A Dead Man on the Doorstep

April 2nd, 2002

It was, appropriately, a dark and stormy night. A cold, bitter early-spring rain drenched the landscape and lashed at Velma Dinkley's windows.

On the fateful night when Mystery, Inc. had collided with Ben Ravencroft at the natural history museum, Velma had been 19 years old—the youngest of the gang—and had recently moved into her first solo place, a cramped efficiency apartment furnished almost exclusively with books. But Velma wasn't 19 anymore. She had a couple of patents she was making decent money off—small but useful inventions, mainly for labs and universities—and she had a fairly large financial grant to fund further research. It wasn't long before she was financially secure enough to buy a little farmhouse on the outskirts of Coolsville. It stood by itself along the highway, surrounded by fields, woods, and the occasional dairy farm. Velma liked it that way—it was peaceful and quiet. It was like a secret little pocket of the world that belonged solely to her.

Velma sometimes still had nightmares about what had happened in Oakhaven two years ago. These dreams were filled with confused, terrifying images wreathed in flames, punctuated by Sarah Ravencroft's cold, echoing laughter. Velma would wake from them in a cold sweat, often to the sound of her own sobs. The dreams were less frequent, now, but they were still there.

But tonight, Velma wasn't dreaming of the horror that had been Oakhaven. In fact, she slept a deep, untroubled sleep, dreaming of nothing at all in particular.

She didn't know, at first, what had woken her. She rubbed her eyes blearily, and reached automatically for her glasses so she could decipher the glowing green blur that was the digital readout on her alarm clock. 2:46 a.m.… She wondered foggily why she was awake this early.

Slowly, it registered that she was hearing a sound. Knocking. Loud, urgent knocking. She threw a robe over her nightgown, and padded downstairs in her slippers to the source of the noise.

Someone was knocking on her front door. In her half-dreaming state, still mostly wrapped in the warm comfort of sleep, she didn't find this strange or ominous. Someone was knocking at her door, that was all. So she opened it.

There was a dead man standing on her doorstep.

Velma stood petrified in silent shock for a few endless moments. The problem wasn't that there was a dead man standing there. Velma saw dead people all the time: ghosts, ghouls, and zombies were her stock-in-trade. The problem was that this apparition wasn't glowing with an unearthly light suspiciously like phosphorescent paint; he wasn't eerily transparent like a projected hologram; his face wasn't the decaying, mottled green of a rubber Halloween mask. He was standing there, perfectly solid, his skin a healthy, living hue, his breath smoking slightly in the cold air, the rain dripping off his raven-black ponytail, exactly as if he were real and there and alive, and hadn't been dragged into a spellbook and perished in flames over two years ago.

The eyes behind the rain-spotted glasses, the same dark eyes that still sometimes haunted her dreams, lit up as she opened the door. "Velma—!"

She jerked the door shut with a sudden bang! and pressed her whole weight against it, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. All rational thought ceased entirely for a moment. She shut her eyes as tight as she could and thought fervently: it's a dream it's a dream it's just a dream… For a few long, breathless moments, she listened intently. Only silence and the sounds of rain outside.

She breathed a sigh of relief—and then the knocking resumed, more insistent now; and with it, she heard Ben's voice—only it's not Ben's voice, Ben is dead—shouting "Velma!"

"GO AWAY!" she screamed, so loudly her throat hurt. It can't exist no logic applies so it has to GO AWAY… She sank to the floor, pleading weakly with the thing that shouldn't, couldn't exist. "Please… just go away…"

There was a long pause. She could hear soft, shuffling movement outside the door. Then, the voice—and it was, unmistakably, Ben's voice—spoke quietly. "Velma. Please. Ten minutes." His deep voice, tinged with a British accent, held a sort of desperation in it. "Please."

Suddenly, she remembered that voice, echoing in her ears, trying to warn her as the branch fell. The relief in his eyes as the embers settled. Those tiny scratches on his palms. She remained perfectly still, crouched on the linoleum, her ears filled with the sound of her own shuddering breaths, for perhaps 30 seconds… one minute… two minutes…

She heard the impossible man on the other side of the door sigh deeply, almost as if in pain, and then heard his shoes stepping off the doorstep and onto the gravel path. Suddenly, before she could change her mind, she said loudly, "Ten minutes?"

The steps halted. A pause. "…Yes."

An even longer pause on her end. "…Let me think." A thick, waiting silence ensued.

Ok, Velma, think; if there's one thing you can do, it's think! I'm not going out there—that should be self-evident. And, of course, I can't let him in. But… She thought of the cold rain dripping into his eyes; the way he'd been shivering lightly, his jacket wrapped tightly around him in the chill air. The same jacket that was flecked with tiny black marks where the blazing embers had landed. "Walk around to the back of the house," she decided aloud. "There's a covered porch. It's unlocked." She heard his shoes crunching on the gravel once more, and white-hot terror suddenly erupted behind her eyes. "Stay away from the inside door," she hissed vehemently. The footsteps stopped, then started again, walking around the house.

Oh God, what did I do? Velma thought as she raced to the door that opened onto the porch. It was locked, of course, just as she always locked it at night, but she pulled on the doorknob to be sure, then reached up to the chain latch and locked that, too. Then she ran back to the kitchen, pulling open drawers. She briefly contemplated a long, sharp carving knife, then changed her mind—too easy to use against her. From another drawer, she grabbed a small can of mace and concealed it in the sleeve of her robe, for easy access. I wonder if mace works on ghosts, she thought, with a small, hysterical giggle. She also took the wireless phone from its base and put that in the robe's pocket, her thumb hovering over the speed dial button for Emergency Call.

None of this would matter, not really—she remembered the ease with which Ben had hurled fireballs from his bare hands at the Mystery Machine, the way he had leapt from rooftop to rooftop with inhuman strength and speed. It would take more than bit of pepper spray and a 911 call to stop him, if he wanted to hurt her. Even if he is somehow human, not a… She stopped herself there. She couldn't think the word "ghost" again; she couldn't think any of this, because if she stopped to think she wouldn't do it, she wouldn't open the door, because logically she shouldn't open the door, she should go back upstairs and barricade herself inside her room and call the gang…

But those tiny scratches and burn marks that had plagued her memories for two years urged her on, against all reasoning. She walked back through the house before she could change her mind and flipped the switch for the porch light. It turned on, a glaring yellow globe, and she saw Ben on the porch through the glass pane in the door, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness. Somehow, that tiny moment—Ben's arm shading his eyes from the harsh yellow light—made it real, truly real for the first time.

"I'm coming out now," she said loudly, dimly amazed at how level her voice sounded, how calm and in control. "Stay away from the door." Ben shuffled backward until his back almost touched the screen walls of the porch, then stopped, watching the door intently. Velma slowly unlocked the handle and cautiously opened the door as wide as the chain would allow. He made no move. She unlocked the chain and stepped out.

They regarded each other silently.

Velma took in Ben's outfit—exactly the same as it had been two years ago, down to the scuff marks on the knees that had marked his last act of rescuing her from the flaming branch. Her stomach twisted oddly. Water dripped slowly down his ponytail to the porch floor. He took off his glasses and tried, vainly, to dry them on his soaked shirt, only managing to smear them, and replaced them with a small huff. Behind the glasses, his eyes were still that same impossibly deep brown, almost black, like midnight pools of unfathomable depth—and despite everything, they still stole her breath away.

Ben saw a young woman in a long flannel nightgown, thick-rimmed glasses, floppy slippers, and a bathrobe. Her chestnut hair was a little longer than it had been when he last saw her, and it was still untidy from sleep. Somehow, the longer hair made her look much more adult than he remembered. Her face was pale and scared, making her freckles stand out even more, and her hazel eyes were filled with questions.

Neither one spoke for a long time. Then Velma said quietly, "…How?"

Ben swallowed, and gestured vaguely with one hand, as if trying to catch the answer in the air, before appearing to give up. "I… was hoping you could tell me."

"What?" Her voice was still level, but she was surprised to hear cold fury underneath its calm.

Ben sat down in an old chair, crossing his legs in a show of casualness. He seemed to be studying his hands intently. "Three days ago, I was in Oakhaven. In the Puritan Village. Summoning Sarah Ravencroft." Velma opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a gesture. "The last thing I remember from that night was her hand on my ankle, taking me into the Book with her."

He paused and looked at her, holding her with his gaze as easily as one might drive a pin through an Actias luna specimen. Velma wanted to speak, but she had no idea what to say.

Ben resumed speaking. "I woke up the next day on the damp grass. I could barely see. I felt around for my glasses, but they weren't there. It was very early morning; the sun was still rising. As I felt my way through the streets, everything seemed to be in the wrong place. Hardly anyone else was out so early. I think I heard someone walking a dog, and a few cars, but no one passed close enough to notice me.

"I don't know how, but I managed to make it home. There was a padlock on the gate, but it was broken. When I opened the door, it smelled like a tomb—stale air and dust. I felt around until I found the drawer where I kept my spare pair of glasses. Thankfully, they were still there."

Velma found herself nodding in sympathy, relating to the tiny trials and tribulations of being half-blind. She stopped herself, angrily.

"Everything in my home was covered in dust. The fridge and cupboards were bare, the power was off, and the phone was useless. A few of the windows were shattered, like someone had thrown rocks at them, and there were mouse droppings on the floor." His lip curled in distaste.

"I went outside again, and saw for certain what I had already suspected—it wasn't autumn anymore. The ground was a muddy slush, and I could smell spring in the air, like it is on the heels of winter, when winter is still fighting back."

Velma thought she knew where this was going by now, but she was still listening in intent anticipation. Ben always could tell a good story—it was why, after everything, his entire collection was still on a shelf in her reading room.

"I saw a newspaper vending box on a corner. I suppose you know what the date on the papers was." Velma nodded slowly. Ben continued, his voice rising up the vocal registers in frustration. "Long story short, Jack's restaurant is now a blasted Red Robin, my house seems to be some sort of local legend that boys throw stones at for a dare, it's two and a half years later, and no one will tell me what the hell happened! I've gone from the town's golden boy to the local pariah, and I don't think any of them even know why. Even Mayor—excuse me, former Mayor—Corey and Mr. McKnight don't seem to remember what really happened that night!" Ben caught himself nearly shouting in his confused anger, and stopped dead. Velma, whose thumb was almost on the Emergency Call button in her pocket, relaxed slightly.

"I just… I need to know," Ben almost whispered, sounding suddenly forlorn. "Velma… what happened to me?"

Velma moistened her lips, afraid to speak it aloud. "The tree. It was burning." The words came out haltingly, painfully. "After… and then Sarah—and you went into the book…" There was a lump in her throat. She swallowed. "Another branch fell on the book. It caught fire." A long, pregnant pause. "There was nothing left."

Ben's eyes widened, and something like terror flashed briefly across his face—there and gone in an instant—but when he spoke, his voice was eerily calm, even serene. "…I see." He spoke with what seemed to be no more than mild surprise. "I died." His brow creased a little as he contemplated this. "But I suppose I really knew that already, didn't I?" he asked lightly, of no one in particular. "How interesting." He rolled the words around in his mouth musingly, tasting them, trying them on for size. "I died…"

Velma snapped back to herself. "No," she said flatly.

Ben looked at her in surprise, jerked out of his reverie. "No," she said again, "you didn't. People don't come back from the dead." She spoke louder now, with conviction. "There are reports of resurrection throughout recorded history. They all have one thing in common: they don't have a shred of proof. I'll accept witches, warlocks, and even ghosts once I see the evidence. But for you to tell me that you died, mysteriously stayed dead for two years, and somehow miraculously rose again, all to stand there dripping water on my porch…" She shook her head, venom stinging in her voice. "No. It's a good story, Ben, but that's all it is. I don't know how you survived, or why you're lying, and I don't care." She turned sharply on her slippered heel, her bathrobe whipping like a cape. "It's been over ten minutes. Get off my porch."

Ben's expression shattered like brittle glass, exposing sheer despair etched plainly onto his face, but Velma was already walking back to the door, and she didn't see it. He recovered himself quickly. "Fine. Lovely. I'll be leaving first thing in the morning, then." The note of bitterness in his voice was plain, as was the challenge in his words.

Velma froze in place, still with her back to him. She took a deep, shuddering breath to compose herself. "…In the morning?"

"Yes, Velma. If you haven't noticed, it's—" he checked his watch "—almost 4:00 a.m., pouring rain, in the middle of bugger-all nowhere!"

Now she turned. "How did you get here? How did you even find me?"

Ben waved his hand dismissively. "Some drunk at the local pub gave me directions, and I hitched as close as I could. I walked the last few miles."

"Good. Great." Two spots of red were burning brightly on Velma's cheeks. Her eyes were furious. "I really don't see how any of that is my problem." She started to turn away again. Ben caught her forearm, and she recoiled from his touch in disgust. "Let go of me!" The mace and the phone concealed in her robe were entirely forgotten—her anger overwhelmed her fear, and erased any thought of them.

Ben ignored this. "Listen, that isn't your problem, but I am."

"What does that mean?"

"You're going to tell your little friends all about this, yes?" His lip twisted in an unpleasant smile. There was a decidedly nasty note in his voice now. "What do you suppose they're going to think of you, if I leave and there's no evidence I was ever here?"

Velma blanched. She remembered how cautiously the gang had acted around her for weeks after the Oakhaven incident—as if she were made of glass, or a bomb about to go off. They would think she'd cracked. She couldn't blame them. She barely believed she wasn't crazy. She paused indecisively.

"Then again, if I left, I suppose I could find some of the other members of your little club…" he mused, smirking. "Maybe they'd be more hospitable." The implied threat was only too clear.

Ben released her arm and stared smugly at her. He was manipulating her, and he didn't even care to hide it. Velma glared back with frustrated fury. "…Fine," she said at last.

"Excellent!" Ben gave a falsely bright grin. "Where am I sleeping?"

"I'm not letting you in my house," Velma spat.

"So where?"

"You can stay right here. There's an old couch, sleep on that." And with that, she all but ran back inside, slamming the door. He heard the click of a deadbolt, then the soft sliding rattle of a chain being latched.

Left alone, Ben turned around with a sigh. He ran both hands through the front of his hair, thinking. That had been nasty, really nasty. He hadn't planned on saying any of that. He'd just been so angry… and so afraid she'd turn him out, he'd have said anything to stop it. He knew that if they'd parted ways that night, it would have been for good. He wouldn't have had the courage to return, and even if he had, she'd never let him anywhere near her. The thought of never seeing Velma again… it terrified him in ways he didn't understand.

She wasn't supposed to matter. She was just a dumb kid. He shouldn't care what she thought of him. But for some stupid, infuriating reason, he did care.

Ben sighed again, and lay down on the lumpy, worn couch. It was slightly damp, and it smelled musty. He elbowed the pillows, trying to get comfortable. He shuddered—he was still soaked through, and now that the heat of anger had left him, he was freezing. But at last, exhaustion overcame discomfort, and he fell into an uneasy sleep.

Velma watched him through the window. He looked so cold. Her rage faded quickly, leaving behind a confused tangle of emotions. She watched as Ben slept fitfully, shivering…

...

A pile of something soft was unceremoniously dumped onto Ben's head, waking him. He blinked sleepily, and put on his glasses just in time to see the door slam again. The lock clicked decisively.

He examined the pile of fabric. It turned out to be several towels and an ancient-looking quilt. He smiled to himself as he began to dry off. "Thanks, Velma…"