SCARE ACTOR || Warren Edwards

“The Crypt.” That’s what Madworld veterans call this pitiful excuse for a green room. Sure, it’s hitting the nail on the head – everything in here looks about ready to decompose. Feels appropriate. Some smartass on the crew taped up a sign reading “This is where the magic happens”, but magic doesn’t explain the mildew lurking in the corners.

Warren's fingers absently trace over one of the little nick scars on his arm. Another night, another few hours of sweating in this glorified burlap sack. Paper mâché dungeon for one.

Behind him, someone’s chugging a Monster energy drink like it's communion wine. Ritualistic, almost. “Y’know, if you keep that up, you're gonna vibrate through the walls like some poltergeist on a Red Bull binge," Warren grunts, pushing off the wall.

Gotta gear up. Time for Pumpkin Spice – aka himself - to reign over the pumpkin patch like some scarecrow overlord from a failed Guillermo del Toro flick. His spade leans in the corner, waiting. His instrument of evil - or, at least, of vague horticultural menace.

The pumpkin head mask glares back at him from its perch on the makeup counter, the kind of expression that says, Please tell me you’re not going to wear me again. We talked about this, Warren. It’s not working out between us. He pulls it on anyway, adjusting the eye holes until he can almost see clearly. Almost. Through the slits, his amber contacts glint in the dim lighting, giving him the look of a Scarecrow possessed by a demon who really wants you to ask if you’ve got any fall allergies.

Warren wipes his palm on his cloak, his chipped nails catching on the frayed fabric. Good ol' Pumpkin Spice – this costume gets more ragged every year, and the patch job's starting to look like something a blind quilter slapped together on Ambien.

But the mask, though? Iconic.

Now, just pray no one notices he smells like his grandma’s agarbattī mixed with old sweat and moss; some terrible cologne that only appeals to woodland creatures and old men who say things like “I dabble in do-it-yourself projects” in Trader Joe’s aisles.

He adjusts the mask one last time before his shift. Soon, he’ll be in the patch, playing the part of overgrown garden gnome slash menace to society. His patch. His pumpkins. The ones people love to steal, apparently. Steal under his nose like they’ve been practicing for some budget heist flick where the prize is a squash. It’s all part of the Madworld October experience. Get a ticket and a complimentary pumpkin the night you come.

And who’s the worst offender? A phantom pumpkin thief. Seventeen pumpkins gone and counting. One every damn night. Warren thinks it’s the most creative application of the October Season Pass he’s ever seen. He’d even go so far as to say he’s mildly impressed.

It’s always the same thing - shadowy figure just beyond his line of sight, slipping off with another orange prize. And the theories? Oh, the theories. The rest of the actors love to speculate.

"They’re probably flipping them for cash," Gary suggested. "Etsy, probably."

Warren’s imagination conjures up a storefront with over-saturated photos, each pumpkin described as some artisanal, ethically sourced heirloom variety that pairs well with, like, herbal tea or bath bombs. Shit my mom would like. All-natural spooky decor.

He snickers under his breath as he shuffles out of The Crypt, already planning tonight's routine in his head. Jump out of the shadows, wave the spade around a little, grumble something ominous like “stay outta my patch,” all while teenagers scream and pretend they haven’t been rehearsing their reactions for social media for weeks. One or two will probably knock a pumpkin over in their panic, which really does nothing but add insult to injury.

People stealing pumpkins and ruining my arrangement? Personal nightmare.

Big ones, small ones, some that look like they’ve lived through a divorce and a mid-life crisis. The patch is alive with the glow of flickering lanterns. Not enough light to spoil the atmosphere, but just enough to let everyone know where the pumpkins are.

Subtle, he thinks, eyeing the pumpkin-thieves-to-be like they’re the worst kind of amateur criminals. Some teenage boys are already squabbling over who’s going to make a break for it first. He knows this routine well enough. They’re as thick in the head as their spray-on Axe body spray is on their bodies. I can’t even touch you legally, you dumb fucks. They’ll get over it as soon as they’re running with a $5 pumpkin like it’s the Hope Diamond.

Warren leans against his spade, watches them trip over each other’s bravado. The urge to jump out and scream crosses his mind, but no. I’ll wait. It’s always more fun when they think they’re getting away with something.

After a while of people-watching, Warren grips his spade and steps forward, towering over them as his cloak billows in the wind (well, sort of—there’s not much wind, but he likes to imagine it looks cool). “Here to snatch my crops, birdbrains? Unhand my subjects, or I swear on Satan's name they’ll become your heads ‘fore sunrise!”

The teens finally skitter off like the startled rats they are, carrying their contraband pumpkins like trophies. Pathetic. Great acting, though. Warren bends down to adjust a particularly lopsided gourd, his fingers brushing over the knobbly surface. A nice one. Would’ve been a shame if one of them took it.

As he straightens up, though, his thoughts shift back to the real pumpkin thief. The one that’s been silently picking him off, night after night. Not one pumpkin - every single night, one vanishes. At first, he assumed it was just opportunism, someone cashing in on the whole “steal a pumpkin” gimmick.

But now? Seventeen times. Seventeen pumpkins, gone. Who even does that?

Maybe it’s for some weird, underground pumpkin-flipping racket. People sell stranger things online. God knows someone’s probably turned his pumpkins into some kind of hipster art project, posted it with captions like “The fleeting nature of autumn’s harvest in a capitalistic hellscape” under a picture of a rotting jack-o'-lantern next to a latte. “Buy low, sell high,” but with produce?

Maybe it’s just some rich person quirk, like collecting Fabergé eggs, but with gourds. Perhaps it’s some kind of Gwyneth Paltrow-level health cleanse, where you light one pumpkin on fire every night to release the ~toxins~ into the air. Or maybe this person’s ruining local pumpkin carving contests, sneaking in with the most perfectly stolen specimens and taking first prize, rigging the whole thing.

Petty? Yes. Possible? Absolutely.

Or maybe - just maybe - the mystery offender’s got some elaborate culinary scheme going. There’s a high likelihood they’re baking pies. Gross, mushy, over-spiced pies.

But then...then there’s the darker option. The one he can’t shake. He scrapes his boot against the dirt, shoving the thought back down where it belongs. People are into weird shit. No one he knows personally, sure, but... He grimaces, shifting uncomfortably at the thought. There are people out there who get off on weird shit. Not him. Nah. Pumpkins are... well, they’re round, they’re squishy, and they’re...

And yet, for it’s multitudinous possibilities, there’s something kind of... intriguing about it. Someone out there, night after night, keeps coming back. For what? Me? The pumpkins? It doesn’t matter. They’re coming back, and Warren can’t quite figure out whether it makes him irritated or... mildly interested.