"He taught her that courage wasn't the absence of fear-it was running anyway, especially if someone you loved was running beside you."
"They were an unlikely equation-the boy who ran from monsters and the girl who stood her ground. But in the space...
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*💚Julia's POV💚*
The drive to Jeremiah Wickles's address was tense, the weight of last night's humiliation still pressing down on the van's roof. My mind churned over the masked figure's words—the first rung on the ladder of your demise. This was personal. But why? Revenge for unmasking him? Something more?
"Freddy, up on the right," Daphne pointed out, her voice cutting through my thoughts.
The van rolled to a stop in front of a hulking, dilapidated manor that looked like it had been drawn by a particularly gloomy cartoonist. Gargoyles leered from crumbling eaves, and the front lawn was a graveyard of dead topiaries.
We all piled out—except for Shaggy and Scooby. They remained in the van, two sets of wide, horrified eyes staring up at the house as if it were about to swallow them whole.
"Old Man Wickles's ancestral manor," Velma announced, as if reading from a particularly depressing real estate brochure.
"Oh, man. Another creepy crib!" Shaggy's voice wavered from inside. "How come we can't ever investigate, like, a KFC or something?" He let out a nervous laugh that held no humour.
"Shaggy!" Scooby called. I glanced over to see Scooby demonstrating what I think were meant to be kung fu moves, puffing out his chest in an attempt to look tough. Surprisingly, it seemed to work. A flicker of resolve crossed Shaggy's face.
"All right. Then again, creepy is my middle name," he declared, finally emerging. Scooby, distracted by his own ferocity, accidentally punched himself in the nose. "Oof!"
"Scoob, come on," I called, standing beside Shaggy. I offered him a small, encouraging smile. He took my hand for a brief, grateful squeeze before Scooby trotted over, rubbing his snout. Together, we hurried up the cracked stone steps to join the others.
"Looks like a bit of a fixer-upper," Velma noted dryly, her eyes cataloguing every broken shutter and weed-chained gutter.
Our inspection was interrupted by the whir of bicycle wheels. Two pre-teen boys coasted to a stop at the curb, smirking.
"Nice job last night," one sneered.
"Losers!" they chorused, flashing synchronized thumbs-down before bursting into obnoxious laughter and pedalling away.
"Quick, we need to think of a comeback!" Daphne hissed, outraged.
"Why? They're children," I muttered, but she was already cupping her hands around her mouth.
"What dorks!" one of them yelled back over his shoulder, sending them into fresh peals of glee.
"Hey! Shut up!" Daphne shouted, her face flushing.
