Hello again. This is my freshly re-edited chapter, and will be much better in form of writing quality. I can tell you now that there will be much more horror input then there was before.

You have been warned. Now read on.

DISCLAIMER: Shame that I don't. But can you imagine this as an actual episode aired on TV? Neither can I; that's why I don't own it. Bye.

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Chapter Two:

Death and Life Again

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--l--

(=)--(=)--(=)

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The gang reluctantly crawled out of the now-completely battered Mystery Machine into the cold, wet rain to inspect the damage. And it wasn't pretty.

The van was an absolute mess. It had flipped as it had tumbled down into the rocky gulch, and was now upside down, its nose buried in the rocks. The wheels were spinning uselessly in the air, three of them slashed to nothing but hanging shreds of rubber, and the fourth one nowhere in sight. The once-brightly colored sides were now coated in dirt and mud, the paint job scraped and scratched so that the words were almost illegible, and the metal sides were almost completely crushed in. There was no spot on the entire van that hadn't been, at the very least, dented, and the windows were shattered, leaving only a few fragile pieces of glass left in the frames. The door that had been torn off when the van had rolled over down the rocky gorge was to be seen further up the slope, and the doors were hanging and several awkward angles.

To say it bluntly in a nutshell, the Mystery Machine was trashed. And, needless to say, so was Fred. Now, in most situations, most people who would've survived such a horrible accident and emerged from it unscathed wouldn't've given a rat's furry black ass about what had happened to the car. But of course, there are those few who see the damage of a beloved vehicle they may have driven since high school and let out a wail. Which is exactly what Fred did at that moment.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" he cried out. "My baby, she's—she's ruined! Noooooooooooooo." He collapsed to his knees, and had almost begun to cry. Velma and Scooby just rolled their eyes, but Daphne, being the loyal girlfriend, knelt next to him and tried to comfort him.

"Fred, get over yourself. It can be fixed. I think." Daphne said. And even as she said this, one of the front doors, which had already been hanging off of its hinges, fell off, scraping a bit against the rough ground. At this, Fred let out another wail, and buried his head in his hands. The redhead just sighed, and threw her arms up in the air, exasperated by his behavior, and moved away.

"Roh, rhut it." Scooby snapped at him. "Re rotta rind Rhaggy. Re right be rurt."

"Scooby's right, guys. Fred, get over yourself. The van can be fixed, it'll just take a while to fix it. For the meantime, we have to find Shaggy. He might be hurt really badly. I mean, who knows? He might even be dying." Velma started to look around for any sign as to where he might be.

"Oh, be serious, Velma. I bet he's fine. He probably just went to find a—" Daphne was cut off by a shriek. She and the gang looked over to where it came from.

Velma was staring at something. Her face was white. "Velma, are you okay?" Fred asked. "Velma?"

She could only gape and point at the sight before her eyes, her hand shaking violently. And as the gang approached her, they too saw what she was seeing, and gasped at what they saw. "You don't think—It can't be—R'It's rot—"

"I think it is," Velma stated, struggling not to overreact to the situation at hand. It was then that everyone snapped to the task at hand, searching the area around them frantically, calling out Shaggy's name, desperate to hear a response.

For what the bespectacled girl had discovered was something startling, something frightening, something that made them cringe in fear.

The spattering of their friend's blood across the rocks around them.

(6)--(6)--(6)

The darkness was growing.

The shadows were gathering.

And Shaggy was more afraid then he had ever been in his entire life.

He struggled to breathe; his thin, lean body was adorned with numerous wounds. He could barely remember what had happened. All he could recall was a flash, a thunderous crack, struggling to do... something to help someone he loved dearly, slipping, tumbling, falling, then--

Pain. Harsh, unadultered, throbbing, nauseating, red pain. And he'd been here ever since.

He tried to sit up, and yelped as something scraped against the fresh, bleeding wound. A rusted steel spike had pierced his stomach during the tumble, and it seemed to be lodged in him rather securely. Blood was everywhere. It was all that he could see; that and the grey sky.

Blood and sky. Blood and sky. Soon the two had blurred together. To him, it was raining blood from the heavens, an apocalyptic storm that made everything around him go still and numb, as if the world had been injected with morphine and had slowed to a complete and silent halt. And yet, he found that this feeling of senselessness and numbness felt good. Death wasn't so bad in its final moments, he mused amusingly.

It felt good to die.

It was now that the shadows started to swirl about his vision, making the sky above him turn a beautiful shade of black, and causing the world around him to blur together.

Blood and shadows. Shadows and sky. Blood and sky. Sky and shadows. It cycled round and round, never once bothering to cease its dizzying movements, and it was all that he was capable of being aware of in the little life that was left in him.

It was all that he knew enough to know about at the moment. And nothing else mattered.

The world around him was muted and soft, except for the sound of rain as it washed his blood away, down the cracks and crevices in the old, worn stones, while the shadows slowly crept across his icy, death-chilled flesh. The cool, inky darkness felt good to his hot, fevered skin; it was all he could recognize when it came to feeling anything.

It was all that mattered to him now. So when the shadows slithered up his face, he did not fear them; he embraced them willingly.

And they took him to their domain.

They began by turning the world into a soft, dark nothing, like he felt he had now become, swirling before his eyes in a slow, intricate dance that was like nothing he had ever witnessed; he began to wonder why he had been so afraid before. The darkness was so cool, so soft, so—peaceful. It was like nothing he had ever felt.

It was bliss. And nothing more.

He found himself at the edge of an abyss, the shadows beckoning for him to join them while a dim, grey sky-like light hovered uneasily above his head. He could feel himself being willed forward, felt what he thought was his feet step calmly towards the edge; he wanted to immerse himself in the only thing that was everything and nothing, that was peace and war, love and hatred, salvation and desperation, fear and comfort, but all was darkness, no matter which way you looked at it. There was a dark side to everything, he learned, but if you knew what it was, you could control the world.

It was then that a long-dormant part within him rose up, an inheritance from a man he'd never really known passed on to an unwilling and unknowing child; it wanted to be immersed in what could only be described as true power.

And so did he.

The shadows rose to meet him; they embraced him with their cool, forgiving touch, lifting him from the ground, and making his soul feel lighter then a feather on the wind. He let them slide over his skin, through his hair, and, finally, into his eyes. He saw things like he never saw them before. Everything was clearer now; everything was real, concrete; it was the world as he'd never known it.

He finally saw the truth.

The shadows whispered a question into his ears; their voices spoke as one in a gentle, blissful sigh:

Will you join us?

He felt himself nod; this was what he truly wanted, all that he could ever desire from a life. All he ever wanted...

Then step forward.

He lifted his foot, to step over the edge, and plummet him into that mystically soft, cool world of all that a person could know and do. He wanted to feel the wind against his skin as he tumbled eagerly into the darkness that awaited him below, flying into the unknown, even sooner to know what it was that was unknown to begin with. And all that it would take from him was one step. One single, tiny, insignificant little step.

One little step. He raised his arms up as if in praise and worship as the shadows themselves continued to lift him up higher into the air, surrounding his body with the sweetest silkiest strands of black that one could ever know of; and he prepared to let himself fall.

"NO!" A voice tore through the silent storm by the endless abyss, and the intricate little dance stopped abruptly at the intrusion. They turned, as one, towards the one who had dared to stop their ceremony, and kept them waiting for their newest servant. "YOU WILL NOT TAKE ANOTHER, SO LONG AS I EXIST!" An old man hobbled towards them with amazing speed. He reached up and grabbed them by the arm and yanked them down, tugging them along with surprising strength. "Come along, boy, you're coming with me."

They resisted. They wanted to stay. They wanted to stay in the silence that was The Darkness. They didn't want to leave, to go back to the harsh, cruel world that was Life.

They wanted to stay, and they were going to; even if it ended up killing them all. But it seemed that the old man wasn't going to take no for answer, and this was seen at the shocking actions that he did next. He roared out with a gutteral war cry; and, with a strength and anger that seemed almost inhuman, he ripped away the spike that had lodged itself within the torso of the new creature, pulling away the shadows from their newly gained host.

And they screamed.

The sound of a shadow as it screams is like no other, especially if it is removed forcefully from its prey. Imagine the sound of bloody fingernails scraping across a chalkboard; the scream of a young girl as she is raped and murdered by a close and trusted confidante; the snarl of a rabid dog as it attacks the master it once adored; and the howl of a dying wolf on a moonless night. Now combine them all together, and multiply it by 13.

That was the scream of a shadow as it was ripped apart.

The horrendous shriek of those cruel and deciving dark tendrils echoed throughout the gorge. The gang tried to block their ears, but it was to no avail; it shot thorugh to their souls, and would be a part of their memories for a very long while yet. A few miles away at the castle, The Master smiled, a malicious, twisted sight to behold on one so heartless and cruel. The Bloodbeast by his side howled at this wondrous sound of torture and pain. Ombra barely flinched; he had heard it so often, it scarcely bothered him any more.

And the hearts of the dead beat once more.

(6)--(6)--(6) . . . . . . . . . (6)--(6)--(6)

Shaggy opened his eyes to a grey, shadowed world that was speckled widely with crimson.

He tried to sit up, so as to see where he was, and collapsed almost instantly upon the rough and rocky ground. A sharp spasm of pain ran throughout his torso, and he yelped in pain at the throbbing around his wound grew worse. He screwed his eyes shut as the pulsing grew worse; and for some strange reason, now found the darkness comforting. It was strange of course, but if it took his mind off of whatever had happened to him, it was alright in his book; or at least, he thought it was.

"Stay still, my boy, I'm trying to get this thing out." An old, yet familiar voice greeted him. "Now, I'm gonna do this as quickly as I possibly can, so be prepared for a bit of pain."

"Be prep—?" he murmured, before the first wave of pain hit. He gasped; he couldn't believe how much this hurt.

A second wave rippled throughout him. He yelped again, his stomach burning as the spike was, slowly, extracted. Every time the spike seemed to slow, or hit a part where it began to shred part of a sensitive nerve or organ tissue, another surge of pain would ripple throughout his entire body, making him yelp like a starving dog would when a nail was being removed from its paw in an agonizingly slow manner.

Only it was so much worse then that in so many ways.

There was, however unlikely it may seem, one good side to this horrible, pulling, ripping, grinding, tearing, throbbing bloody pain: The gang, who'd been growing more and more panicked since they come across the now-clean rocks, had heard his cries of pain, and were coming to investigate what had made them.

They arrived just as the spike had finally been removed, coated thickly with crimson and skin bits. Ombra tossed it aside, where it landed with a clatter at their feet. Velma picked it up curiously, and when she saw just what it was slathered rather grotesquely with, she quickly dropped it . As the spike clattered yet again to the ground, it grasped the old man's attention; and when he turned towards the new intrusion, they saw what had really happened to their friend.

Shaggy was, in a fair but crude description, like the survivor of an attack by a horror movie monster. A gaping hole stood out against his blue t-shirt, rapidly soaking through the rest of his clothing, marking where his stomach and abdomen had once resided, torn through violently by the remainder of old iron stakes once used for a hiking trip that had made its way towards the gorge about 50 years before him. His face was scratched and bruised, an open gash oozing ominously on the side of his head. One of his legs was twisted the wrong way, almost certainly broken, and the skin of his right forearm was almost nonexistant. He was a car wreck victim and a rabid animal attack rolled together, losing blood more and more rapidly by the second; and it was then that the gang came screeching to a sudden realization that almost made their hearts stop:

He was probably going to die. And he was going to do it very, very soon.

A sound startled them from their stunned, still observation of their friend. "No chance you know this boy, do you?" The old man gestured towards the poor, hurting hippie, who was lying on the ground, whimpering every time he tried to move. His blood was oozing out faster, now that the steel spike had been removed. Blood trickled down the side of his mouth as he lay there, gasping for what were easily his final breath. And the gang could only stare, fear and panic pounding through them faster and faster as the seconds passed them by. Scooby was the first to break free of this paralysis.

"RHAGGY!" he yelled as he bounded forward, quickly skidding to a stop and sending gravel skipping across the rocky and muddy terrain. He sat down besides his dying master, and licked his face tenderly, as if his canine saliva could heal his best friend's wounds and just make everything that had happened that night go away, like a bad dream does whenever someone curls up with a beloved stuffed animal and a flashlight underneath a soft, warm blanket with a friend nearby in case the nightmare happens to return. And no one could blame the giant Great Dane for this; he loved his buddy, and didn't want him to die. Not like this.

Ombra, while all this was happening, just sat there, appearing to be mildly interested in the dirt and dried blood that lay trapped benath his old, frail fingernails. "So you do know him."

The rest of the gang had come over and kneeled by Scooby and Shaggy's side, worried looks seemingly carved into their young, innocent faces; they'd seen many things, but they'd never experienced death in such a harsh and personal way before, and it was startling to see for ones who'd never seen such a bloody scene save for in bad horror flicks. At the old man's casually disinterested words, they all glared at him angrily. "Of course we know him, he's our best friend," Velma spat out, both bitterly and mournfully. "Or, rather, he will have been our best friend. He's gonna die if we don't get him some help soon, and there doesn't seem to be any around for miles." At this, Scooby let out a long, pitiful wail, as fresh tears poured out of his large brown eyes. "Oh, Scooby." The bespectacled girl brought him closer to her side, stroking his large furry head comfortingly, as she stared helplessly at the man she cared so deeply about. As she held Scooby's head in her lap, she asked the old caretaker, "Can't you do anything to help him?"

He seemed momentarily startled by the question, but quickly recovered. "I think that there might be something, but let me introduce myself first. My name is Ombra Scorretto, and I'm the groundskeeper and head servant of Maledire Castle. I also have a—" He was interrupted by a sudden spluttering from the almost-lifeless form that lay before him.

It was so strange; even though his lungs burned like icy fire, his blood was seeping out of him at a rate of sevral pints per minute, and there was a gaping hole in his side and stomach, the boy somehow found the strength to speech, all the while feeling disconnected with the world around him and the people he cared about most. A single, simple question wheezed out through his sandy throat, and a wave of cold settled upin his skin again and again, waves of ice upon a tired, worn-away cove along the ocean.

"Did you j-just say—Maledire?" Shaggy struggled to sit up, but collapsed as the now-familiar icy wave rippled throughout his battered body. He gritted his teeth, but a whimper still managed to escape past his torn, gritty lips. Ombra looked at him admiringly as he managed to get to his elbows; he wouldn't have been able to move without screaming, yet, somehow, this young man was talking to him -somewhat, anyways- and struggling not to pass out.

"Yes," He answered him, "why?" This was not going to be good, the older man thought suspiciously, wondering what the answer would be. If this boy knew of the Maledire name, only trouble could follow; of that, he was certain. "Well, come along boy, tell me why that name rings a bell for you, hurry it up now."

Shaggy's breathing became harsh. He was on the verge of passing out again, and he was starting to see black spots swirl in front of his eyes, but he had to stay conscious. He had to find out what this man knew of what his mother had so feared once, and told him to as well. "I—My mother—knew family of that name." He gasped, struggling even harder now to breathe. His lungs didn't seem to be working, and the world was starting to turn grey again.

"Answer me, boy! What else do you know about the name Maledire?" Ombra grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled his face closer so that they were eye to eye, ignoring his cry of pain, and the outcry of protest that arose form his distressing friends that stood by his side. "Tell me now and I'll help to try and close up this hole in your stomach."

"Stop it! Can't you see that he's in pain? He's gonna die if you don't help him, so stop playing games and do what you need to do to help him!" Velma cried. She was on the verge of tears, some of which had already slipped down her cheeks, fogging up her glasses. As she took them off, her hands shaking as she tried to clean them on the hem of her soaked-through sweater, the decrepit servant felt a strange stab of pity shoot through him. The girl reminded him so much of his daughter... He shook his head clear of the fog of memories that threatened to descend on him; it definitely wasn't what he needed right now. But he acquiesced, nonetheless, and loosened his grip on the dying boy, trying to ignore the sniffling sounds that came from behind.

"That all depends on whether or not your friend will talk." Ombra said, indifferent to the boy's condition of life, and continued his staring contest with Shaggy. His eyes were so familiar, but he couldn't tell why. They sat like that for a few minutes before Shaggy finally spoke, his breath coming in sharp wheezes, the most unexpected words that Ombra could've ever anticipated to hear:

"First—husband—named—Male—dire," he rasped. And a slew of memories assaulted the old man, almost forcibly knocking him down, as the thunder rumbled in the distance. The Master had only had one wife... and this boy worried The Master... that could only mean...

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" He roared. He picked him up by the scruff of his blood-soaked t-shirt and threw him against a rockier area of the ground upon which they stood. "TELL ME! WHAT DID YOU SAY!?" As the old man advanced on the bloodied body of the bewildered beatnik, the gang rushed over and shoved him back roughly before he could attack their friend again. Despite all that was going on, the boy managed to speak up again.

"I—said—that her—first husband—was named—Male—dire," he replied, barely able to breathe now. His blood was pouring out much quicker now; if he didn't receive medical attention soon, it would be too late to save him. "But—why—would you—be interested—in that?"

The gang turned to stare at the old man, who was panting heavily from his outburst, just realizing how strangely he had reacted. "No—No reason. No reason at all," he stammered, quickly shaking it off as he strode towards the group of protective people again, pushing past the blond one who'd refused to get out of his way, kneeling down by his side. "Now, let's see about getting you fixed up, now, shall we?" Ombra siad as he changed the subject, inspecting the torn and empty wound. "It's a wonder that you're still alive." He began prodding around the hole, his fingers like sharp, bony icicles, causing the boy to wince frequently; that is, if one could call it wincing. He was barely able to move, much less grimace at any more pain then he could already deal with. "I think that I can patch this up somewhat until we can get you lot away from here, but it's gonna take some time."

"H-H-How l-lo-long?" the young man managed to choke out. Everything was turning black now. He could barely make out the reply, it sounded so distant. He could hear the gang talking to him, but it seemed incoherent, and patchy. Was it reassurance, or final goodbyes? He wished that he knew. Maybe it would give him peace in this pain that felt as if it had existed in his life for an eternity. It was now that he knew he oculd no longer hold off the inevitable. He stopped trying to cling to the light, and let himself sink into the comforting darkness; and as he did so, Shaggy heard something that chilled him to the bone:

A long, low guttural howl of a beast that was like no other, and a strange pounding that reverberated throughout the rough and rocky terrain around him, the ever-approaching pawsteps of a beast as it raced to greet its prey.

Ombra's hour was over.

The hunt had begun.

Maledire is pronounced (mal-leh-DEER-ay). That is all. Also, was this a good chapter (edit)? Let me know with a review if you're new. Thankies.
-Wolfalona-