It is with caution I urge to those that hear the Tale of Headless Jack. This is not the oft-heard story of a tormented soul looking to find his long lost head but the grimoire of a murderous harvester of souls. The tale goes - that before his death Jack was a farmer whose fields would yield the most abundant crops. His green thumb knew no bounds and drew the attention of jealous and bitter villagers in the area. They yearned to know why his harvest was always so successful when their crops were dying of drought and what little would grow was unhealthy and provided no sustinance.
The years had passed and Jack's fortune never wavered while the nearby fields only produced nutrient-starved dirt and rocks. The farmers that grew far too curious and disgruntled would steal onto Jack's land never to return. This mystery would continue through the seasons and those that dared to step into the lush fields continued to vanish until the remaining villagers had enough. They congregated and formed a torch wielding, anger fueled mob to raid Jack's homestead. What the mob discovered was a horror far grizzlier than they had ever dreamed.
The enraged mob gathered at Jack's front door and demanded he show himself. To their dismay he never came. No movement could be seen within his ram-shackled dwelling. The more daring members of the group entered the domicile to find nobody home. They soon decided that their endeavor should bear some fruit as they began to pillage the home and nearby fields. Those starving of hunger began gathering what produce they could fit into their arms and clothing. Dirtied and work-hardened hands dug into the earth ripping strong and fertile roots from the soil. They drank from the moisture that dripped from the stalks but quickly spat it out. In the darkness they could not see that the juices that filled their throats was thick with blood. They did not see that the rocks and clods of mud that were carelessly thrown aside were actually the decomposed remains of the numerous bodies that had been buried about the fields. That night the harvest moon was audience to a raucous chorus of blood curdling screams and howling death rattles.
While their brothers and sisters choked on the foul fluids they had ingested the villagers that chose to raid Jack's shacks and sheds were frozen stiff with fear at the sight before them, silent screams of horror emblazoned across their faces. Headless corpses toppled from the sheds, decapitated bodies hung from the rafters of the barn, and the silos... those unfortunate enough to witness the innards of the silos were the first to fall. They had no time to scream as a long nimble blade sliced through the night air. The solid thud of bodies came first followed by the soft bounce of smaller objects as they came to rest in the hay below. The straggling villagers were picked off one by one as the stronger few gathered together in the clearing of the pumpkin patch. They stood their ground as a lanky and unkept looking farmer stood before them. Blood spattered all over his form. An evil twisted grin cracked in his leathery face. A slick scythe brandished in his grasp. Jack didn't take well to trespassers. That was apparent. The morning harvest was delayed and someone was going to pay.
He pulled his scythe tight to his shoulder and brought it down in a clearing sweep. The farmers' courage faltered as they winced in wait for the attack. But. The attack that did not come. They looked back at their attacker to find a formidable figure wielding a massive hammer in front of them fending off the murder-crazed Jack. While Jack was quick and nimble, our hero, Americano, was quicker. He did not move his lackadaisical-stance as he swung his hammer swatting away each strike of the scythe. Jack never knew such an enemy and lost his composure and soon his defensive strategy. He stepped in for a fatal attack but was caught off guard as the enormous head of Americano's hammer struck the wind from his gut. Jack fell to the ground gasping for air. He looked up at his foe to find the morning sun blinding his already watering eyes. He had no chance to make a witty quip as the silhouette of the hammer crushed his skull into the ground.
The surviving villagers cheered and jeered at this mysterious hero. Their lives were spared and while the life that was spared may have a hard road ahead they knew that they would have the chance to see it. The celebration was motioned to continue at the local tavern but Americano did not follow. He stood vigil over Jack's lifeless body. The villagers reluctantly left their savior in that field.
At sunset Americano watched as the pumpkins in the surrounding field illuminated from within. Demonic and morbid faces began to cut away from the orange exteriors. The light within flickered in the openings as the face on the pumpkins writhed about in silent agony. Jack's body slowly sank into the ground disappearing beneath the eerie glow of the jack o' lanterns. Moments later a mound of dirt and soil forced itself from the same spot in which Jack descended into hell. The loose soil fell away to reveal a headless figure standing before Americano. The now headless Jack bent down to fetch his trusty scythe. He then pulled a nearby pumpkin from the ground and placed it upon his shoulders. The glow of the flame in his new face set the mood for Jack as he jerked back his weapon and lunged forward at Americano. Americano stepped aside and swung his hammer down on Jack's "head". The living gourd shattered to pieces as Jack stumbled forward, headless again. However the blow did not kill Jack. He plucked another pumpkin from the patch and placed it too upon his shoulders.
Americano understood the battle ahead of him. Jack was planting the heads of his victims in this pumpkin patch. All around our hero was a bevy of new faces for Jack to pick from and he was going to put each and every one of them to use...
You will do well to avoid the killing fields of Headless Jack.
With his freshly wetted scythe he will attack.
He will take your head and plant it in his patch.
Your head he will wear to get his back.