PART 6: Symphony of Damnation
The bright beams of the projectors, their sharpness comparable to the rays of the sun, were aimed at them. The two stood in the center of attention, their next move awaited by everybody with eagerness. He himself felt the suspense of the moment, the unparalleled feeling of being the king of the screen, even if only for a moment. Every word, every comment, even every gesture, was accompanied by encouragement and applauses. The studio was like a pot where interest was boiling like water with all other ingredients already added and it was necessary to make sure that the needed nectar was not underdone.
He had to admit—being in the spotlight was really great, classic, epic…the right words could be put in a line.
"So what's it gonna be, boys?" the announcer, his smile as stylish as his suit, finally addressed them after a pause and thinking time.
"Will you be trading for the plane…" with those words, his assistant brought everyone's attention to the big red-grey winged form that still somehow managed to fit in the studio.
"…the house…" somewhat misleading, what their charismatic host was referring to was a devoutly and ingeniously designed dog-booth, a small marvel of architecture but a marvel nevertheless.
"…or what's in…the box?" as he continued the bargain like an experienced trader, he highlighted the final word, his tone for some unknown reason sounding somewhat insidious in Shaggy's ears, but he thought it was just a vocal effect.
The final item was inferior to its predecessors in both size and splendor; an ordinary chest a person would be able to hold with two hands. The play of colors, red and dark, did not add any elegance to it, and the only decoration—if it could even be called one— gave an impression of being copied from a bas-relief from a Gothic cathedral. Whoever crafted that definitely had had a bad time the day before—so grim it was. On the bright side, it was not the chest itself that was at bid but its mysterious contents that might have lay anywhere in a range between a half-eaten apple and a yacht.
The time to make the final choice was now. Common sense told that there was only one option—the plane, but logic was not fully operational that moment. Not between Scooby's begging for the house and the cacophony of voices in favor of the mystifying box.
"The box! The box!" the shouts coming from the audience continued. Strangely, the carriers of those voices and the platform that accommodated them did not stand in Shaggy's view but he came to a conclusion that the studio's layout was to blame.
The calls were so encouraging and certain that Scooby too submitted to them. The owner and the pet exchanged whispers only to conclude that their decision was a shared one.
"We'll take…"he started, speaking on behalf of them both, "…the box!" he too emphasized the word, in homage to the announcer.
Their decision was met by another round of applauding; horns were blown in ovation. And somewhere in this symphony, the faint melody of common sense was left unheard.
"Care to comment on your decision?" the ever-confident host passed the young man the microphone as he rejoined them by their side.
"Well, let's just say it was a dumb hunch," Shaggy replied to his enquiry, his explanation ending with his trademark light chuckle.
The table crowned with their choice of prize was quickly wheeled to them by the assistant.
"Well, let's see how dumb this hunch of yours really is!" the announcer concluded, his witty remark fused with light but still fiendish traits.
He placed his hands on the chest, Scooby doing the same. Together they pushed the lid up while what they thought as millions of pairs of eyes across the households of America were at them. They heard a distant but familiar voice call out to the Great Dane in a warning, but it was too late…They would hear the bearer of that voice several seconds later commenting in a accepting semi-defeatist manner: 'Never mind'.
The duo actually headed that voice, yet the chest's lid was already slightly open, so it made no difference…
He initially thought it was part of the surprise. The chest virtually erupted as if a geyser sprung out of it, yet not a single geyser in the known world had waters of a fiery red color. Could this weird content be compared to volcanic magma? They were truly comparable in fury, but the similarity ended there. Lava radiated unparalleled heat—whatever this was did not. It did not even feel physical for that matter…Everything became even more bizarre and got decorated with dread when the crown of this pillar took shape. It resembled a skull, a deformed one with mountain goat-like horns. This frightening phenomenon now seemed like a real-life model to the chest's bas-relief. In a repulsive, in light of the moment, twist of criticism, it had to be admitted that a piece of art could not truly capture the full traits of its source of inspiration.
The bas-relief looked though ugly but lifeless nevertheless, its model, on the other hand, released an aura of horror around the place. Infernal flames were burning in the eyeless sockets; the non-physical skull lacked a lower jaw that could complete a mouth, but the blazing beam that might have been both neck and tongue brought the same associations to its maw. A sound, hissing and howling at the same time, cut the air.
"What is that?" the horror of the mere sight making breathing hard, the panic-filled pair called out to their host as if the latter was a guide and guardian, frantically hoping to find an acceptable answer.
"Thirteen ghosts in a wide variety of shapes and powers!" the charismatic voice of the announcer had disappeared completely, replaced by an accent of madness, "And they're all yours!" he proclaimed the last part with the zeal of a sadist.
The pair of demonic orbs was staring back at them, and for the first time in his life Shaggy Rogers thought he met the true gaze of the fiery abyss…
If this anomaly had remained static, that would have been enough for a redeeming side. However, there was more to it than a blazing geyser. A wave of force was unleashed that threw the duo and the chest aside. The surroundings changed and now resembled what it was supposed to be—the dark chamber of a centuries-old abandoned temple. The only thing that now illuminated the area was the ghostly form. It had undergone a change, morphing into a ram-like shape but still embellished by its skull regalia.
The combined avatar of the thirteen ghosts lost no time and proceeded forward, driven only by its twisted demonic glory.
"Just listen to them cheer, Bogle! Those demons love us!" the one who had posed as the game's host told his 'assistant', admiring the result of their efforts. The guises were now off as they stood in their authentic appearances…those of ghosts.
"And they're coming here to thank us!" his accomplice gave his interpretation of the supernatural kinesis.
They took proud poses, adored smiles on their ethereal faces in preparation for the ovation they thought they would get. Yet gratitude was a term unfamiliar to the damned. The infernal ram simply ran over them, molding them to the stone floor in a reminder of their respective places in the hierarchy and that a lord would not shake hands with a serf.
The abomination continued its movement, no obstacle capable of standing in the way. It did not really go through walls: a hole of its size and shape was left when it passed, as if an unknown vapor had eaten away the solid stone. The same fate befell the temple's outer wall; the work of ancient masonry that had stood through time and cold was not ready to be tested by the paranormal.
The joint incarnation of the thirteen did not roll anymore—it flew further in the heavens, following a set trajectory. Then it disappeared in a great red flash that engulfed the sky; a lone burst of thunder as it happened.
Thirteen scarlet fires were swirling in the skies above in paths unnatural for all known celestial phenomena. The howls did not cease—it felt that the world itself was screaming, wretched by the reincarnated but long-familiar evil. The fires whirled for a bit more before they flashed like falling stars, each in its own direction, leaving behind them crimson trails as if the sky itself was bleeding.
"There go thirteen of the foulest specters and ghouls on Earth!" commented their new acquaintance, the sorcerer Vincent van Ghoul as they stood by the newly-made hole, "And they'll haunt the world until they're returned to the chest", even his ever-confident manner could not hide his stun.
A question slid Shaggy's lips, and in response, the warlock handed the chest that he made materialize in his hands to the Great Dane with a recommendation to figure it out themselves. The young man tried to object but the sorcerer's argument was unbeatable.
"The ghosts can only be captured by those who set them free," he said, "meaning you!" he emphasized it with a gesture.
The cold Himalayan wind that waved his cloak made spellcaster and his speech more mystifying. Another object materialized in his hand, the spherical shape of a crystal ball. Shaggy, just like the other members of the gang had come across such items before, but something told him that, unlike previous cases, this was a working one.
Vincent handed it to Daphne with an explanation on its purpose and a joke about finding him in the yellow pages.
It was now official: a new adventure was beginning. The plane got into the air again, although Shaggy could not understand the mechanics of keeping an engine running on some sort of juice-cocktail-shampoo-whatever liquid. And truth to tell, he did not even care that much. He was glad that the grim scenery was now behind, and disappeared completely hidden by the cotton-themed clouds. Nevertheless he left with a substitute of a souvenir from the unplanned travel destination. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the familiar sight of the blazing horned skull, a vision that prompted him to stay awake.
He wondered if he was the only one to go through it or did the same was happening to Scooby as well. He would ask some other time—he had enough nightmarish sensations for one day.
He was sitting quietly in the kitchen. The temple was now far away in Tibet or Northern India, or whatever land it was; the ghosts had scattered across the four corners of the world; and the unpleasant spoils of his win remained with him. The words of the mysterious sorcerer kept replaying in his mind. The full scale of the problem was hard to comprehend; these were real ghosts, not masked criminals, and so the rules by which the game was played were now different.
Shaggy turned to the fridge. Heating lasagna sounded like a good idea, but unnaturally, his mouth did not water at the thought. There was one thing dominating his mind: stun. The rotten taste of shock from the nightmarish sight could have spoiled any following meal. No point in wasting food by spitting it out, especially if the problem was not in it. Perhaps neglecting supper this evening was not a bad idea…but by such thoughts he could tell something was wrong with him. He was afraid the infernal gaze made more damage than an average scary sight. He might need to have a session with a psychologist or maybe with a mystic even.
"So much for the relaxing vacation," he thought as he stood up and left the kitchen.
He found the dogs in the living room, in the company of their other new acquaintance, Flim Flam. The Asian kid was entertaining the dogs with his tricks.
"So guys, where's the ball?" he asked them, referring to the tiny object hidden underneath one of the three cups before him.
"Ri now!" Scooby replied, "Rit's here!" he pointed at the cup on the left.
"My thought exactly, Uncle Scooby," the pooch agreed, "it's here!"
The boy lifted the cup up but the only thing hidden underneath it turned out to be the area of the carpet it had covered. Flim Flam revealed its location—under the central one. The two dogs exchanged surprised glances.
"How does he do it?" Scrappy asked.
The kid turned his head upward.
"Hey there, Shaggy!" he greeted him, "wanna join in?"
"No thanks, maybe next time," he politely declined the invitation.
"You don't know what you're missing," Scrappy said, "Flim Flam is an ace at this."
Shaggy wondered. What terminology could best describe the boy's presence in their household? They had agreed to take him with them; his skills could definitely prove useful in the hunt for the thirteen ghosts. But how would one define it legally? Adoption? They had not filled any papers. Did they simply smuggle him into the country? Somehow it seemed like it. Did the kid even have a passport, and if so, the citizenship of what country did he hold? Beyond doubt, they would need to sort out this issue, otherwise they risked a visit from the man from the illegal immigration control board and who knew who else.
He left them to their game as he made his way to the staircase. There was enough time to visit a lawyer, a consultant, or psychologist later; he had seen enough representatives of different backgrounds in the last twenty-four hours—ghosts, warlocks, self-isolationist villagers with a curse over their heads. There was only one person he still wanted to see that day.
The door to their room was open, so he saw her straight away. She was standing by the window, her back to him. She had not spoken to him throughout the duration of the return flight.
He approached her unnoticeably, and gently wrapping his hands around her, gave his partner a loving kiss on the cheek.
"Cozying up to me won't make me soften up on you, Shaggy," she replied unemotionally, continuing to look at the view outside.
These words were probably second only to the Demon Chest when it came to disturbing feelings, but Shaggy did not lose the ground beneath him.
"Oh, c'mon, Daph," he said, patting her shoulder, "don't tell me you're angry because of a failed vacation. Remember, you wanted us to go to Bali rather than Hawaii?" he kept his cool, but unfortunately that did not guarantee winning the case.
"It's not about the vacation," she started just as remotely as before, "I'm angry because you set a group of the worst undead free."
She stepped out of his embrace before turning to him. To him, churning her last words was like a brick in the face.
"I…" he wanted to find what did not exist, a proper response.
"Me and Scooby…we were tricked," he finally mumbled.
But that was not new information to the redhead; he and the dog described the incident on their way home.
"Well, I can understand Scooby, but what were YOU thinking about when all of it was happening?" Daphne put her hands on her hips in annoyance.
That was another score for her, he had to admit.
He remembered those glittering scenes: the stage and its equipment, the sun-like lights of the projectors, the applauses of the audience…and how all of it just disappeared in a few moments after the opening of the chest. The latter fact was additionally chilling. The host and assistant turned out to be fakes—that meant the background was fake as well. It was unsettling to think that all of this was just an illusion, a skilled deception for the eye. It had felt so real, but then again, so was the trait of the genre of deceit.
Yet the scariest part arose when he remembered the voices, cheering and encouraging, the influence of which played a significant role in the drama that unfolded. Were they too an illusion? Or perhaps the ancient walls of the silent monastery hid inside more than two ghosts? Shaggy felt as if a handful of snow fell down the back of his neck. The notion that he and Scooby opened the chest under the stares and clapping of a legion of specters nearly made him shake and be grateful of the ignorance he displayed back then.
And of course there was the third option—those voices were coming from inside the chest itself. That was the most troubling in the whole selection. The Thirteen then were not just messing with his but having withdrawn their musical instruments made him dance under their tune like a circus bear.
He made a brief account of the incident, referencing the newest interpretations.
"It was some sort of illusion or something. It felt so real…" he said in the end, explaining it to Daphne and reminding it to himself.
"And you didn't notice the absurdity of the whole situation?" as displayed by her tone, Daphne remained unconvinced.
"Sorry, didn't get you there," he said.
"So you mean you didn't find it illogical that a famous American game show was held in an abandoned Buddhist monastery somewhere in the Himalayan region? Not at a studio in Los Angeles or New York, for example?" she continued her assault, "Where was your logical thinking?" she added.
She was right yet again, but in this case, against their shared wishes, every point for her was a stab with a knife for him. The feeling with the opening of the chest had left him was stun, but now he felt guilt join it on the pedestal. The new emotion quickly pushed its rival of the dais. He was now ashamed, and Daphne's words provided the reason.
"I…they played their cards right," his breathing trembled, he felt bitter, but he had to say something in his defense.
"Only because you agreed to play by their rules!" she snapped, "Moreover, wasn't picking the plane common sense? Think about it?"
It was probably the heat of the moment, but he was feeling so dumb that he thought even a slice of cheese would have made a pick logically in his place.
"C'mon, Daphne, don't be like this," he requested—no, made a plea to reach out to her.
"Fine," she had mercy on him, "but I hope you understand how much you goofed there."
She walked to the bookshelves and picked up a random tome; the redhead sat down into a chair and opened the book. It was not hard to understand the reasoning—this was a method to divert her attention from an unpleasant topic, not because she suddenly got an interest in reading a volume. Shaggy calmly walked out of the room, not wishing to act as a further irritant.
He found refuge in a guest room; there he lay on his back in bed. His eyes were closed, yet his mind remained awake. He was thinking but not about ghosts, but about his blunder, his act of ultimate stupidity. He wondered if there was a deed in the world that could ever redeem him…
He did not know for how long he had stayed in this trance. He heard the door open but he could not say if it happened in the dream or the real realm. The intruder sat on the bed beside him.
He felt a soft palm caress his cheek, a touch so pleasantly familiar.
"You're not sleeping, are you," sounded a gentle voice, not in a question but affirmation.
"Daphne," he slowly opened his eyes, and taking her hand into his, brought it to his lips.
"I hope I wasn't too hard on you," she said in her traditional caring tone; her anger seemed to have disappeared.
"Think nothing of it," he said as he sat up, still holding her hand in his.
"Do you forgive me?" he asked her.
"You didn't actually betray me for me to forgive you," she smiled as she lightly squeezed his arm in reassurance.
He buried his face in her hair as they embraced and decided to leave that quarrel behind.
"Daphne," he whispered lovingly as he barely managed to hold a tear from escaping.
He was hoping love melted the icy wall that was keeping them apart from each other earlier that evening, but he was not sure, a familiar inner voice unconvinced by his desperate hope.
He would later admit that few things disappear without a trace, and unfortunately, that was not the case. He had opened the chest; though it was not the shout in the mountainous heights to bring about an avalanche, yet it was a portion of snow on the slope that contributed to it.
—
Author's Note: Hope you liked my take on the pilot episode of the '13 Ghosts of Scooby Doo', folks.