Michael Colter walked by the pumpkin patch every year, and every year he wondered how Old Man Wittig managed to make those pumpkins grow so big.
There were those that said Wittig sold his soul to a spirit of the Wire Woods. And true, there was always some poor sod that seemed to vanish along that road as the years grew long. But Michael put little stock in such tales. There'd not been a witch in the region for eighty years, and the cursed lands had been pushed back far beyond the borders of their village. The wards on the distant posts that separated the fields from the forest glowed hot with power, strung along the distance like a ribbon of stars, and not a devil, sprite, or any other fey thing could cross that boundary.
But when he walked by the patch and saw those orange gourds growing ripe and heavy, and when the wind whistled through trees growing thin of leaves and a sky overcast with a steely grey, he recalled the rumors of the missing, and shivered in the cold.
He was on his way back to his family's farm that late night, later than he should have been. He'd spent overlong in the town's library and hadn't realized the time until the librarian had told him they were closing. The air was growing dark, the moon yet to rise, and even as he walked the night closed in more and more. A time the old folks knew as the Whispering Hours. Back when the forest grew closer, it was said the spirits of the Wire Woods would tempt men and girls of marriageable age to cross beyond the borders of the wards, and find their destiny in the arms of giggly sprites and hungry alraunes.
Michael shrugged off such talk. Superstitions were not for him. He was a man of education. His family did well enough. His brother would inherit the farm. His sisters went off to marry some of the tradesmen in town, and he was to go to the Academy in Morrinton come spring's breaking. He had the mind of a scholar and no small skill in magic, and life on the farm had given him the build of a workhorse, which stretched his coat comfortably over his chest. He was meant for greater things than to be a farmer. Greater things indeed.
Come to me.
Michael stopped dead and looked out over Wittig's fields. He noted with some interest that the pumpkins hadn't been coming in as well as other years. The rinds were still pale and nestled in their vines like eggs waiting for a broody hen. Michael rubbed his chin, wondering, then shrugged and started off again.
Here.
He turned to the patch again, his eyes roaming across the field. He hadn't imagined that one. He was sure of it. A plaintive whisper hanging in the wind. A woman's voice that tickled his ear and made pins and needles dance up and down his arms.
"Hello?" he called.
No answer came but the soft sigh of the wind and the rustle of leaves blown across the acres. But as he stood there, he saw something glowing through the gloom. A flicker of a lamp swaying out among the fields. Michael leaned over the fence, trying to see who carried it, but the green flame merely hung in the air, swaying softly.
A new sensation came over Michael as he watched that distant glow. He felt again that tingle in his arms. A strange sense of vertigo gripped him, making him lean against the fence. He shook his head, banishing the momentary befuddlement, and tried to spot who it was that carried the lamp, but the gloom had only grown deeper, and the lamp seemed to recede further.
Michael drummed his fingers on the fence, then climbed over and began to make his way across the patch.
He was careful not to tread on the vines or pumpkins. He knew the labours involved in growing such crop, and it would shame him greatly to damage anything of another man's harvest. "Hello?" he called again. "Who's there?"
The flame retreated as he approached. Or perhaps it was further away than he expected. In no time, he found himself moving beyond the pumpkin patches, and towards one of the small shelters of willows that grew in tangles on every farm. The glow of the lamp danced between the trunks, flickering as if through the bars of the cage. As he approached, he spied a trail that wound into the trees.
Come here.
He paused then, uncertain. Uneasiness rose in him. Something was wrong here. Though he was still some distance from the ward posts, something made him wary of what lay before him.
Help me.
The words held such a pleading tone that it made Michael nervous. There were many rumors about Wittig. A man secretive, churlish. Quick to anger and jealous of his lands. Could he have harmed a woman who'd been walking by? Dumped her body among the trees thinking she were dead? Or had she escaped here, and was waiting for a rescuer?
His stomach clenching, but his mind made up, Michael moved down the narrow path through the trees.
Now, at last, the light of the lantern grew closer. The glow grew brighter. Brighter. Its flames fluttered, and Michael swore he could make out a figure among its embers. A feminine form that swayed and danced and spun in dizzying patterns of ragged green. A heat that burned bright and hands that swung and beckoned and-
Michael's foot hit something, sending him crashing to the ground. He hit it hard, bruising his palms and knees, his brain seeming to rattle in his skull. The shock cleared his head and he shook it, looking back to see what it was he'd tripped on.
His mouth dropped open as he saw the prone figure laying on the ground. Though wearing a heavy brown coat with a high collar, it was near three sizes too big for the body it garbed. Wrists thin as twigs and twisted fingers clawed for the heavens. A face as wizened and wrinkled as the bark of an oak tree stared up, mouth and eye sockets gaping at the world with the dumb idiocy of death. But Michael could still make out, just barely, the familiar features of Old Man Wittig.
It was only then that Michael realized he could see easily despite the dark. He turned back towards the source of the light, and his shock was only compounded by what he saw.
Before him, nestled in the middle of the willows and atop a vast, sprawling tangle of green vines, sat the biggest pumpkin Michael had ever seen. It swelled in a huge orange orb, and several vines grew high around it, their tips curving outward like birdcages, and within them danced the fluttering green light of witchfire.
A creaking groan came from the pumpkin, and from its top leaves rustled and stretched apart. Michael stared, stunned as a figure rose out of the pumpkin. Skin a pale orange. Hair a bright green. A face radiantly beautiful, and breasts as large as the pumpkins in the field yet so much softer. Her hips plugged the pumpkin's top as she stretched from the peak, her eyes opening, glowing the poisonous green of the witchfire as she looked down on him with a smile.
"Hello," she crooned.
Michael slammed his jaw shut and scrambled to his feet. An alraune. A dryad! A creature of the forest. Winsome and cunning, he had heard countless tales of the fates that awaited those they tempted into their groves. He reeled back from the figure, only to trip again on the corpse of Old Man Wittig, this time finding himself on his rump.
"Oh dear!" the pumpkin alraune giggled. "You are a clumsy one. Here, let me help."
"I ah!" Michael gasped as vines pushed against his back, twisting under his arms and hoisting him to his feet.
"There we are. Much better," she said, then put a coquettish finger to her lip. "Hmm, although we aren't quite on the same level, are we? Why, you're just tall enough to talk to my big melons, aren't you?"
Michael stared as she hefted her impressive bust, giving those plush, orange orbs a bounce in her hands, the shadows of the lanterns fluttering across them in a way that made his head spin. He shook it off, trying to take a step back. "I... who... you can't be here," he said.
"Can't I?" the pumpkin woman said. "But I've been here for such a very long time. I am Cucuria. A pleasure to meet you."
"But... the barrier..."
She giggled again. "Ohhh, I've been in place much longer than your silly barrier. But I'm a... seasonal spirit. I only get big... and strong... and jiggly now," she cooed, giving her breasts another teasing wobble.
