by David Elder

Created on: November 08, 2008   Last Updated: November 13, 2008

Peter Peter

Peter Perry was something of an oddity. Known around town as yet another one of those quirky old men that seem to delight in being eccentric, he was always ready with a crooked smile, and some outrageous story to amuse the children who passed by his house on their way to the rest of their lives. He kept a bowl of candy overflowing with tasty delights for any child who was brave enough to accept them.

They were all attracted to his yearly array of gigantic pumpkins, which grew in profusion in his back yard. There was something about strolling through the pumpkin patch that appealed to youthful imaginations, and Mr. Perry was always happy to oblige. At Halloween he would decorate the pumpkin patch with bales of hay and scarecrows, and parents would allow their children to play together in his yard, considering him harmless, if a bit peculiar.

He was alone now, and the rumor was that his wife had left him, running away with an encyclopedia salesman. No one could say for sure. Now after thirty years, the townsfolk had finally accepted his apparent wish to remain a bachelor, tending his garden and adding local color to an otherwise dull and lifeless town. No one ever connected him to the missing children, or for that matter even perceived any pattern to the unusually large number of runaways over the years.

Peter had been a handyman for his entire adult life, mending broken fences or painting houses and barns if the price was right. He also dabbled in poetry, entertaining the children with famous rhymes, which he would sometimes alter for their amusement. He was sixty, and having judiciously saved his pennies, he had retired from the menial life. He was now able to concentrate more on his yard, and on the children who ventured into it.

A well, which had been dry for some time sat placidly in the corner of the lot, a reminder of earlier days. Fearing the worst, he had filled it with rocks and soil so that it no longer posed a danger. Sometimes he would go out and sit on the rim, humming his wife's favorite song, and almost wishing he could see her again. But then again, she had never really been happy. His mother had been right to warn him about her. He missed his mother most of all, not that he could remember much of his childhood. When he tried to, it would make him angry for some reason, and he would have to relieve his rage by doing other things that he preferred not to think about.

It was on a particularly warm evening in October that his life took a turn

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