s final days. One of the mutants grew too powerful to control, escaping its observation cell and rampaging through the bunker, slaughtering anyone it could reach with its oversized hands. It tore through the reinforced doors effortlessly, attempting to reach the surface. The townsfolk above were evacuated under the guise of an enemy invasion. The mutant made it to the surface but was eventually neutralized by heavy artillery. No one inside the bunker survived. The project was shut down, the remaining mutants eliminated, and the town was abandoned.

This revelation shakes you to your core. And then, a creeping sense of dread settles in—you suddenly feel as though you’re being watched, despite the facility being long deserted. A deep instinct warns you that if you don’t leave soon, your consciousness could be trapped in this liminal space forever. Panicked, you race back through the reinforced doors and scramble up the ladder, leaving the manhole open behind you. You sprint down the hill, across the town, and to your vehicle, flooring it back toward the waking world.

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KingdomofNightmares7 avatar

Awesome!