The Pumpkins That Didn’t Smile

Acacias Close was the quietest neighbourhood in town: twelve low houses round a circular square, numbered clockwise, with a dry fountain in the middle and an old acacia tree in front of every door. Nothing ever happened there. So when Leire, her brother Pablo and their friend Sami went out trick-or-treating on Halloween night, they weren’t expecting much.

At number 1 the door was opened by Doña Amalia, who had lived in the close since she was a girl and never went out without her walking stick. Instead of sweets, she gave them a rusty key and a card written in fountain pen: “The pumpkins that smile give sweets. The ones that don’t smile give clues. The first one is waiting for you at teatime.”

“Teatime’s at five,” said Pablo, very sure of himself. “Always.” But the pumpkin at number 5 was grinning from ear to ear. The one at number 6, on the other hand, had its mouth carved as a straight line, as serious as a judge. Underneath was an envelope: “The next one, at the time they sent us to bed.”

“And what time did they send Doña Amalia to bed?” asked Sami. They went from house to house. The pumpkin at 7 was smiling; so was the one at 8. The one at 9 wasn’t. Then Leire stood still in the middle of the square and, for the first time, saw the close as if from above: twelve houses in a circle, numbered in order, and something fixed in the middle. “It’s not a neighbourhood,” she whispered. “It’s a clock.”

The envelope at 9 said: “And I sleep where the two hands meet at midnight.” “In the fountain!” shouted Pablo. “The hands always meet in the middle.” Leire looked at the fountain, made of solid stone. “In the middle they’re together all the time,” she said. “That wouldn’t be a clue.” And she ran towards the top of the clock face.

At the foot of the acacia at number 12, the roots had wrapped themselves around something hard. They dug with their hands and with Pablo’s sandpit spade until they pulled out a tin box. The rusty key fitted first time. Inside was a black-and-white photograph of twelve children in fancy dress by the fountain, which still had water in it back then, and twelve letters tied with string. The envelope on top said: “To be opened on 31 October 2026. Not a day before.”

Each letter had a house number on it. The one for number 1 was signed by a ten-year-old girl called Amalia: “To whoever lives in my house in sixty years’ time: I hope the neighbourhood is still playing.” When they got back to number 1, Doña Amalia was already waiting at the door, with her coat on and a torch in her hand. “It’s taken us sixty years,” she said. “Now, let’s deliver the post.”