Flickering Pumpkin

Through carved evil eyes in the pungent hollow of the pumpkin, blade sharp lights spied upon the corpse as it lay slumped half on half off the Persian rug, over the last hour it had seen horror upon horror torn into the cadaver, a tale of pain and bloodshed pressed with furious passion. The wounds were many and maybe more, they interweave along the torso snaking over folds of flesh crossing one another with brutal familiarity, the patterns like the branches of a naked tree in autumn, harsh and unforgiving. Buckets of life blood gushing from gashes wider than a child's smile spilling onto carefully kept carpet. Like sodden tissue, chunks of discarded meat lay in plain sight, glistening with gristle, the moist material feeling nothing, seeing all. The face of the fallen a demented piece of sculpture with dark hollows where eyes once played and a empty image where a man could once be identified.
The light inside the pumpkin danced on, it was now the only thing alive in the room.