PART 7: Tangled in the Arts
It was that time again. The time some of them waited eagerly, checking the calendar on a daily basis and almost crossing out the printed numbers as the fabled date was approaching.
The time of another TV marathon.
All the required provision was nearly done. Popcorn making was on its final stages, and soon they would be able to enjoy the dry crunching taste. The chips were always ready, luckily the nature of this snack was a real time-saver; the same applied to the soda pop. The only thing left was to bring the treats into the room and a great time of late-night TV watching was guaranteed.
Shaggy just hoped that night's entertainment would be different than that of the previous time when they stayed up late. That time they really got consumed by the program, literally; that movie was truly a living one. Probably every person in the world at least on one occasion wondered how it would feel like to be a character in a movie, to see it from a first perspective. He was one of the people to know the answer…since they had been transported into one. And that feeling was not a romanticized one. But on the bright side, the demon that made it possible was imprisoned once more, so this evening's showcase had positive promises.
They brought the snacks into the sitting room, spreading them on a small table in front of the sofa.
"Five minutes left, guys," said Flim Flam, looking at the wall clock.
They all sat down on the sofa. There were four of them, but the company remained incomplete— they were waiting for one more person to join in. The gang did not hear the footsteps, so light the walk was; only a voice heralded the newest arrival.
"I assume everything is ready," sounded a voice so specific it felt one of a kind.
It could have been only one person.
"You're just in time, Vince!" the Asian kid was the first to turn aside and reply.
Shaggy too looked into the same direction. The sorcerer was standing in the doorway. The evening dark was truly his element; the darkened surroundings granted an extra amount of enigma to the cloaked figure. Even as he stood there, right in their house, one could not truly tell that moment if he was a man, a phantom, or a ploy of the moonlight.
Vincent passed by them, his grey-red cloak sailing behind him as he made way to the chair beside the sofa, his designated place. The club was now complete; Daphne was not a fan of staying up late for something she did not like, so her presence was not expected.
"Are those chips salted?" Vincent asked, referring to the snack that brought his attention.
"No, peppered ones, Vince," Shaggy said.
The warlock took one.
Shaggy had gotten accustomed to the sorcerer's mannerisms; he had all the reasons to—Vincent van Ghoul had been a guest at their house for five days as his castle was going trough some redecoration—something that would probably not make that household more elegant in Shaggy's eyes. In these five days of his visit, the warlock's character, usually clouded by mystery, was opened up. For a person so serious and powerful, he still displayed features of an infantile character. Like a child, he constantly expected to be served in almost everything, wasting no time to complain whenever the tiniest flaw in service was spotted. One fact had to be acknowledged—the ways of easy life were powerful enough to make even a grim-themed mage submit to them.
Van Ghoul's relationship with the gang was a story in itself. He was initially mad at him and Scooby for releasing the thirteen; he had all the reasons for it. Yet he quickly dropped his anger. Shaggy, in some way, could even call him a friend. The last part was a topic for another research work.
Scrappy took the remote and turned the set on. The first channel flickered into an appearance on the screen, an irrelevant one. Several seconds was enough to watch some random late night talk-show.
The young dog made a switch for the correct channel. Unfortunately, only disappointment awaited them. The screen went dark, initially almost leading to the notion that the set had gone out. There was only one give-away; a short message stayed on the bottom of the screen like a footnote on a page. No other combination of words could have revealed as much as much as this one did. There were only two words but they made the message as clear as the skies of July: 'No signal'. Technical problems, a bane to any station or viewer household, made another poisonous strike.
There would be no marathon that evening.
"Oh," sounded several voices, scratched by disappointment, in unison.
"You know what this means, guys: no movie night," Flim Flam concluded.
Shaggy looked at the table in front of him; so did the Great Dane. The snacks lay before them in their delicious glory—a silver lining to any cloud, dark or cotton-white. It was not like all the stations had not gone off the air, so where was the problem?
He grabbed a handful of popcorn. Scooby became the second to lean towards the bowl.
"So what are we gonna do now?" Scrappy asked, his eyes still on the empty screen as the desperate hope that everything would still be their way remained with him.
"I think I know a good alternative," the most unexpected phrase sounded with the voice of Vincent van Ghoul.
"Don't tell me you want to watch a talk-show, Vince?" said the kid in his entrepreneurial tone.
"No," the mystic replied.
Shaggy had a wild hunch he knew what the sorcerer was implying, but taking the guest's character into account, that hunch felt so wild that it made a jungle seem suburbia…
"Then what?" the kid asked.
"Why literature of course," Vincent said, smiling, and with a gesture of the hand made the lights go on.
That was a logical choice coming from him, and it did not need to bring out any additional questions.
"Gee, Mister van Ghoul, are you gonna read us a story?" Scrappy asked excited, not sitting but standing on the sofa.
"I can if you insist," was the reply that felt as though the decision had already been made.
With another click on the remote, the dog made the TV set go off; the message disappeared from view, but that was virtually the only thing that changed visually.
"Oh, boy!" Scrappy made a single clap, "will it be a scary story?"
"The first request accepted," Vincent chuckled, "although it's not actually a story."
A book materialized in his hand, a tome in brown-grey hardcover, its thickness hinting it was at least three hundred pages. Being a mage was probably awesome—one could get a snack from the fridge without going to the kitchen.
"What's this book?" Flim Flam asked.
"An anthology of poems I wrote and had published some years ago," he explained in his ever-cool manner.
That was not surprising. Vincent always seemed the creative type, and even during their adventures he was capable of utilizing fleeing seconds by making up two- and four-liners. Still, Shaggy could have never guessed he was a published author.
"Who knew?" the young man thought.
"The collection's title is The Abandoned Crypt," Vince gave a short foreword.
Shaggy was not that enthusiastic about it to begin with, and now that the title was revealed…
"Why is it called this way?" he asked; he felt something uncomfortable, and it that was not the seat.
"It's derived from the title of one the poems in this anthology," the warlock answered, "It's called The Crypt Was Left Abandoned…" he made his voice raspier for the last part.
"Which is the poem I am about to read out now," he released another of his unforgettable chuckles before making a witty remark, "so sit yourselves comfortably, everybody."
Why did it have to be a poem on such a theme? He was not in the mood for it; he never had been.
The sorcerer opened the book.
"Hey Vince," he had to say it; otherwise nightmares would likely haunt him all night.
"Yes."
"Do you have any poems about something different? Like butterflies, for example?" that was probably his last chance.
"Rah, rutterflies," Scooby sang along, in a display of their shared literary tastes.
"Sorry, guys, unfortunately I don't," Vincent said, "but there is a poem about a fly."
"Ok, that's a compromise," Shaggy said with the bigger dog nodding in agreement, "you may start, Vince."
"Very well then," the visiting author said as he turned the page after page as he aimed at that poem.
"Ah, here it is," he placed a thumb against the page for a second and read out the title, "A Tribute to a Fly."
He tore his gaze of the page and closed the book.
"I just came up with a better idea," he said as he put the tome aside, "I'll read it by heart! That would definitely make the verses come to life."
Vincent stood up as if he was an actor performing a monologue on the stage. And then he began:
Throughout my years of work and tax,
I owned and ran a house of wax,
And I must add—t'was quite a deal,
That house stood on a haunted hill.
And so a sight once shocked my eye,
It was a horrid mutant fly!
The monster entered through my door,
And warned me, hissing: 'Nevermore'…
"No! Oh, great heavens above my head! The creature!" he proclaimed in a tone stained with nothing but horror as he pointed at the window, "It's there by the window! It found me again!"
"Zoinks!" Shaggy, startled, brought his head to his knees, covering it with both hands, hoping it was enough for salvation.
"Rayks!" he heard Scooby's raspy shout before he, by the vibration that followed, understood that the Great Dane ducked under the coffee table.
"Where is that nasty mutant?" he heard Scrappy's feisty voice and an accompanying issue of a challenge, "Why, I'll take the bug spray. I'll splat him!"
"Now, now, gentlemen, let's not be jumpy," Vincent's quasi-serious statement changed the state of affairs, "There's nothing out there. I was just getting you into the atmosphere of my work."
"Ah, so it was just that," he felt relieved as he sat up straight although his heart continued beating on an unnatural pace.
Then something clicked in his mind. Did the sorcerer say 'atmosphere'?
"Gee, Mister van Ghoul, that was a neat special effect," Scrappy complimented.
"Thank you, Scrappy. Now everybody, back into your seats! I haven't even finished the introduction!"
Shaggy rolled his eyes; so it was just the beginning of the beginning…
The poet proceeded with his tale:
My mere survival was at stake!
And that's no flu or fewer!
I felt the chill, began to shake,
Succumbing to the thriller…
If these verses had been recited in an unknown language, they would have probably sounded just as sinister. It was not just the content but the manner in which the sorcerer performed his poem. But the former mattered as well. Verse after verse sounded in the room, transferring the audience to the scene without any portal. It was a grim realm indeed. A sense of fatalism was in the air, its proportion so huge that when one inhaled it whilst breathing, it burned the lungs like poisonous gas. One could not see the monster nor the antique furniture in the background; all had just melted away; there was now only darkness, the darkness of hopelessness and the unknown…
That was the atmosphere of Vincent van Ghoul's poem, the sphere in which his creations dwelt…
Still, Vince was full of surprises; he threw them like wild cards when the opportunity was to arise…
The poem that started out like an insight into the last thoughts of a doomed mortal, turned into another direction. It was hard to imagine it could lead to a discussion—between a man and mutant, for that matter,—about man's place in the universe, on the chances of peaceful coexistence, and even touch the question of the purposes of literature.
He read out the final lines:
Since then it sits above my door,
And we are friends forevermore.
"The end," Vincent made an official statement, "Don't you just love heart-warming stories?" he added.
Shaggy really wanted to ask if he was serious about that question. By the way Scooby had been clinging to him throughout most of the reading session, made him think the sorcerer was using a different vocabulary.
"I have to say, I'm not much into poetry but that was actually quite good," the Asian boy complimented.
"Why thank you, Flim Flam."
"Will you read us the other one you mentioned?" Scrappy asked with enthusiasm.
"I don't see why not…" Vince chuckled.
That was a sign it was time to split; a light elbow bump from Scooby was another signal. One such horror story was enough for the evening; a poem with the title 'The Crypt Was Left Abandoned' had a guarantee on nightmares with it.
"Well, me and Scooby have to get going," he said and the Great Dane nodded in agreement; they both stood up.
"Oh, c'mon you two," Vince said, neither desperate nor disappointed, "Remember what the ancients said: life is short but art is eternal."
"Well, the snacks are on the table, they can drop in for a poetry evening if they wish," Shaggy kept his ground.
The famous phrase that Vincent van Ghoul cited that moment visited him as an echo years later. It made him remember the awkward evening and the eccentric wordsmith. As always, everything came down to perspective. Art had many genres; tragedy was one of them, and his even had its own Muse. Yet he did not feel himself an artist…
—
Author's Note: I didn't want to turn this into a filler chapter but this scene turned out to be too long and not linkable to any considered sequence, but hope it was worth it.
Oh, and there probably won't be an update in the next two weeks.