Our story begins late October, on the outskirts of Royale City, the agents of MONARCH stood ready — guardians of virtue, defenders of tradition, and highly allergic to nonsense.

  The corn stalks shivered under the moonlight like rows of green-clad sentries—silent, watchful, and noble—until the calm shattered like a hockey rink at a lumberjack convention.

  “You pumpkin pilferer!” came the voice, a glorious boom like a national anthem being fired from a cannon. “Halt in the name of all that is maple-glazed and majestically Canadian!”

  Redd Ensign stood atop the irrigation berm with heroic posture and tragically perfect hair, his white tunic flapping in the prairie breeze, red trim gleaming with the glory of tradition. His mighty chest heaved with righteous fury. One gloved hand jutted forward, fingers splayed, as if sheer patriotism might reach across the field and yoink the villain from the sky by the collar.

  But the ‘Space Witch’ had other plans.

  Or so they called her.

  The supposed ‘Space Witch’ had haunted the Royale City Pumpkin Patch and Oil Refinery ever since the first of October. Witnesses were confident about exactly one thing: she was, perhaps, a witch... and possibly from space.

  Details beyond that were as scrambled as a moose in a snowstorm.

  Some insisted she was trying to return to space. Others claimed she’d fallen from it. As for the vanishing pumpkins, theories abounded—perhaps she was fuelling a broom-rocket hybrid? A space-stick with saddle holsters? Maybe a cosmic vegetable drive system powered by gourd combustion? No one could say for certain.

  But one truth stood firm in the hearts of all Canadians that night:

  The harvest was in peril. And Redd Ensign would not—could not—let that stand.

  With a cackle that echoed through the corn maze like a loon on espresso, the ‘Space Witch’ flung her stolen prize — an overripe jack-o’-lantern with teeth like crooked fence posts — straight at Redd Ensign’s heroic noggin.

  It struck him with a damp, dramatic thwomp, splitting clean down the middle like a velvet stage curtain on opening night. Pumpkin innards splattered in every direction — a sticky confetti of seeds and pulp, as if punctuation itself had exploded in triumphant orange.

  From a flattened patch of stalks, Big Joe — moose of might, guardian of the glorious grove — raised his great antlered head. A cornstalk dangled from one ear like a festive earring, forgotten but fashionable. He chomped it thoughtfully, then let loose a low, unmistakable moose-laugh: part grunt, part guffaw, entirely Joe.

  Squire, Redd Ensign’s young sidekick, burst into view from another trail, panting, his red scarf flapping behind him like a distress flag caught in a windstorm.

  “There you are!” he called. “Redd! What are we going to do? She’s taking all the pumpkins! She’s flying away with them! And I think—wait—is that the rocket broom?!”

  He pointed upward with wild-eyed urgency.

  Above, silhouetted by the harvest moon, the ‘Space Witch’ soared on a broomstick that sputtered faint blue fire from rear-mounted nozzles. Twin saddlebags bulged with stolen squash. A trailing scarf — or was it a cape? — fluttered behind her like a flag of villainy.

  Overhead, the pumpkin poacher hovered like a haunted harvest moon, her broomstick coughing sparks and exhaust with every erratic lurch. Riveted rocket boosters jutted from its frame like overworked chimney pipes, belching plumes of dubious propulsion. Her helmet, a gleaming bubble dome hand-painted with glittering stars, caught the moonlight like a disco ball in low orbit. Her cloak snapped and fluttered behind her — the defiant banner of some forgotten lunar monarchy.

  She gave a mocking little wave, then revved her thrusters with a sound like a goose honk run through a leaf blower.

  “Fear not, young Squire of the Dominion!” Redd Ensign bellowed, peeling the exploded pumpkin from his face with theatrical flair — like a man revealing his true identity beneath a maple-glazed exfoliating mask. “Justice has taken root... and I shall harvest it with the scythe of liberty!”

  Pumpkin seeds clung to his brow like wartime medals. His heroic hair — normally sculpted to parade-day perfection — now stood in orange-glazed clumps, each one crackling with patriotic tension. And yet beneath the mess, his eyes blazed with righteous fervour... and possibly a hint of nutmeg.

  Redd pointed toward the skies. “You can run, witch of the wastebasket stars! But you cannot escape... THE DOMINION’S AUTUMNAL WRATH!”

  Big Joe snorted, a puff of hay fluttering from his nostrils. Squire fumbled frantically with his gadget pouch, gears clicking, straps tangling.

  And somewhere, deep within the cornfields, a forgotten relic stirred. With a metallic groan and a clatter of gears, an old steam-powered scarecrow whirred to life. Its brass eyes glowed. Its stovepipe hat tilted ominously.

  It had detected a Level 7 Seasonal Mischief Event.

  And thus began... the Great Pumpkin Pursuit.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the pumpkin patch…

  The fog clung low to the ground like a nosy neighbour who couldn’t take a hint. Every gourd sat crouched and suspicious in the moonlight, as if they knew something was up… and deeply resented being involved.

  Sandy Beeches did not want to be there.

  She especially didn’t want to be there with Soash, who was currently inspecting a wheelbarrow full of misshapen pumpkins with the rapt attention of a Parisian art critic judging a produce-themed fashion show.

  “This one,” Soash declared at last, plucking a wart-covered monstrosity from the pile with a flourish worthy of a stage magician unveiling a tax deduction, “has the haunted soul of a disgruntled auditor. I feel it. Deeply. Emotionally. Possibly psychically. Write that down.”

  “I’m not writing anything,” Sandy muttered, arms crossed, foot tapping, and professionalism leaking from her like air from a balloon shaped like a résumé. “You were supposed to be investigating OGRE’s suspicious shipping crates. Not sniffing gourd auras for thirty-seven minutes.”

  “Thirty-nine,” Soash corrected, solemn as a eulogy at a mime’s funeral. “And I am investigating. With my intuition. That’s how we cracked the Great Pumpkin Caper of ’08.”

  “That,” she replied, “was a prank by Squire and a raccoon with a pie tin. And it was last year.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Before Soash could volley back something equally nonsensical and irritatingly confident, a thunderous shout rang out from the far side of the field:

  “HALT, YOU AGRICULTURAL ARCHFIEND!”

  Like a cannonball wrapped in valour, Redd Ensign burst from the corn maze, boots scattering hay, sash billowing like it had a wind machine all its own.

  “SURRENDER YOUR SQUASH, SPACE SORCERESS!” he bellowed, voice ringing through the fog like a trumpet solo played during a hockey anthem… by someone on fire.

  Hovering overhead on her sputtering rocket-broom, the silver-cloaked figure spun theatrically in midair. Her helmet — a glitter-smeared fishbowl — caught the moonlight in dazzling streaks. A bandoleer of gleaming gourds crisscrossed her chest like festive ammunition. Sparks burst from her retro-thrusters as she let out a laugh: high, eerie, and unmistakably pleased with herself.

  “Too late, you sappy maple-marcher!” she shrieked. “My pumpkin army will rise at dawn!”

  Redd planted his feet, unflinching beneath the silver menace. He pounded his chest with one heroic fist.

  “Then tonight—” he declared, eyes ablaze, hair still speckled with squash guts, “we dine on justice pie!”

  Big Joe the moose crashed through the fence two seconds later, splinters flying in all directions. He wore a carved jack-o’-lantern on each antler like seasonal jewellery, and he was mid-chomp on what had once been a cider cart and was now just... parts.

  He let out a loud, wobbling moan. It might’ve been enthusiasm. It might’ve been regret. With Big Joe, it was often both.

  “I told you this was a setup,” Sandy muttered, whipping a monocle-lens gadget from her belt and scanning the rocket broom. The device whirred, blinked, and beeped like an over-caffeinated microwave.

  “There’s no magic here. That ‘rocket broom’ is a leaf blower strapped to a hockey stick. With booster rockets. Duct-taped. To the sides.”

  “So... stylish innovation,” Soash murmured, rubbing his chin like an art critic admiring a collapsing soufflé. “Honestly, I respect that.”

  “Stylish nothing,” Sandy snapped. “It’s OGRE. That helmet’s got their bar code sticker still on the inside. And her outfit has more ‘Property of OGRE’ logos than a sponsored bobsled team.”

  Overhead, the flying figure let out another screech of defiance — and dipped low.

  Too low.

  The cape snagged.

  There was a metallic twang as the “space witch” caught on a weather vane and spun like a poorly launched parade balloon.

  Squire popped out of a nearby haystack, hay stuck in his hair.'

  “She’s losing altitude!” he squeaked.

  The witch spiralled once, twice—then crashed headfirst into a hay bale with a woof of straw, static, and poor decisions.

  Redd Ensign arrived with a leap so dramatic it practically deserved its own overture. He landed in a hero’s crouch, one fist to the earth.

  “Behold!” he declared. “Another villain grounded by gravity and Canadian resolve!”

  Soash strolled over, knelt beside the downed saboteur, and yanked off the helmet with theatrical flair. A puff of glitter burst into the air like a sad party cannon.

  Sandy coughed and waved it away.

  Underneath the fishbowl helmet was—

  “Messup,” she sighed.

  The OGRE technician blinked up at them, face frozen in a grimace that thought it was a smirk.

  “Am I... being detained?”

  Soash cocked his head.

  “You disguised yourself as a ‘space witch’... to steal pumpkins?”

  “Of course.” Messup tried to shrug, which was difficult with a head full of straw. “But the way you say it, it sounds dumb. And technically, if you’re stealing your own property, it’s not really stealing, is it?”

  He sounded like someone who believed he’d just won the debate.

  Redd straightened to his full, radiant height.

  “No,” he intoned gravely. “But butchering the Canadian language—” he jabbed a finger at Messup like planting a justice flag, “—is a crime against Canadian goodness!”

  “Was OGRE not paying you enough?” Sandy asked, eyes narrowed. “You thought there was a black market for pumpkins in October? I mean, they’re three bucks a dozen.”

  “They weren’t just regular pumpkins!” Messup barked, rising with flair despite being half-covered in straw. “They were... experimental Froot-Vessel Delivery Modules for our new seasonal snack line! Pumpkin-Fizz Pods! Now with forty percent more artificial gourd!”

  Redd staggered back a step, as if struck by betrayal wrapped in a pie crust.

  “An affront to the purity of autumnal agriculture! You fiend!”

  Sandy pinched the bridge of her nose so hard it nearly counted as first aid.

  “They’re trying to replace actual pumpkin pie with synthetic foam discs. Again.”

  “Well,” Soash mused, brushing seeds off his lapel with practised grace, “that explains the flavour packet I mistook for moon dust.”

  “No, that’s not—look, okay, somebody, definitely not me, dropped a pouch of those experimental seeds in the field last spring while they were—hypothetically—fleeing a rabid raccoon,” Messup stammered. “And it wasn’t a pouch. It was a lunch bag. Which, again, was not mine. Probably. I mean—”

  “So...” Squire cut in, bless him, scratching his head while kindly offering a merciful out,

  “...why the witch costume and the rocket broom?”

  “Mr. Thorne said they were prototypes for OGRE’s new Halloween product line,” Messup muttered. “If they exploded with me in them... no big loss.”

  And right on cue, a metallic clank-thump echoed ominously through the field.

  Old Lady Osprey stormed out of the corn maze like an autumnal fury, perched high on the creaky shoulder of her steam-powered scarecrow. One hand wielded a rusted spatula like a war club; the other gripped a pie tin the size of a shield — the kind you win and bake with.

  “Trespassers!” she bellowed. “We are only open from nine to five!”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And is that my weather vane?! That was a wedding gift!”

  She jabbed a finger at the twisted metal fixture now dangling from the broken broom.

  “Well, Mr. Iron Scarecrow knows how to handle trespassers, don’t you?” she said sweetly, patting the mechanical monstrosity on the knee. “No one comes flying onto my land with a rocket broom and a dumb-looking moose—”

  Big Joe’s ears twitched at the insult.

  “—without signing the guestbook, you young rascals! Now get off my lawn!”

  That’s when the scarecrow’s eyes glowed red.

  It began firing laser beams.

  Not with military precision — more like a toddler with a flashlight and feelings — but lasers nonetheless.

  Redd snatched up Messup and the broken broom in one gallant swoop and followed the team, who were not quite fleeing but certainly exiting with haste, the kind reserved for fireworks shows gone wrong.

  And Soash — ever the velvet-clad disaster — strolled alongside them, grinning as if this entire escapade had unfolded precisely to plan. He turned to the gang with a dramatic finger-gun and a wink.

  “So,” he purred,

  “now that I’ve solved the case, who’s in the mood for a post-mission hayride? Bit of cider, bit of moonlight, the gentle embrace of my jacket against the cool fall air—”

  Sandy didn’t answer.

  She just kept running.

  The rest followed — boots crunching through hay, pumpkin guts, and the faint scent of scorched optimism.

  Above them, the moon shone like it was quietly impressed.

  And behind, the stars twinkled over the most ridiculous victory MONARCH had claimed that week —

  which, frankly, was saying something.