1~

Personnel bustled amidst the sets and sound stages within the lot of Crystal Cove Studios that morning.

Although it was touted as "The Second Hollywood," and wasn't based there, the studio's employees were proud of their productions' efforts over the years, and their collective energies were high, as was reflected in the hype concerning a new big-budget horror movie that was being shot on the premises.

One of the studio's newest, and largest, sound stages was dedicated to the shoot. Grips, soundmen and camera operators stood by the tools of their trade, while the screenwriter whose work was being immortalized on film, sat, with marker in one hand, and the script in the other, ready to make last-minute adjustments to his story, when needed, and, if necessary.

Other workers, like those who managed lighting, experienced make-up artists, and simple stage hands, milled around, off-camera, busy with tasks they had spent years perfecting.

Then, there was the film's director, sitting on his folding chair throne, perusing and commanding all he surveyed. His kingdom was ruled from behind the camera, as it should have been. However, his domain was two subjects short. Two subjects whose very presence rivaled the director's, in terms of necessity. His stars.

"Where are those two?" he grumbled with a sigh. Their agents praised them both with being professional beyond reproach, yet, here they were, holding up precious shoot time and wasting even more precious money.

"You know them," the screenwriter muttered from his chair. "They didn't get their eggs just right, this morning, or something. And that's when they're not bickering at each other like a married couple. Probably sulking in their trailers, again. Want me to go get them?"

With an even deeper sigh, the director stood from his chair, and gave a stretch to knock out the kinks of the morning. "No. I'll get Their Highnesses. Y'know, it's too bad we can motivate our actors with cattle prods."

After commanding the shoot to be halted for the time being, he shambled out of the sound stage, and headed towards the space where the trailers for his production were parked.

However, even though he knew where his actors' trailers were, he decided to make a beeline towards his own. He needed to decompress from all of this early morning nonsense, and what his people didn't know, wouldn't hurt them.

"Another day, another session of those two prima donnas squawking at each other and wasting precious time," he groused. "I'm a director, darn it, not a therapist."

Stomping up the stairs, and closing the door behind him, the director went over to the nearby couch, and flopped down.

"I only took this job because I know that I'm a better director than those youngsters out there who think that just because they sat through their own god-awful music videos, that makes them directors," he said to himself. "Feh!"

He thrust his hands behind the couch's pillows, knocking them over in his concerted search for something.

"Where's my old friend?" he muttered. "I know I left it in here." His hand then banged against a hard, glassy object. Grabbing it, he pulled out his concealed treasure, a half-consumed bottle of whiskey. "Ah! Hello, old friend!"

Eagerly, he took from the table in front of the couch, a shot glass, and prepared to pour his first draft of the elixir, but then stopped, when he heard the front door's knob twist, and the door beginning to open.

"Don't believe in knocking, do you?" he called out. "I'll see you in few minutes, whoever you are." Then, he returned his attention back to his impending drink.

So intent was his focus on the drink, that he didn't notice the dark shape of a man slip into the trailer, and approach him quickly and silently. Only the director's chance glance back towards the door alerted him, too late, to his presence.

By being seated, the director couldn't get up in time to fend off the intruder, a pale, elfin-eared figure dressed in both parts, stereotypical Transylvanian count and mad scientist, by way of surgeon, outfits.

He thought of yelling protestations in the hopes that someone outside would hear, and get help, but the attacker's look was so strikingly bizarre, and his ill intent, so clear, that the only thing that left the director's throat was a surprisingly high-pitched wail of terror that only some lowly PA barely heard on his way to an errand.

Marcie Fleach barely noticed the noise of conversation rising and falling around her, in her high school cafeteria, as she absently poked at her lunch with a plastic fork.

It had been a few days since she left home and father behind, and stayed under the kind auspices of The Dinkleys.

That, alone, made her feel guilty. They certainly didn't deserve to be drawn into her dysfunctional conflicts, no matter how much they insisted.

Even though she would never agree with him concerning her future, she tried as hard as she could to help him with his business, if not console and comfort him, as a dutiful daughter might. But his attitude, in the end, was so cold and flint-hearted, she was driven from him.

Now, that she had time to reflect, she realized that her running away, something she always thought that she was far too level-headed to even contemplate, was perhaps the most audacious thing she had ever done, of late. But now, she was haunted by a small regret, that maybe her leaving was a bad idea, somehow. The last act of a desperate child.

Across the table from the forlorn girl, a teenaged boy wearing a skull-and-crossbones T-shirt, sat, placing his closed laptop, that he used as a tray for his lunch, down on the table.

Marcie wasn't in the mood to interact with anyone, and hoped that he wouldn't start some inane conversation with her. Her hope was soon dashed.

"You're Marcie Fleach, right?" he asked.

Marcie lifted her eyes from studying her food at the sound of her name, and gave a quick look at him. A spark of recognition flashed in her mind at the sight of him. He was in one of her classes, but she decided that it wasn't worth her reaction.

"You should know," she said, quietly. "We go to Homeroom together. Congratulations, though. You just proved that I'm not that invisible there, after all, although, I didn't see you there today. Did you come to school late?"

The boy nodded. "Yeah, but I had a good reason for that."

He slid aside his lunch from atop his laptop and opened it, displaying to Marcie, a red and black website, adorned with a skull-and-crossbones motif.

"As you may know," he announced himself. "I run a very popular horror movie blog under the name GoreGuru86."

"Vaguely," Marcie muttered.

"Well, maybe you should look into more, because you're a part of it," he said, simply.

Suspicion made one of her eyebrows rise. "What do you mean?"

He pointed to a link on the screen. "There's a section in my blog called Local Lunatics-"

Marcie raised her hand to stop him. With her perennial ill favor among classmates, she knew where this was going. "Don't tell me. I'm the Local Lunatic, right?"

The boy raised his hand to placate her. "No! No! The Lunatics are all of those crazy, costumed kooks that you helped put away. I followed all of your cases. Or rather, I've followed you on all of your cases."

She confessed inwardly that she was far too busy on those cases to think that she was ever shadowed. That he was able to gather enough information from spying on her to fill his blog, was noteworthy, but suspect.

"You're good. I never even noticed you," she complimented, sarcastically, then deadpanned, "Or your blog." She rolled her eyes up, exasperated. "My first stalker. Great"

He shook his head. "No, it's not like that. I've known about you ever since your first case with The Ringleader. Been blogging your exploits ever since."

'A nice gesture, I guess.' she thought, begrudgingly. 'Certainly one not to be punished by my bad mood.'

"I guess I should be flattered. Sorry for being so catty," she sighed, guiltily. "I just got a lot on my mind. Anyway, did you want me for something?"

"Yeah. Remember when I said that there was a good reason why I was late today? Here's the reason. Crystal Cove Studios is doing this new big-budget horror movie that's starring two of the biggest names together for the first time. Of course, you'd know this if you'd read my recent blog-"

"Focus," Marcie reminded him.

"Oh! Well, anyway, the director was kidnapped by some clown who calls himself Doctor Darkfang. Said he did it to save the production, some junk. I've been talking with the police about it all morning."

"So, what does this have to do with you being late?"

"Because the director's...my dad."

Marcie straightened up when she heard that. However down she might have felt earlier, she couldn't ignore a direct plea for help given to her, out of hand.

"I'll...see if I can look into it," she replied with an uncertain look.

The boy, then, slide over a sealed envelope towards her. One marked with a single red letter in its center. M.

"This was left in his trailer. It was the only clue there," he said. "Read this, and please find him for me."

Marcie picked up the envelope, and thoughtfully rubbed it between thumb and slim forefinger. She was slightly tempted to know what it read, but she also didn't want to open it, right away.

To do so, would be to confirm to the boy that she would take the case, and she already made no promises. She wondered if she was even in the right frame of mind to tackle this.

With a sigh, she continued rubbing the missive, and inwardly debating with herself, until lunch period finally ended.

In Velma's bedroom, Marcie was attempted to do her homework, and, once again, she was thoroughly distracted by everything.

Over the nights that The Dinkleys allowed her the use of their daughter's bedroom, and she experienced, again, the soft, familiar comfort of Velma's four-poster bed, a sweet, festering melancholy returned to her, a longing she continued to fight feebly with some pseudo-pragmatism that failed her more often than not.

A wistful desire that she hadn't felt since she was caught in the bedroom, months before, under the blind thrall of The Ringleader.

Coupled with her conflicting feelings about her and her father, Marcie felt as though she were a roiling ball of confusion clothed in human skin.

She closed her school book and her eyes in a effort to calm herself. Math could certainly wait.

She slipped off the bed, and walked over to the dresser where her framed photo of Velma stood. She picked it up, and just stared at it. She didn't want to break her own spell of introspection by speaking to it. The power of her feelings, of her wants, of her worry, was strong enough.

Marcie backed up until she felt the bed against her legs, and sat down on it, again. With her back to the doorway, she never noticed Mrs. Dinkley silently watching Marcie pine for her daughter.

"We miss her, too," Mrs. Dinkley admitted quietly.

With a slight start, Marcie placed the picture face down on her lap, hiding its subject. "Sorry, Mrs. D," she said.

"Don't be, dear," Angie told her. "I just came by to see how you were doing. How are you doing, by the way?"

Whether it was parental prying or not, Marcie was too tired from her daily spar with her emotions to bring her guard up. Besides, she knew enough about Angie Dinkley from Velma to know that any information she wanted to obtain from anyone or anything, would be obtained in due course.

"I'm...okay, I guess. I think the toughest thing I ever did was call my dad from here, just to let him know that I was okay."

"Hmm. I don't know your father very well," Angie commented. "But I always thought he was a level-headed, even-handed man."

"He was," Marcie sighed in agreement. "In his own way. I didn't agree with what he wanted me to be, but I tried so hard to reach out to him, anyway, especially, when he was having problems at work. I guess when I called the house, I was still trying to reach out to him. I know that I'll have to patch things up with him, eventually, and come back home, if only because I don't want to impose on you and Mr. D's hospitality any longer than I have."

Angie lifted a disapproving finger. "Ah! I'll hear none of that. You can stay for as long as you like, Marcie. With Velma gone, I have to admit that you've...become the closest thing to a daughter to me."

With Marcie losing her own mother, yet again, and hearing this, she didn't know whether to smile or cry. "Thank you, Mrs. D. By the way, did my father...ever call me back?"

Angie shrugged. "I'm sorry, dear. We haven't gotten any calls from him, at all." She then saw Marcie's crestfallen sag.

"But that doesn't mean he's not thinking about you," she continued, quickly. "I refuse to believe that he doesn't care about you."

That was a thought too painful, if not too frightening, to ponder. Not caring about her? Not be father enough to be worried about where she might have run off to? To...cut her off?

Marcie shook the fear from her head and quickly changed the subject.

For conversation's sake, Marcie said, "I bet you and V must have had your spats, at one time, too." She already knew, from Velma, privately, about the disagreements she and Mrs. Dinkley would go through.

"Oh, yes, we had our share of roof-raisers," Angie admitted with a wistful smile. "But my Velma's young, and that's to be expected. I'd almost worry if she didn't rebel a little bit."

"Has she ever gotten in touch with you, lately?" Marcie asked, sincerely. "I tried to keep in touch, for a while, but she told me that she had to stop corresponding for a while." Marcie made sure not to say why Velma had to go incommunicado, for fear of worrying her mother. It was obvious that she was worried enough.

Now, it was Angie's turn to feel crestfallen, as she shook her head. "No. Dale and I haven't heard from her since she left home. I wish she would have told me where she was going, but she left home so fast..."

Marcie regarded her words. She left home, not ...the house. Therein was the difference.

She looked up into Mrs. Dinkley's eyes, and for the first time, she saw the mother who stop trying to conceal her frustration and concern with cool and worldly wisdom. It didn't matter how many friends Velma had in tow, to Mrs. Dinkley, her child was out there, and she was helpless to learn any more than that.

Marcie wordlessly stood up from the bed, walked over to the doorway, and gently hugged Mrs. Dinkley.

The gesture surprised the bespectacled mother. "What was that for?" Angie asked.

"It looked like needed it, ma'am."

"Thank you, dear," said the mother, understanding, and holding back a pang of inner pain.

"No problem, Mrs. D," Marcie assured her, releasing the hold.

Looking past Marcie to the books on the bed, Angie asked, "What's that, dear?"

"Huh?"

"The envelope on the bed, underneath your school books."

And thus, the secret of Angie Dinkley's ability to ferret out info was revealed to Marcie. She was hyper-observant. Something to consider.

"Oh, that's some letter a boy, in school, gave to me, today."

Angie gave Marcie a knowing look. "An admirer?" she asked.

"No way, Mrs. D!" Marcie said, perhaps a bit too defensively. "He said that his father, a movie director in town, was kidnapped during a shoot. He wants me to find him."

"Well, that's wonderful," said Angie, then realized how that might have sounded. "I mean, it's wonderful that you have something to do to occupy your mind for a while."

"What do you mean? I haven't made up my mind on taking the case, yet."

The maternal side of Angie Dinkley son rose to the fore with a wag of her finger. "Marcie Fleach, it's nice that you've a made a name for yourself, in town, as an amateur detective. I don't think we ever had that before, but you need to take your mind off of all of these troubles. At home…and here."

Marcie looked down in sober consideration.

"Besides, as Mary Shelley once said," Angie continued. "'Nothing contributes so much to tranquilize the mind as a steady purpose.'"

'Maybe Mrs. D's right,' Marcie thought. 'Maybe I do need to get my mind off of things for a while. Let them sort themselves out, instead of me trying to fix them, for a change.'

"Thanks, Mrs. D. I might just do that," Marcie finally conceded. "But I don't think the author of Frankenstein had to go through what I did."

Angie walked out of the bedroom and gave Marcie a knowing wink. "Oh, you'd be surprised. Now, come downstairs. It's almost time for dinner."

The atmospheric tympani of an approaching storm could be heard faintly in the distance, the dark clouds slowly stretched over the evening sky, like a grey blanket pulled across a vast, night-blue bed.

At the dinning room table, dinner went by pleasantly, and Dale Dinkley leaned back in his chair, patting his belly, satisfied at the end of a full meal. "Another stellar dinner, darling. As usual, the best pork chops in the state."

"Oh, you," Angie cooed from her spot at the table, as Marcie walked around it, collecting the used plates. A slight rumble of thunder could be heard overhead. "Looks like we're in for a stormy night."

Marcie agreed, and thought of her convertible, with its open interior, soon to be exposed to the harsh elements. She put the pile of plates on the table.

"I'll wash the dishes in a little bit, Mr. and Mrs. D, but can I run outside, first, and put the top up on my car?"

"Of course, dear," Angie said, then bade her, "But hurry back before it rains."

Walking past the man of the house, Marcie asked, conversationally, to Dale, "Best chops in the state, huh?"

"It's true," he said, with a sated smile. "One of the many reasons I married her."

"Could ask a question, then?" Marcie asked, again, this time, with a puckish look.

"Ask away."

She reached the front door, and asked before stepping through it, "Is it true that when you guys got married, you took Mrs. D's name?"

For the first time that evening, Dale was at a loss for words. "Well...uh…I…" he muttered, to Marcie's satisfaction, then she closed the door.

Slightly embarrassed, Dale turned to Angie. "You told her about that?"

Angie shrugged in guilty pleasure.

Marcie hadn't notice the black limousine parked across the street, as she left the house, and skipped towards the open-topped Clue Cruiser, the first cooling sprinkles of rain falling on her cheek.

It felt good, as she stepped into her car, started the ignition, and hit the switch to raise the convertible's cloth roof.

Two tall shadowy figures walked from the limo.

After she rolled up the windows, and left the car, she turned her back to the limo to lock the door, and only then, noticed the twin shadows falling upon her.

She turned in reaction to them, regretting the fact that she wasn't carrying any of her capsules or flasks. Her only chance of surviving whatever came her way was in the fact that she wasn't too far from the house. If she was quick and slippery enough, she could make it.

Upon gazing at the sober faces of the figures, their stern visages wiped away any thought or hope of escape for her. Because she couldn't believe the luck of who had graced her path.

"Vincent…Van Ghoul?" Marcie gasped in shock. She looked over to the austere, more older gentleman beside him, and was stunned. This was what the boy in the cafeteria was talking about when he said who was starring in the now stalled movie.

"Are you…"

"Yes, I know what you are about to say," sounded the tempered, yet amused, voice. So deep, English, and stentorian was its tone, that Marcie almost wilted underneath the weight of its authority.

"Just remember, when it comes to horror, my child, no one is more horrible than..." A roar of thunder overhead arrived with perfect timing. "Christopher Bleed!"

Vincent only sighed and rolled up his eyes. "Ugh! You've got that right."