"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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
*💚Julia's POV💚*
The women's bathroom at the Faux Ghost was a study in peeling floral wallpaper and questionable hygiene. I took a moment, splashing cold water on my face, willing my heart to stop its frantic tattoo against my ribs. Shaggy and Scooby are fine. They're probably causing a distraction. I straightened my headscarf, put on my best "Jewels McCreepy" sneer, and pushed back out into the fray.
The bar was in an uproar. A wave of angry shouts and shoving bodies filled the space where the dance floor had been. My eyes swept the room. No oversized afro. No emerald green suit.
My stomach dropped.
A burly man with tattooed knuckles was yelling about "meddling kids." Another was brandishing a broken bottle. They were all looking toward the back of the bar, near a heavy metal hatch that was now firmly shut.
I didn't need a map. The garbage chutes. Of course.
Acting on pure instinct, I ducked my head, melted into the shadows near the entrance, and slipped out the front door into the cool night air. The alley beside the bar reeked of stale beer and rotting fish. And there, covered in a glorious patina of slime, coffee grounds, and something unidentifiably orange, were my boys.
Shaggy was trying to pick a wilted lettuce leaf from his hair. Scooby was shaking himself like a wet rug, sending a spray of garbage confetti in all directions.
I leaned against the brick wall, arms crossed, and just watched for a moment. The relief that washed over me was so potent it made my knees weak. They were safe. They were disgusting, but they were safe.
Shaggy finally noticed me. He froze, lettuce leaf in hand, his eyes wide with a mixture of guilt and a silent plea for understanding. I didn't say a word. I just raised an eyebrow.
He opened his mouth, probably to launch into an explanation, when a new sound cut through the alley's quiet—a voice, sharp and commanding, coming from around the next corner.
"Stop wasting my time! You hear me? Now, I want you to question all your scum-bucket friends, find out what they know about those stolen costumes, or else you'll be known as the Soiled Underwear Ghost! I want answers. Now, GO!"
A terrified "Yes, sir!" was followed by the sound of frantic footsteps. A man in a rumpled suit came barrelling around the corner and collided with Shaggy.
"Sorry!" the man gasped, not stopping.
"It's okay," Shaggy muttered, brushing off the contact.
Then, a figure stepped calmly from the shadows. My blood ran cold. It was Patrick Wisely, the curator of the Coolsonian Museum. He smoothed his suit jacket and placed his glasses back on his nose.
"Shaggy. Scooby. Julia," he said, his tone oddly flat. "What are you guys doing here?"
The air grew several degrees colder. Shaggy and Scooby instinctively took a step back. I didn't move, my gaze steady on Patrick. "We are here to be undercover," I stated, my voice carefully neutral. I wasn't about to give him more than that.
"Me too," Patrick said, a tight smile stretching his lips. "My museum got broken into again, so I had to come here and try to get some answers." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Gotta put on the tough guy act, or these guys will eat me alive."
His act was too good. The shift from meek curator to intimidating interrogator had been seamless. Too seamless. Shaggy let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh and tried to sidestep him, but Patrick moved, blocking his path.
"What's the matter?" Patrick asked, his smile not reaching his eyes. "You don't believe me?"
Shaggy and Scooby were practically vibrating with fear. I tightened my grip on the strap of my purse, my mind racing.
"I'm kidding!" Patrick suddenly barked, his face breaking into a wider, more normal grin. "It's the tough guy act!" He laughed, but the sound was hollow, wrong.
"That's good," Shaggy forced out, his voice thin.
Patrick's expression shifted again, lightning-fast. He pulled a face of pure, grotesque menace and let out a sharp, terrifying yell right in their faces.
Shaggy and Scooby screamed, clutching each other.
Patrick straightened, chuckling. "I got you."
"That was a joke?" Shaggy gasped, trying to recover. "That was good! You're a lot of fun. Try it, Scoob!"
Scooby, eager to please, puffed out his chest and attempted a fierce growl. It came out as a squeaky, confused "Ruh-roh?"
"It needs work," Patrick said dismissively.
Just then, movement at the mouth of the alley caught my eye. Old Man Wickles, his head down, was shuffling quickly away. I nudged Shaggy and gave a subtle nod in the old man's direction. His eyes widened in understanding.
"Look, Patrick," Shaggy said, his voice gaining a shred of its usual bravado. "We could stay here, do this all night—and something tells me you would—but we gotta make like your personality and split."
He grabbed my hand, his grip firm and urgent, and pulled me after him, Scooby hot on our heels. We left Patrick standing in the alley, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
We tailed Wickles at a distance, through winding backstreets, until the buildings gave way to the skeletal remains of the Old Coolsville Mining Company. It was a graveyard of rusted machinery and crumbling shafts, a perfect "terrifying ghost town" as Shaggy would say.
We ducked behind a thicket of thorny bushes, our breath fogging in the cold air. Wickles paused, looked around suspiciously, then disappeared into the mouth of a boarded-up mine shaft.
Shaggy, ever the improviser, found a discarded tin can. He spoke into it like a walkie-talkie. "Scooby Doo. Scoob!"
Scooby, misunderstanding, picked up a different can and began licking the inside. "Hello?"
"Scooby Doo, can you hear me?"
"Hello, Shaggy."
"Wickles has led us into a terrifying ghost town!" Shaggy whispered urgently, pointing at the foreboding structure.
"Ghost town?" Scooby asked, still preoccupied with his can.
"Yes, a ghost town!"
Scooby suddenly let out a full-volume, startled "YIPE!" as a beetle scuttled over his paw.
We all ducked lower. Wickles stopped and turned, his eyes scanning the darkness, landing directly on our bush. My breath hitched.
He scowled. "Darn bushes yowling at me again," he muttered, then turned and vanished into the mine.
I let out a silent exhale. Shaggy glared at Scooby through the leaves. "Keep quiet, Scoob," he hissed into his tin can.
"Okay, Shaggy," Scooby whispered back, finally dropping the can.
In the deep, watchful silence of the mining ghost town, we were alone with a secret, a suspect, and a very bad feeling about Patrick Wisely. The real mystery was just beginning, and it was far scarier than any costume.
