The Pumpkin Thief
The first time it happens Stiles is seven years old and he carves a lopsided jack-o-lantern face onto his pumpkin. His mom helps him place a battery powered tea light inside, and they find the perfect spot to display it on the front porch railing. They go back inside, make warm apple cider and dance to the Monster Mash. His mom toasts the seeds they’d scooped out earlier, seasoning them with sea salt and chili pepper, just how his father likes them.
The next day the pumpkin is gone, vanished, leaving behind the tea light at the corner of their property, still flickering forlornly.
“Probably a squirrel,” his mother sighs, running her hand soothingly over Stiles’ head. “Wild critters have to eat too.”
“Must have been a mighty big squirrel,” his dad laughs. “That orange sucker weighed about ten pounds.”
Stiles has nightmares for a week about a super jacked squirrel.
The following year, his mom is in the hospital. No pumpkins are carved, and he doesn’t think about the one that went missing.
Two years after his mom passes away, Stiles feels sentimental. He convinces Melissa McCall to drive him and Scott to the garden center across town to pick their own pumpkins.
“Stiles, they cost like three times as much as the ones you can buy at the grocery store. Why do you want to go there?” When he explains the fall ritual he and his mom used to share, her eyes get wet and she crowds the boys into the car. “Whatever you want, hunny. Let’s go get you some pumpkins.”
They get two pumpkins each and three carving kits. Melissa blasts cheesy Halloween tunes and they carve until their fingers cramp. Stiles laughs harder than he has since Claudia passed away. They load up the gourds and drive them over to Stiles’ house, laying them on top of hay stacks and next to colorful, hearty mums. Looking at their picturesque autumnal scene, Stiles knows his mom would be proud.
As the days go by, one by one, each pumpkin disappears.
And so it goes, year after year. Stiles progressively carves more intricate pumpkin art, and his masterpieces always vanish into thin air.
“It’s vandals, Stiles,” his dad says, rubbing at his tired eyes. He’s been picking up more shifts at the station lately, since Stiles is finally old enough to stay home by himself. “Some neighborhood kids who think it’s hilarious to prank the sheriff.”
“After all these years? Seems like an awfully long prank to pull.”
John shrugs. “You have to let it go, kiddo. Maybe the Stilinski’s just weren’t meant to have pumpkins.”
Great, now he’s grounded.
The year he turns sixteen Stiles buys ten pumpkins with his allowance money, and hauls them home in the back of his mom’s old blue Jeep. They’re orange and white, all different sizes. He carves some, paints some, leaves one plain. And sure enough, the next morning, they’re all gone.
Stiles plops down on the cafeteria bench across from Scott, steals a bite from the mealy apple on his lunch tray, and says with his mouth full, “so dude I need to borrow two hundred and ninety-eight dollars.”
“What?!” Scott cries. “Why do you need that much money? And why would you think I had that much money?”
“You have a job, duh. And I need to buy a security camera to finally catch the thief stealing my pumpkins.” He puts the half eaten apple back on Scott’s tray.
“Oh my god, Stiles. Give it up! It’s raccoons or something.”
“Last year they stole ten in one night. Ten, Scott.”
“Fine, it’s a whole gang of raccoons. I’m not giving you three hundred dollars. You’re out of your mind. Go ask your dad.”
“One—They’re called a gaze, not a gang. Jeez Scott. Two—It’s two hundred ninety-eight dollars, and three—he already told me no.”
Since he has the world’s worst best friend, there’s nothing left to do but drink three espresso shots and an energy drink, put the pumpkin out on a evening his father is working a double, and vow to stay up all night, armed with a wooden baseball bat and his old BB gun, and subtly watch through the peephole in the front door.
He passes out standing up around four-fifteen, and smashes into the door nose first. He’s cursing and rubbing his face when he sees movement through the viewer and the tears in his eyes. He blinks a few times, then blinks some more because there is a HUGE FREAKING WOLF ON HIS FRONT PORCH.
He scrambles back in shock. There are no wolves in California, haven’t been in years, but there is definitely one on his porch right now, delicately picking up his pumpkin by the stem and carrying it down the front steps.
Before he can think about it, he grabs the gun and his bat and throws open the door, charging outside with a wild war cry. “Drop that pumpkin, you filthy animal!”
The wolf turns, and Stiles swears it raises it’s eyebrows at him. So Stiles raises his shaking arm, aims the BB gun at the wolf’s face. His palm is sweating, and he can’t remember if he’d loaded it. He’s no stranger to guns—he’s been going to the range with his father since he was a kid, and he’s a pretty decent shot—but he’s never had to shoot anything alive before.
It happens too fast for Stiles’ human eyes to perceive, but one moment there’s a black wolf standing in front of him, and the next moment it’s Derek Hale, the most popular senior at school. And he’s naked.
Stiles shrieks, and falls back on his ass, gun still raised. “What the everloving f—!“
“Don’t shoot,” Derek pleads, one hand reaching out to Stiles in supplication, the other desperately attempting to cover his junk. It isn’t working. “I can explain.”
Stiles tosses the BB gun onto the grass. “Derek Hale, the captain of the baseball team, can turn into a wolf, and has been stealing my pumpkins for the last ten years?”
Derek looks around, sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s the spark notes version. The annotated version involves me being a werewolf. I’ll tell you everything, but first… can I borrow some underwear?”
Stiles sighs, climbs to his feet. He’s half tempted to say no, but he really doesn’t want to squander the opportunity to have the hottest guy in school naked in his bedroom, if only for thirty seconds before he puts on some borrowed clothes. Besides, it’s a mystery that’s taken ten years to solve; he owes it to himself and his mom to finally get some answers. “I think you’d better come inside.” He gestures toward the house, but makes Derek enter first. Stiles considers the fantastic sight of Derek’s naked ass walking by the first step in reparations.
So turns out, Derek Hale and the majority of his family are werewolves. Also, werewolves love the taste of pumpkin. Who knew?! Obviously Stiles.
It’s a long and crazy story, involving Derek’s first full shift and seeing Stiles and his mom dancing through their living room window. It’s a story that gets told and retold countless times over the years, as Derek and Stiles become friends and then lovers, and one Halloween Stiles pulls the top off a pumpkin and finds a little black box nestled inside.
It’s a story their kids love to tell, and their grandkids, too. And every time it’s told, Stiles thinks of Claudia, and how grateful he is to have had his pumpkins stolen.
