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velmautism · 5 months

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The Dreamlike Tint to the Shades of Secrecy

...Or, the rewrite of Witch's Ghost, if it took place in the Inception universe that I wrote for funsies.

Synopsis: Famous horror writer Ben Ravencroft finds himself the mark for a little-known but notoriously proficient group of information gatherers. Little do they know, he knows exactly who they are and what they do– after all, what author hasn't happened across sketchy information before?

What do they want? Can he make them help him find some information he's looking for, after he's had his fun running them in circles?

Word count: 12,097

Ben Ravencroft blinks back to awareness, having seemingly been lost in thought. He shakes his head to clear the lingering cloud of confusion around him and drums his fingers on the surface of his writing desk, which helps to bring back his clarity of mind. Was he writing? His keyboard is pushed off to the side, as if he needed the space clear for something.

"Before we begin our interview," one of the women in front of him says, and he raises his head as she extends her hand for him to shake, "I just wanted to say it's a dream come true to be here, Mister Ravencroft."

He recognizes this woman immediately, with her auburn bob and oversized square-framed glasses. An eager smile lights up her rounded features, and the redhead next to her rolls her eyes good-naturedly. Both are seated across from his writing desk, and the redhead seems to be armed with a handheld audio recorder.

He knows who both of these women are, but the pretense they're presenting him with obviously means they don't know that. They probably don't know he suspects he's dreaming, either.

Despite being dressed in professional suits and behaving otherwise, they're not journalists.

They're thieves.

Well, not the typical sort of thief he'd expect to see in his mansion– they're not after wealth. They're after something much more valuable. They're after information. He knows something they don't, and they're here to coax... no, extract it out of him.

What they're after, he isn't sure of yet. Better to play along and figure it out, rather than immediately lay his cards on the table.

"I am a huge fan of your work," she continues as he grasps her hand and shakes it firmly. "I've read all your books, which, in my opinion, are the best horror stories ever written!"

"Er, thanks," he responds easily, playing right into her ruse. He wonders why he's finally face-to-face with this particular group, and what they want to know. "That's very kind, Miss..."

"Daly," she asserts with ease. "Linda Daly." The name rolls off her tongue as naturally as it would if it had really been her name all her life, and he knows she must use this particular false name with everyone.

But he knows better, and he knows her name is not Linda Daly.

Her name is Velma Dinkley, and previous curiosity has led him to research as much as he can about her and her friends.

She's a mastermind in every sense of the word, plotting and planning the finest details of every job she runs with ruthless efficiency. She operates similarly to how he's already handled her, and has likely researched him extensively. He wonders if she knows he knows her. It's too bad he's made a larger public name for himself– she probably knows more about him than he does about her. Well, hopefully that's soon to change.

Velma is rarely, if ever, seen apart from the sort-of leader of her little team of thieves– Daphne Blake, the motivating drive and task manager behind extraction who allegedly knows everything there is to know about getting into someone's head. Even working as a pair these two are formidably deceptive according to past clients, but he knows that somewhere nearby their cohorts, Fred and... Shaggy, was it..? may be around. Maybe they're here in the dream as well, but he suspects they're up above.

That's why, he resolves, he's going to keep his mouth shut. Why ruin their attempt at secrecy before he knows exactly what they want from him? Why ruin Linda's Velma's expectations for him, if she thinks he's in the dark?

Plus, they're good at uncovering secrets. If he plays along, can they help him?

"Just couldn't help yourself, could you?" Daphne asks, blue eyes twinkling mischievously, and it's then that Ben realizes Velma's comment on his books being her favorite is genuine. "I'm Kelly Kensington," she lies.

Interesting! He can work with this, he thinks.

"Oh, I find it quite flattering," he responds easily, patting Velma's hand once before letting go. "I've admired the supernatural and the occult for a long time, Miss Daly. Research on them led me to try to unearth all of the secrets of the supernatural world, and that inspired me to start writing horror novels."

"And I have to say, they're a hit," Daphne says, and he knows what she's doing. She's the extractor– she's trying to use her tricks to keep his attention with her, to get deeper into his head. "With more people than just Linda, that is. They say you're reshaping the horror genre as we know it, with gruesome frights and often-graphic depictions of the supernatural, as well as fantastic characters. Plenty of authors of fiction, regardless of genre, claim they create their best characters when they use real-life muses as inspiration. Is that true for you as well, Mister Ravencroft?"

Interesting question, he thinks. She must be dancing around the heart of what she actually wants to extract, so he starts to formulate what she might be looking for– information on someone he knows? Could she even be alluding to Sarah? If he's going to pry the reason they're here out of them, Velma might ironically be the weak link. He wants to keep his attention on her, he decides.

He smiles. "Oh, absolutely. One has to draw inspiration from somewhere, right? I often find myself taking small traits, habits, and quirks I've observed from others and pepper them into my characters. It's a good way to breathe life into a story, to make the frights they experience that much more gripping for the reader. People-watching is probably a writer's best time investment. Now, if you don't mind me asking a question, I'm curious to know if you have a favorite character I've written, Miss Daly."

She flushes a bit pink at that, clearly not expecting him to try to hold her attention. He's set a trap, and she seems to be falling right into it. Since he's certain of who she is, he suspects that the detail-orientedness intrinsic to her job will help him deduce her motives. He just has to pick up the clues from her.

"Oh, how could I pick just one?" she starts. "Well... if I had to, I'd probably say that creepy jewelry store owner from 'The Dead Mall.' I just couldn't put it down until I understood her motives, she was an incredibly complex character!"

So she likes enigmas, he figures. She likes puzzles, and enjoys trying to solve people.

That's absolutely fascinating to him.

He enjoys the very same thing.

It's too bad, really, that she's trying to solve the wrong side of him...

"Oh, a marvelous choice. She was one of my favorite characters to write, but I was never sure if she'd be well-received. I'd think that since you work with the general public, you journalists would be fairly good at understanding people and what motivates them. If I kept you guessing, I'll take that as a compliment on my writing."

He means every word of that, too. If her job is research and deep-dives on her marks, keeping her guessing is a tribute to his writing ability.

She falls prey to flattery quite easily, he starts to suspect as she titters. At the very least, she obviously enjoys the chance to really be able to speak with him. Everything he's dug up on her only speaks for her skills and abilities– meeting her, he's gone in completely blind to her actual personality. He wasn't sure what to expect, but he's finding himself more and more fascinated by this analyst the longer he interacts with her.

"Wow," Daphne says, and her smile is just a little too tight-lipped to be genuine. "Who would have thought the author of such dark stories would be so charismatic? I would have thought you darker and more... well, brooding, being a famous horror writer."

He responds good-naturedly, "Aw, just because I write gruesome stories and happen to be fascinated by macabre subjects, that doesn't necessarily mean I have to be edgy and morbid."

Daphne laughs shortly, and it's almost blatantly apparent she doesn't entirely like dealing with him, nor does she entirely believe in this facade he's putting up.

"I agree, but I'm curious now that you've brought up your interests– what sort of research into, as you put it, 'macabre subjects' do you usually do? Do you do any, in order to make your stories more realistic?"

Of course he does. It's how he knows about them in the first place.

Velma shoots Daphne a look, one Ben can't decipher the meaning of.

"Well, of course I do, Miss Kensington," he responds. "Any author realistically would. After all, I can't very well write horror if I don't have an appetite for it."

The slightest hint of a knowing smile stretches across Daphne's lips, and she leans in closer to him.

"And have you ever come across anything... particularly dark or disturbing? Something no one would expect to find out, with any level of depth of research?"

If Ben's hunch is accurate, they are poking at the secret he's thinking about. Not like he's particularly ashamed of it, but he can see why it would seem particularly scandalous. But if he's going to play a single card, he has to make sure he has his 'in.'

"You two sound like you're getting at something," he says simply, then he lets that hang in the air. It works as intended– both tense, and Daphne leans back defensively. They share another quick glance at each other, but neither speaks. He chuckles, dissipating the tension in the air. "I'm an open book- whatever is on your mind, you go on ahead and ask."

They both look relieved, and Daphne looks to Velma again– a question without asking it. Velma nods once, very quickly and very briefly.

"Mister Ravencroft," Daphne says softly, as if informing him of very dire news, "there are rumors going around that you have... a bit of a dark family secret concerning your lineage and ancestry. Is this true?"

Bingo.

They aren't the first people to try to dig up that dirty little family secret, but they're certainly the most clever. But now he has the advantage of knowing exactly what their gambit is. He rarely gets asked about it anymore, and while the honest answer is yes he's always been very careful about keeping his lies vague.

Of course he knows about it– only the Ravencrofts do. It's a wicked family story, the story of the Scourge of Oakhaven. All public accounts and records of the incident were buried hundreds of years ago when she was imprisoned, in order to maintain and preserve the integrity of the family name. The Ravencrofts are an old family in Oakhaven, and even without the aid of evil sorcery they're very powerful.

Influence mixed with the passage of time has done wonders for the memory of the nightmare the town had faced at her hands. As years have passed, they've all forgotten what had happened.

But the living Ravencrofts haven't.

Ben ignores the tape recorder in Daphne's hand and gives a quick conspiratorial glance around the room, as if making sure nobody else is listening in. Then he leans in, folding his hands on his desk. His display of secrecy works, and the two women draw closer.

"Well," he murmurs, "as a matter of fact... I have an ancestor who lived here hundreds of years ago– Sarah Ravencroft." He pauses for effect, and the two wait silently for him to continue with rapt interest. "She was persecuted in the 1600s, here in Oakhaven... as an evil witch."

Velma gasps softly, but Daphne looks relatively unfazed by this confession.

"I don't believe a word of it, though," he continues, in order to lure them further in.

He can't quite give them what they want, not without getting something in return. By leaving them in suspense, he hopes he'll inspire them to do a little more digging to uncover the full truth. If this is a dream, he's willing to let them prod at his subconscious if it'll help him find what he's looking for– it's evaded him in the real world for far too long.

"The notion that she was an evil witch is ridiculous. Sarah Ravencroft was a healer, a medicine woman. She practiced natural remedies for patients who couldn't see a doctor, for one reason or another. Matter of fact, it's even said that she kept a journal of all of her patients and remedies."

Daphne and Velma share another look.

"Could we see this journal, Mister Ravencroft?" Daphne asks.

He laughs shortly. "If I had it, I'd be only too happy to show it to you, Miss Kensington. Sadly, she was found guilty of sorcery and sentenced to death by execution. All of her relics were lost. It's a shame– that journal could be instrumental in proving her innocence, but it may never again see the light of day."

Velma thinks this through for just a moment.

"Lost or destroyed?" she finally asks, and Ben can't help but grin.

"Only lost," he responds innocently, and if the spark in their eyes is any indication this was exactly what they wanted to hear. This is what they've been looking for.

Good.

Him, too.

~☆°~•~°☆~

These people are good, Ben thinks as he meanders alongside them, at what they do.

He'd expected them to be put off by his insistence on wandering Oakhaven after they had conducted their "interview," but now he sees exactly why they've taken him up on his offer.

If he hadn't known he was dreaming from the get-go, he'd have fallen right for it. He knows this with absolute certainty. Every landmark and point of interest he's passed thus far is exactly where it belongs– Molly Parken's Bed and Breakfast, Jack's restaurant, the post office, the bakery, the landmarks. The layout is nearly identical to the town he grew up in. But there's a subtle twist right in the details, something he wouldn't have caught if he wasn't looking: anything commercial and not of note; specifically skyscrapers and buildings where he'd expect to find a law firm, office, or other general business setting; is left completely bare and nondescript. His eye is automatically drawn to the points of interest, strategically placed so he's meant to ignore everything else.

He isn't sure if this is a strength in the design or a weakness. If it's a weakness, it's blatant why it would be– an entire town is difficult to replicate, even a small one. If it's a strength, he supposes it may serve to remind the dreamers they're dreaming. Either way, he's absolutely certain he isn't supposed to be looking this deep, with the way Daphne and Velma are struggling to hold his attention as they make their way to the town square.

He can only attribute this level of detail to their architect, Fred Jones. According to his sources, the man's aptitude for building entire dream worlds is legendary. Knowing what he's researched, it's likely that even if the lack of description in the town is a weakness, he's found a clever way to work around it.

All around them, there's more foot traffic than he's used to seeing in town. He wonders if it's their doing, or his. Every face looks unfamiliar but vaguely familiar, and occasionally one or two turns to stare at Daphne and Velma with what he can only describe as wary curiosity. They look completely unbothered by it– must be part of the job. But he notices the stares, and his eyes catch on everything they try to divert his attention from.

The idle chatter they engage him in is opposite to how what he's decided to call Faux-haven is laid out– mundane enough to keep him off his guard, but occasionally peppered with points of interest: Sarah, the history of the town, the record of her execution. Velma bombards him with idle chitchat about his books, and Daphne waits for the right times to ask the right questions.

It's a clever ruse, he thinks, but it's too bad he's seen right through it from the very beginning. Daphne is starting to look rather frustrated with her fruitless attempts to get answers out of him– he's good at dodging the truth without flat-out changing the subject. Velma, however, looks happy as a clam.

She doesn't look at all guilty of what she's trying to do, though.

Then again, he's sure he doesn't either.

This back-and-forth continues all the way up until they reach the City Park, and Ben spots a face he finally has every reason to recognize.

What's he doing here? Is it because of Ben, or because of them?

"Mayor? Mayor Corey?" he asks aloud, and the mayor turns around.

"Ben, my boy!" he exclaims as a grin stretches across his face. "I thought I recognized your car– I'm glad you could come home to help plan this year's Autumnfest! It's gonna be extra spectacular this time around, you just wait!"

Right, he thinks, Autumnfest. The biggest thing little-old-Oakhaven is known best for, but 'big' may be too nice a word to describe the event. It happens, the second weekend of every October, and draws in maybe a few extra leaf peepers looking for some spectacular fall color.

It isn't a bad festival by any means, and it's a nice tradition for the town. But it's... not the most popular.

Plus, it looks like it's currently late spring.

Mayor Corey has always been a little too excited about Autumnfest and the meager tourism it attracts, but never enough to try to plan the event six months in advance.

There must be a reason they've intentionally programmed Autumnfest into the dream. He just has to wait to figure it out.

"I see you brought some..." Mayor Corey pauses. His eyes land on Daphne and Velma, and then narrow slightly as they shift from the women to Ben, then back to the women. It's obvious he's just as suspicious of them as Daphne seems to be of Ben.

"Journalists," he responds calmly, and Corey seems to relax just slightly. "And hopefully future guests at Autumnfest. This is Linda Daly, and Kelly Kensington," he introduces them.

With Ben's willingness to let them in, it seems the figures in his mind are somewhat content to stay calm. Mayor Corey laughs it off and extends his hand, which Daphne takes first.

"Well, welcome! The more, the merrier!"

"But I have a question– what's going to make Autumnfest 'extra spectacular' this year?" Ben asks, just to skip past their farce and get to the heart of the matter. "Don't you think it's a little too soon to be thinking about something that won't even begin until October?"

"Well, I'm glad you asked," he says. "We've been working on a little project, in order to bring in more tourists year-round. We've begun construction on a recreation of a Puritan village, and we've been been digging up relics left and right. We finally found it– something big. We found Sarah Ravencroft's grave marker."

"Her grave marker?" he asks, feigning interest. Clearly, this information is entirely fictitious. Sarah's grave marker, in the real world, has probably been lost beneath centuries of mulch.

Velma and Daphne have added Mayor Corey to this world on purpose, as a means of benefiting their narrative. They must simply be depending on Ben and his memories to fill in the blanks on Corey's personality.

At least it makes sense now. They're using Autumnfest and the spookiness associated with Halloween to continue to drag on this Sarah business.

Still, it does work to his advantage.

"Aye-uh, we sure did!" He pauses. "...But nothing else, I'm afraid. No bones."

"What about a book?" he asks again, just to continue to appear like he's in the dark.

"A book?"

"You know how long I've been searching for Sarah's journal, Mayor, to..!" He pretends to compose himself, and takes a deep breath before lowering his voice. "To officially clear our family name."

He's been searching for that damned book for a long time, that much is true. But his reasoning certainly isn't.

"Well, hold on a minute, Ben, this secrecy about Sarah's true nature might be a good thing. Because that's what's going to make Autumnfest a better attraction– a publicity stunt, courtesy of the appearance of the Witch's Ghost!"

Ben almost doubles over with laughter, then and there. It's so absurdly like the real Mayor Corey, thinking of creating a hokey publicity stunt as a means of boosting popularity. It absolutely must be his mind supplying Mayor Corey with his personality– there's no way either of these two would be able to capture just how ridiculous he can be.

Instead of laughing himself silly, Ben falls back on his old standby of feigning ignorance and absolute innocence.

"Witch's Ghost?!" he asks indignantly. "That's ridiculous– I thought we'd gotten past all of this witch nonsense!"

In reality, they haven't– it's one of the biggest things he's still at odds with Mayor Corey about. Mayor Corey is right, of course, but admitting to it would lose Ben any sympathy he has in Oakhaven. No one in that pathetic town can possibly understand the true power he's capable of wielding, and it's such a mortal response to fear what can't be understood.

Mayor Corey has no idea that the truth is buried right there in the very town hall he occupies every day, the truth that was finally buried in the mid-1660s. The truth that Sarah was evil. The truth that Ben's potential power far outweighs what Corey believes his mayoral status carries.

All Corey has is his superstition. And superstition, even if true, is for fools.

"What can I say, Ben? It's undeniable that she was persecuted as a witch in 1657!"

"Unjustly persecuted!" he doubles down, taking a step forward just to drive his point home. "Sarah Ravencroft was a medicine woman who practiced natural healing, and was unfairly accused because of her eccentric ways!"

"Just like the Salem witch trials," Velma interjects, smiling calmly in spite of the tension Ben's pretended to create. "Many men and women who were a bit different, or didn't conform to the codes of the colony, suffered the same fate. As a matter of fact, Massachusetts legislature is even working to pass an act to exonerate the thirty men and women who were found guilty, and name them innocent. In the meantime, the descendants of the victims have been working to establish their ancestors' innocence. It's no wonder you've been searching for that book for so long, Ben. Whether or not Sarah was alone in this town in standing trial for witchcraft and sorcery, Oakhaven may never get the public recognition Salem did."

Ben's completely stunned by her spouting off this much information– does she actually believe him? Is it working out in his favor that he happens to be her favorite author? Or is it simply her will to pursue knowledge and fact manifesting in how she behaves?

Either way, he thinks, he can really use this to his advantage.

He was smart to keep his attention on her. He intends to keep it up.

"I'm impressed, Velma," he says, just to watch her eyes light up. It's almost adorable, just how wrapped around his finger he has her. Daphne rolls her eyes. "It means a lot to have someone on my side." He casts an annoyed glance at Mayor Corey, who feigns offense.

Real or not real, every iteration of him Ben has ever crossed has been insufferable.

Daphne gets over her annoyance.

"Well, I never knew that Oakhaven had its own witch trials," she says. "Is there anywhere in town to commemorate or acknowledge what happened? A public statement? It would make a good attraction to bounce to after visiting the Puritan village, I think."

Oh, interesting. His memory must reflect off of the people in his dream. Mayor Corey knows what she's talking about, but he looks a little torn between the two truths Ben knows. He knows what Ben knows, but Corey's not supposed to know.

"There sure is, my girl!" he finally exclaims cheerfully. "I'll walk you there, if you'd like."

"Would I ever," Daphne responds with just as much enthusiam. That's cute, Ben thinks. She thinks she's going to get any better information out of Mayor Corey than she's gotten out of Ben, and she thinks this is a good thing. But he figures working at suppressing what he knows has worked thus far, and he wonders if he can limit what she'll find even further.

But this does present him with a slight problem. She'll have to realize, eventually, that he knows what's going on. The clock is ticking faster, if he's going to have any hope of learning what he wants to know.

He's going to have to improve his tactics, he concludes.

He's going to have to work harder at cracking Velma.

This analyst has been so eager to demonstrate her intelligence. It's high time Ben gives her the chance to show him what she can do.

"Do you want to go too, Linda?" he asks, purposely addressing her more personally. "Or, I'm going to Jack's for lunch. You're welcome to join me, if you'd like. We can talk more about Sarah there."

A small inkling of him wonders if she'll forgive him for what he's planning to do.

Then he quells it.

What use is there in wondering about something so useless? Why would he need her forgiveness or understanding, if he has all the power he could ever want at his fingertips?

Her eyes light up again, but there's a distinct look behind them that catches him completely off guard. She looks thrilled, but in the same way he would think a spider would if something crawled into her web.

Then she beams, and the feeling is lost on him.

He's getting nervous, now that he's so close to getting what he wants. Velma isn't the people person. Velma isn't the experienced liar. Daphne is. Ben is.

"Would I ever!" she exclaims, clasping her hands together in front of her. "I'll meet up with you later, Kelly!"

"Okay," Daphne responds with total ambivalence, and then she's off with the fake mayor.

Ben steals a quick glance back at Velma.

The sunlight shines across her dark brown eyes completely innocuously.

Exactly the way he expects it to.

~☆°~•~°☆~

While the other people in his dream have been rather short with Velma and Daphne at first glance, Jack is his usual bubbly cloying self.

Ben has never thought of Jack as the sharpest tool in the shed. All he thinks about is cooking and generally acting a little too sycophantic for his own good.

So it's either that, or his conscious decision to continue to allow Velma to poke around in his mind has helped his subconscious, on some level, acclimate to her presence.

Either way, his influence completely shapes just how welcome she is in his dream.

He finds that completely fascinating. If he really wanted to, he could probably snap his fingers and see her torn to shreds by several angry faces.

But he doesn't want to.

He wants her to be completely off her guard, and comfortable enough around him to give something vital away.

So Jack's warm welcome is nothing but a boon, as well as his insistence on seating them near the back of the restaurant– his V.I.P. area, he's always called it.

The restaurant is immaculate, much like the rest of the hotspots he's seen within Faux-haven. Everything is just the way he remembers it– down to the ring stains on the tables he passes as Jack guides them to the booth in the back.

"Order anything you want," he tells her as she sits across from him. "It's on me."

"Oh!" she exclaims. "That's alright, I can foot my own bill."

Of course she can, he thinks with mild irritation. This isn't a real restaurant, after all. And even if it were somehow real against all odds, he supposes the work she does keeps her plenty stable financially.

But he's determined to keep playing to her good side, just to dig in a little deeper.

"No, really," he says, reaching across the table for her– he doesn't exactly grab her hand, that's far too intimate. He just rests his on top of hers, then pats it for emphasis.

Her eyes meet his, and he hits her with his most disarming smile. She seems to be trying to read his intention for a long moment.

While he keeps smiling at her patiently, he can't help it when his eyes flick downward very slightly and land on her slightly-parted lips– she's uncertain, in territory she's not used to being in. There's a certain appeal to throwing curveballs at her in an environment she's probably usually quite comfortable in. There's appeal in testing the limits of what she can control.

While he very much enjoys pushing her out of her comfort zone while in her own damn element, he knows he can't keep it up any longer than a few seconds. So he lets go of her.

"I insist," he says.

She's silent for another beat, then she finally shrugs.

"Alright, if you insist," she says, as casually as she would have if she hadn't been trying to solve him just a few seconds ago.

He can't explain why, but her dismissive attitude is mildly irritating. There's something about Velma that appeals to him much more than the other dreamer, and it's not just that she's likely to provide him with more information.

He doesn't just want to get into her head. He wants to get under her skin.

He wants to know what makes her tick.

But he exhales softly, then lets it go.

He can't have it both ways, and he wants that journal a thousand times more than he wants to figure her out.

He just smiles back at her. "I do– Jack always knocks a bit off my bill, anyway."

"Oh," Velma says, and he's not quite sure why she's using that tone. It sounds like this is news she wishes she'd have known. "That's awfully nice of him," she continues brightly, but he still can't help but wonder what's going on in that head of hers.

The two sit in silence until Jack comes by to drop off glasses of water for each and take their orders.

An idea crosses his mind, and he clears his throat as Velma lifts her water glass to her lips.

"I'll just have my usual, Jack," he says jovially, and Velma freezes mid-sip.

There is something going on with Jack that she's worried about. But what?

"Oh, quit kiddin' around, Ben," Jack says, leaning over just to nudge him lightly with his elbow. "Unless it's a cup of black coffee, you don't have a regular order with a rotating menu!"

Then he laughs heartily, and Ben's suspicion immediately dissipates. He had honestly been expecting this manifestation of his subconscious to make something up, but this is exactly how Jack would respond.

Velma seems to relax as she sets her glass down, and Ben can't help but wonder what that was about.

Maybe she had been more confident in Mayor Corey acting like himself– he does have a more distinct personality, and is a much more prominent figure in Oakhaven.

It makes some sense, at least. But if he's meant to fill these manifestations of people he knows with their personalities, why would she have any reason to worry?

Maybe it has to do with Ben himself, he figures.

But now that he's put himself slightly on blast for acting out of the ordinary, it looks like she's watching him more closely. So he just has no way to ask her about it, or figure her out.

That's fine– he has bigger fish to fry.

They both order, and Jack leaves them alone so they can finally start conversing again.

"So," Velma finally says after a moment, "tell me more about Sarah. She sounds like she was a lovely person."

"Oh! Where to begin?" He thinks on what lies he hasn't told her quite yet. "Well, she was lovely. Of course, she wasn't very popular with the town's doctors. Sarah was untraditional in her approach to medicine. She was a Wiccan."

Velma nods in understanding, and Ben can't help himself.

"I take it you know a good bit about them?"

She nods again, smiling. "I've done a good bit of reading about them. So when you said she was a natural healer, you weren't kidding. I take it that not only did she use natural and herbal remedies, she also practiced energy work– however that manifested back in the 1600s."

"Exactly. She believed in the power of the Earth and its gifts, and used it to heal the sick. She helped many people who simply couldn't afford, access, or abide by medical treatment. She practiced under an ancient oak tree, which she believed to have potent magical properties."

Velma's eyes light up brightly for a second.

"Well, I saw a huge oak tree in the town square. Would she bury her journal in a place like that, if she thought she was going to be persecuted?"

She's caught on to the possibility of the book being buried under an oak tree faster than he ever did, in spite of knowing Sarah frequently used the tree to draw power.

For some reason, her suggestion draws the attention of everyone sitting in their vicinity, but she completely ignores their burning stares while her eyes remain on him.

"I've already searched that very tree," he responds truthfully, "but never found anything."

At that, she falters.

"Oh..."

She sinks into her seat, and finally seems to become aware of the eyes on her. He isn't sure of what exactly she's done, but she must have jumped the gun in some respect and drew their attention without having all of the facts.

It was a good try at helping him, he thinks, even if she was a little too eager. She seems to be just as full of anticipation as he is, and now the two are watching each other with equal levels of suspicion. But unlike Velma, Ben has the added benefit of being able to enjoy watching her squirm under the hateful eyes of his own subconscious.

While Ben wishes he had his hands on that spellbook already, he's really beginning to enjoy this delightful game of cat-and-mouse with Velma Dinkley.

When all is said and done, he's going to savor every moment he's spent with her.

~☆°~•~°☆~

In spite of conversing with Velma the entire time, the meal proves to be no more fruitful in coming up with ideas of where that damned spellbook could possibly be.

That, and in spite of behaving normally otherwise Jack never knocked anything off Ben's total.

Which is fine, it's not as if it affects him in any real sense. But it's quite strange, all things considered. Everything else was perfectly right, save for that one little thing he missed.

Ben wouldn't have even thought to double-check his receipt, if Velma hadn't inadvertently brought it to his attention.

But that isn't the only thing.

While the other patrons in the restaurant had regarded Velma with an air of hostility, Jack had acted even more oblivious than Ben would have attested to him.

While he can't help but wonder why, he's still completely wrapped up in trying to pry answers out of Velma by answering her questions about Sarah.

And answers still aren't forthcoming.

As the sky begins to darken in anticipation of nightfall, he can't help but feel as if his time is nearly up. Surely, Daphne has found something by now that incriminates him, and that will give her a reason to back out and withdraw from her mission.

A double failure.

It would count as a success on Ben's part, he supposes, if he prevents the group from revealing the truth he's worked to bury... but it would be a bitter success, if he also ends up with nothing to show for their little visit.

But on the other hand, the more time Velma spends around him, the more it seems like she's buying into his Wiccan Sarah story.

He wonders if there's some level of personal attachment in it for her. Maybe not– he's heard that while her loyalty toward her friends in that extraction group isn't at all questionable, she's not as invested in finding what her clients want as much as she is in finding truth.

If he thinks about it from a logical standpoint, there are a lot more Wiccans in the world than there are spellcasters. So, in spite of what she's here to do, she's... on his side. She believes him, and she's almost as eager to find the book as he is.

Almost.

He's truly made the smartest choice in getting in good with her.

As the two exit the restaurant and start to wander back toward Faux-haven City Park, another voice he recognizes grabs his attention:

"Hey, Ben!"

He and Velma both turn around at the same time.

"Hi, Mr. McKnight," he greets the pharmacist, just as he casts a withering glare at Velma before deliberately stepping straight between her and Ben.

Velma steps behind him and shrugs at Ben, but makes no further attempt to approach him again.

"Welcome home! Mayor Corey said you were back, and I was hoping to catch you to say hi. Here, want to look at the t-shirt design I commissioned for this year's Autumnfest? I think they're going to be a hit!"

McKnight unfurls a sheet of paper, which he passes to Ben– it's the gaudiest design for a shirt he's ever seen, and he immediately knows it would absolutely turn a killer profit. A green ghost is drawn casting a fireball on the city below, with text above her reading 'I Met the Ghost of Oakhaven- And Lived!'

Ben silently folds the paper back up and hands it back to McKnight.

Velma looks amused from behind him, and Ben can't help but share it in silence.

"Didn't Mayor Corey already tell you I don't want you using Sarah's image as part of a publicity stunt?" Ben asks, feigning frustration.

"Ben..." McKnight sighs. "Please, just reconsider. The tourist trade has gotten so slow– haven't you said before that the supernatural always grabs people's attention?"

He sure has, once upon a time. But only to Mayor Corey, when he was still writing his early novels.

"Then make up a ghost that doesn't use Sarah's image."

"But Sarah is the only real tie we have to the supernatural in our town history," McKnight presses.

This is like him, Ben thinks wryly. Following along with Mayor Corey's stupid ideas, just because he can't think up anything better.

"You think I'm going to abide by you lining your pockets by dragging her name through the mud? After I've spent years searching for her journal just to clear our family name?"

"Her journal?" McKnight asks before shaking his head. "Ben, you've searched everywhere for that thing and come up with nothing!" He breathes in deeply to compose himself. "Maybe it's time to give up the search– if that book even exists, it could be anywhere from Miller's Creek to the Stumps!"

Ben knows this much is true, but hearing it from his own subconscious is absolutely infuriating. Before he has any time to process his frustration, let alone respond, something very visibly clicks in that head of Velma's and she gasps before straightening at the waist. Ben can practically see the gears in her brain turning, and he wonders what she's thinking.

"The Stumps?" she finally asks.

"Yes," McKnight says curtly. "The Stumps."

She turns to Ben with a questioning look in her eyes, and Daphne decides that moment is the perfect moment to zip out of the town hall with what looks like papers in her hands and Mayor Corey right on her heels.

"What does he mean, the Stumps?" Velma asks, oblivious to her cohort making an appearance behind her.

"Oakhaven used to turn a profit from the lumber in our forest, back in the 1800s. In 1973 the town finally voted to put a stop to local deforestation," Ben explains. "We never cleared that area, so we just starting calling it the Stumps."

"Well, Ben," she says as if she's made a revelation, just as Daphne rests a hand on her shoulder from behind. "You don't think..?"

"Hold that thought, Linda," Daphne interrupts. "I just got a memo from..." she decides to drops the ruse right then, and Ben can see it as she casts him a glare before shoving a the papers into Velma's hands. "Oh, forget it. Just look."

As Velma examines whatever is on those papers and Daphne stares down Mayor Corey, who stands by as if ready to pounce, Ben takes the opportunity to try to follow her train of thought.

Deforestation, the Stumps... OH.

Of course, it's so obvious! The answer strikes him like a freight train, how stupid he was to never consider that he had been searching around the wrong oak tree for years!

But it makes perfect sense– there must be remnants, somewhere in the Stumps, of what had once been an impressive oak tree.

And he had never noticed it, all along, because it had been cut down hundreds of years ago!

His mind starts to race at a thousand miles per hour.

If his thoughts have any influence on the dream, he can't let it warp to show them what he's thinking about. His memory of the forest will only give the book's location in the real world away! He needs to resurface, fast, before they get the information he wants. If Velma hasn't even heard of the Stumps, there's no way she'll know how to get to it!

He forces himself to slow down. This is a dream, and it's in his mind. That means he ought to be in control of it.

And control means leaving, now that he's ready to. If he wants to leave before time is up, he knows exactly how to go about it. That's the second-biggest piece of information he knows about dreamsharing, and none of his sources have been wrong.

Well, that's not entirely true. The only thing his sources have been wrong about thus far is just how versed in matters of the mind this team of thieves is. He's pulled the wool right over their eyes!

He closes his eyes and focuses his thoughts. He needs a way to "die," quickly. Cold metal finds its way into the palm of his hand, and his finger curls around the trigger.

There's no need to allow them to remain welcome, he decides, and it's as if a switch is flipped. From all sides, his subconscious turns toward Daphne and Velma and begins to converge on them.

There's going to be someone up above when he wakes up, he knows. Someone who administered whatever was allowing Daphne and Velma to tap into his dreams. He'll have to play this carefully.

"I have to hand it to you, Miss Daly," he sneers.

Daphne and Velma meet his gaze as their shoulders are gripped firmly by multiple angry projections, and Ben grins triumphantly at them.

"That information you've given me will be most invaluable," he says. "Thank you– you two have been so very helpful."

Before her face is obscured by the faces of an angry mob swarming around her and Daphne, Velma's eyes lock on Ben's.

Then he could almost swear she smiles at him. A pleased smile, one that matches the downright predatory stare she had hit him with earlier.

No. He can't let her continue to distract him.

He raises the gun to his head, and he wakes up.

~☆°~•~°☆~

His eyelids flutter before his consciousness snaps back to him, and he remembers to pretend he's still under.

There's a fire burning in his vicinity. Flames crackle softly, and the smell of wood smoke permeates the room. He's laying on top of a flat surface, but there's thin but plushy cushioning between him and solid ground.

He cracks one eye open ever so slightly, just to peek and see if anyone is awake in his vicinity.

Through barely-open eyes, he spots a head of yellow hair hovering right above him... that must be Fred Jones, in the flesh. It's too bad, he thinks, that the architect of Faux-haven never got to bask in the attention to his own detail!

He peeks off to the side, and sees the device they must be using to share dreams– a briefcase-shaped device, with a cluster of circuitry and tubing running out of it. One such tube runs directly out of the device and into his arm.

Fred must notice something off, Ben realizes as he looks back up. His sharp blue eyes snap over to focus on Ben, and he moves until he's hovering over him.

Fred crouches down, reaching right over Ben and fiddling with the drip line in his wrist.

Ben uses Fred's lack of preparedness and position to strike straight upwards with the heel of his palm. The hit lands directly on the underside of Fred's jaw, and stuns the architect unconscious.

Velma and Daphne groan softly as they both begin to wake up, and Ben quickly rips the tube out of his arm and sits up.

He's in his own study!

Daphne's quick to alertness, but as her eyes snap open Ben's land on the large red button in the center of the device– if he's right, that administers whatever put him under the first time.

He presses the button with haste, and both women exhale deeply as they're plunged back into the dream.

Perfect. He needs them all slowed down.

But he's only encountered three... where's the fourth? Where's..?

Oh.

His eyes land on Shaggy, who lays right between Daphne and Velma with a line in his own wrist.

He had been in the dream all along.

But where? Ben thinks, then he thinks on what Shaggy is known for, and it all makes sense.

Shaggy is a master of disguise in the dream, or so Ben heard. Usually preferring to take on nondescript characters, but occasionally known to disguise as familiar faces to retrieve more information by lulling his marks into a false sense of security.

Jack.

He mimicked the restaurant owner and his mannerisms flawlessly, but made a mistake when handling Ben's receipt.

That's why he was friendly with Velma even when the other figures in Oakhaven weren't, Ben realizes.

Ohhh, they're clever. They're very clever.

It's too bad he's more clever.

He springs to his feet, and his eyes rise above the mantle of the fireplace. Sarah Ravencroft's portrait stares back down at him, and it all comes rushing back to him.

He remembers finishing his writing and being ready to retire for the evening, but hearing strange noises coming from the mansion.

He remembers calling out into the dimness in the hallway outside of his study, asking who was there.

What luck, what fortune it is that it was a team of extractors trying to catch him off-guard, he thinks gleefully! And not just any team of extractors, but the very same ones he could find information on!

Oh, fate must finally be on his side, now that he knows where the spellbook is. He's right there in Oakhaven, right where he wants to be!

It must have been a matter of convenience to them– pry his knowledge out of him, then sneak off and find the evidence of it right in the real world.

But they've made a fatal mistake in trusting that his dark family secret was merely some dirty laundry.

They have no idea what he's about to unleash.

While the team is still unconscious, he makes a mad dash to his Cadillac. He doesn't know if they have a vehicle, but getting to the Stumps as quickly as possible will serve him best– and they don't even know where he's going.

He does.

Before he grabs his keys, he retrieves a shovel. He's going to have some digging to do, and fast.

He bolts out of the mansion into the stark autumnal moonlight, and his hands begin to shake as he unlocks his car.

It's finally going to be his!

Sarah's spellbook will finally be found!

It feels as if no time passes between when he leaves his mansion and when he arrives at the final stretch of the main road leading off into the forest, but time seems to resume normalcy when he arrives. He doesn't bother to lock the door when he steps outside. It's dark in the forest and the path is obscured by shadows, but a childhood in Oakhaven means he knows his way to the Stumps by heart.

Moonlight spills into the gap between trees as he arrives upon his former playground. Dead leaves rustle beneath his feet as he begins to survey the area for the largest, most impressive-looking oak stump.

All that time he had spent here in his youth, he'd played right over the burial spot of the most important artifact he'd ever come across.

It must have been destiny.

The spellbook was always going to belong to him.

His eyes finally land on what must be it– the largest remainder of a former tree, by far. The sides are rotted and decayed with moss and fungi sprouting up from beneath the bark, but there must be at least a hundred rings spiralling right into the center.

He doesn't know where to begin.

But, he thinks, he doesn't have forever.

So he picks a spot, and he starts to dig into the packed soil.

And dig.

And dig, until his shovel reaches a few feet down. His arms begin to ache fairly quickly given how deeply and frantically he's digging into the heavy earth, and his breath refuses to fully occupy his lungs. His palms begin to sting with the friction, but he's not even remotely close to any blisters cropping up.

It would be fine if his entire hand became a blister, he thinks, just as long as he manages to find that book to make it worth the trouble!

He can't afford to get tired, not while he's so close.

The first hole turns up nothing, but he has at least a solid 10 feet of circumference to circle.

Rather than go all the way around the diameter of the tree, he picks another spot a few inches away from the first hole and begins to dig again.

The second hole turns up nothing, and he continues along the side of the trunk with as much fervent energy as he can muster.

Then the worst sound he can imagine registers from a good distance away:

The slamming of car doors.

Third time's the charm, he thinks as he begins to dig again. If this is the extraction team on his heels, his time is running out.

Then his shovel thunks against something solid.

He raises the head, then pauses. Then he swiftly digs down again, and hits the same solid object.

It's not a rock. Hitting a rock with a shovel has a distinct feel and sound, and this sounds hollow when the shovel hits it.

But it doesn't feel like it could be the cover of a book, either.

A root, maybe?

No, it doesn't quite feel like that, either.

Curiously, he begins to widen the hole to try to get a glance at what he's struck.

It's too dark to make out what it is quite yet, so he reaches into the hole to see if he can identify it by touch.

His fingers brush against dirt etched into ancient and grooved wood, if the splintery feeling against his skin is any indication.

Carved wood, making a hollow thumping sound when struck with a shovel... A box!

He gasps in delight, springing back to his feet and grasping the shovel with renewed vigor.

He digs all around the box, until he finds the sides of it and can further unearth it. The closer he gets to being able to pull it free, the more he can see it– and the more promising it looks.

He isn't sure how deep into the earth this box is buried, but once he's cleared a few inches of dirt from around the sides he hears whispers in frantic voices and multiple people's footsteps heading towards him.

It's now or never.

He crouches down and reaches into the hole, and his fingers brush against a handle he can grab onto.

He begins to try to pull the box loose, but the remaining dirt caked to the handle causes him to lose his grip and slip back.

The footsteps draw nearer, and moving white lights begin to dance off the leaves– flashlights.

He gets a grip on the handle once again and braces himself, then pulls. The box stays firmly wedged into the ground, so he starts to wiggle it to the best of his ability.

The voices grow closer, the flashlight beams brighter.

The earth begins to give.

Then they enter the clearing– it is the extractors, and all of them immediately fan out in search of him.

He pauses for a fraction of a second to tighten his grip on the handle, and with one final pull he free the box from its resting place.

Alerted by the noise, one of the flashlight beams shines directly on him, then is cast downwards to land about two feet in front of him.

His eyes meet Velma's, and her expression is unreadable.

"I found him," she says aloud, though with no sense of urgency or anger. Just utter calm. Three more flashlights shine on her to locate her, then point away. She nods to him in acknowledgement of the box in his hands. "You find what you were looking for, Ben?" she continues, and her voice stays measured.

"I'm sure I have, Velma," he responds, glad he can finally drop the pretense of referring to her as Linda Daly.

Velma appears completely nonplussed by his statement, and flicks her flashlight off.

"How long were you aware?"

"Of what, who you are or the fact that I was dreaming the whole time? Because the answer, either way, is from the very beginning."

"Must've been pretty desperate to find that book, then," she says, "if you were willing to let us in."

Ben decides he likes her even more now that she's dropped the pretense of being a journalist. This stone-cold, analytical personality is exactly what he'd have expected from her in the beginning. Her nervousness seems to have dissipated, although he blames the fact that she doesn't know what he's retrieved.

The rest of the team approaches her from behind, but seems uncertain of what to do. Velma isn't the leader of this team by any means, but they must know she spent the most time around him and has the firmest grasp on what he's after.

"It seems fate was finally on my side. Because I knew about all of you before we met. Daphne Blake, Fred Jones, and Shaggy Rogers. You had me going," he admits, singling out the sandy-haired man in a crumpled suit jacket. "I didn't even realize you were posing as Jack, until I woke up and saw you."

"How did you figure that out?" Shaggy asks, genuine curiosity sparkling in his eyes.

"The receipt," Velma explains before Ben can. "Apparently, Jack knocks a few dollars off Ben's orders. Thanks for buying me lunch, by the way," she says dryly.

"If you hadn't tipped me off, I never would have thought to check. You know, I really couldn't have planned meeting the lot of you better, even if I'd have lured you here myself! But I just can't fathom who your client would be– what did they want?"

"The truth," Velma says. "About you. About your bloodline. The truth that must be in that little box."

Then she gives him a tight-lipped smile, and gestures at the box with her hand.

"So go ahead and open it, Ben. I'm not going to try to stop you."

Oh, she's about to wish she had.

Ben lifts the lid of the box, and it's exactly what he had hoped to find– an ancient tome with a massive skull etched into the cover, which glares at him menacingly as he removes it and lets the box fall to the ground.

He begins to flip through the pages, his heart pounding in his chest as he takes in the spidery handwriting scrawled across the ancient and withered pages.

It's finally his, in all of its wicked glory.

"That sure looks kind of evil, for a journal belonging to a Wiccan healer," Daphne comments from behind Velma, eyes narrowed.

"That's because it isn't a journal at all, is it?" Velma asks, and her strained smile remains etched on her face.

Ben grins broadly, glad he can finally drop his own pretenses.

"Of course it isn't, Velma. It's a spellbook," he sneers, drawing out the final word.

He waits for her to react, but all she does is take a single step back as her smile melts back into absolute neutrality.

"You see, Sarah wasn't a Wiccan. She was indeed a witch!" He hugs the spellbook to his chest, and while Velma keeps her eyes on him the rest of the team casts nervous glances back and forth.

"What did you guys find down there?" Fred asks, absolutely befuddled.

"The same thing I suspected from the beginning," Daphne says bitterly, fingers clenching around her flashlight. "That the truth existed, but was buried with Sarah. That she was a real witch. But he knew was I was looking for, and he intentionally redacted all of the relevant information."

"Of course I needed to at the time," he says, "because I couldn't just hand you the truth without getting what I want in return. But you helped me find it, and I don't care who knows anymore– Sarah was known at the Scourge of Oakhaven. And since her blood runs in my veins, I have the same prediliction for sorcery."

"So you lied to me the whole time," Velma states, and he wonders why she thinks she has any reason to spit any accusations at him when she's guilty of the same thing.

"And you didn't?" he asks.

"I never lied when I said I wanted to help you find it," Velma responded, and he's slightly dumbstruck. How can she admit to this, as if she doesn't regret being wrong?

Well, he needs to make her regret it.

"But there's more to it, more that you never even imagined," he says. "Because not only does this contain her power and every wicked scrap of knowledge she got her hands on... it contains Sarah Ravencroft herself. After her execution, her soul was bound right here within it– never dying, waiting for someone with her blood to free her. And that's exactly what I intend to do. I intend to unlock the power of the imprisoned Sarah Ravencroft!"

At that, Velma finally reacts. Her brows rise.

An inexplicable frustration seeps into Ben's bones. He's got exactly the reactions he expected from the rest of her friends, who tense to brace themselves in anticipation of imminent danger.

Does this woman feel anything at all?

She certainly knew how to fake it, at least.

Maybe he needs a different way to get under her skin.

"Why help me, anyway? Did you care for me, somewhere in that idiotic little head of yours? Believe me blindly, because you admired me? I always believed Mayor Corey, in his superstitious ways, was the biggest fool I knew. And then I met you. You, who so desperately clung to the belief that maybe Sarah was innocent, that I was innocent. You're incredibly naive. I tricked you into helping me, and it worked."

With that, a frown knits itself across Velma's brows, and she scowls at him. Her hands clench into fists, which she clutches at her sides.

Oh, so she only cares once he's made it personal.

"Oh, don't get me wrong," he simpers as he finally decides to flip through the spells in Sarah's spellbook, "I very much appreciate your help. It only worked to my advantage."

"The only thing I don't understand is why you let us in," Daphne says as she steps forward and rests a firm hand on Velma's shoulder. Velma pushes back, but Daphne keeps her rooted to the spot. "Why go through these elaborate smoke and mirrors? Why not just tell us you knew, and ask us to help you find the book? It would have helped all of us."

"Come on, Daphne," Velma snaps, pushing out from under the redhead's grip on her shoulder. "It's our job to lie. Besides, if he'd have asked, would you really have trusted him enough to help him?"

Daphne sighs, then shakes her head and looks back at Ben warily.

"I knew there was something about you," she says venomously. "Something I didn't like at all."

"It looks like you were the only one," Ben says as he finds the very invocation he seeks, "but you're too late now. It's time to unlock the power of Sarah Ravencroft!"

"Well, I don't like the sound of this," Shaggy moans, and Velma takes a step back toward Ben.

"Together, we shall reign supreme!" Ben declares before beginning the invocation. "Let the evil from the past breathe again with fiery blast!"

With just the single line spoken, lightning bursts forth from the book, and a dreadful wind begins to spiral all around him. The earth trembles beneath his feet, then splits as leaves are stripped from their branches.

Velma's eyes dart sharply upwards, at the trees beginning to bend and sway to the mere sound of his voice. She attempts to take another step toward him, but the sudden gale proves to be too strong for her to do anything except stay in place.

"Let the dark wind whip the night to blow away the force of light!" he continues, and the maelstrom grows stronger.

A nearby tree is ripped straight from its roots, and Shaggy turns right around to face it as it collapses and sinks toward him. He holds a hand up and over his face, then crouches low just as it crashes on top of him, obscuring him under thousands of dancing leaves and snapping branches.

The earth continues to rattle as Ben continues to recite.

"Now I summon ancient power!"

The earth continues to split in his wake, cracks in the dirt widening enough to swallow several stumps. The remaining three members of the extraction team he can see lower themselves to the ground, and Daphne and Fred reach out to hold each other in a desperate embrace.

Velma cries out in alarm as they're all swept back by the gusts beating at them, and Daphne and Fred shout as they're swallowed whole by the churning earth.

"This is evil's finest hour!" Ben finishes, and laughs maniacally as an eerie green light spirals upwards from the book and strikes him like a bolt of lightning, endowing him with strength and vitality he never dreamed possible.

His glasses feel wrong on his face.

The wind dies down slightly, but the earth continues to quake under Velma's feet as she rises and attempts to approach him again.

"NO!" she cries out, then tries to steady herself.

Ben laughs at her again as he takes his glasses off, then drops them to allow them to be swept away. He won't need them anymore.

"What's the matter, Velma?" he simpers. "Don't you like the new, improved Ben Ravencroft?"

"No, frankly I don't!" she snarls, and the earth begins to heave again.

Oranges and reds swirl around him violently, and bark begins to peel off of the trees to join the debris dance.

Ben just laughs again.

"Aww, try not to take it so personally. If it's any consolation, you were good. You and your friends were very, very good."

Then Velma straightens, standing tall even while being pelted by everything the maelstrom can lift and throw at her.

He can hardly see her anymore under all of the debris between them, but the small glimpse he catches of her is a smirk, and it's that moment that he realizes something is very wrong.

Then he sees her eyes, locked on his with that same wicked look in them as the one he had ignored before.

Why is she this calm?

What does she know that he doesn't?

"We were," she asks above the distinctly musical howling of the wind, "weren't we?"

Then a log, torn right off its parent tree, barrels into her from the side and sweeps her off her feet.

And the world continues to tear itself apart.

~☆°~•~°☆~

He wakes up in London, to the train lurching as it begins to move again.

He inhales sharply, his startled alertness snapping the traces of his dream from his immediate memory. He turns his head toward the window, watching the station and departing passengers slowly slide out of view.

He doesn't remember dozing off, but when does anyone ever? So he relaxes, resettles into his seat, and adjusts his arms on the armrest.

A lingering pinching sensation shoots sharply through him as his jacket sleeve catches on his arm, and he jumps slightly in his seat.

He remembers the sensation of having something in his wrist, and the memory comes back to him with absolute clarity.

How could he forget?!

That extraction team! They had probably been right there on the train with him, and they've just gotten off scot-free with..!

He pales.

They had been looking for the truth, and evidence about who Sarah Ravencroft had been. Velma had told him herself.

And now he's not only handed the family secret to them on a silver platter, but he's made them privy to his own wicked desires as well!

Now they know exactly what he wants to find in Oakhaven, and they also know where to find it! He led them right to it, because he had been too eager to consider multiple dreams!

And they've done it while he's in London, thousands of miles away from Massachusetts!

“Oh, those meddling sons-of..!” he curses, leaping from his seat. A scrap of folded paper, which he was unaware of having been pinned between his hand and armrest, flutters out of hiding and floats to the ground.

It's so bizarre to him, he forgets to be angry for a second as he scoops the paper off the floor.

What is it, a note? Is it for him?

He unfolds the note– it's been hastily scrawled on in the distinctly messy handwriting and scathing words of an intellect: Two sentences, mocking what he's said and insulting him while disguising as a compliment. Then a pair of initials.

It is for him.

His blood begins to boil.

It's a taunt. From her.

It strikes him right then, the whole time she had been playing him like a damned fiddle while he had thought he was playing her.

Every single sideways glance she had given him, every lie she had spoken with a bright smile on her face, she had known he was going to lead her right to his secrets.

She had never been wrapped around his finger, but he had been coiled around hers.

She had baited him with ease, hook, line, and sinker.

He feels so foolish. While he had thought himself wise for keeping his attention on her, she's played the exact game he did, and she seems so certain that she's won, the bastard! Well, while she and her friends may have extracted that information, they still have to be in London. They're just as far from the spellbook as he is, aren't they?

They may have a little five-minute head start on him, but he has wealth. He has connections. Well, maybe not connections that will just retrieve the spellbook for him without asking questions, but connections that can get him back to Oakhaven, the real Oakhaven, quickly.

The clock is still ticking.

He's going to catch them, if it's the last damn thing he does! He can't lose this, now that he's so close!

He can't..!

~☆°~•~°☆~

When all is said and done, he makes it back to Massachusetts in a record two days.

Jetlagged, worn out, and weary, he drives straight from the airport to the Stumps without stopping.

He follows the very path that he had recreated for himself in the dream, and stumbles upon the clearing he seeks. His sleepless fervency has left him mostly unable to feel anything, but his heart begins to quicken with excitement as he begins his search.

It takes a few moments for him to happen upon the most impressive former oak tree, and he eagerly approaches it...

Then his heart falls into his stomach.

Nestled between two roots, there's an empty hole with a distinctly rectangular divot in the ground.

He knows exactly what was there.

Anything that may have been buried in the past is long gone, and his secrets have been stolen with it.

It's over.

He's lost.

~☆°~•~°☆~

Things could be much worse, he reminds himself every so often over the next few months.

While he's lost Sarah's spellbook and the secrecy of his family's legacy, things really could have gone so much worse for him.

Because having his secret and the supporting, formerly-sealed record of Sarah Ravencroft's actions spilled to practically the entire world has had an impact he frankly should have suspected, but is still shocked by.

Stories about Sarah Ravencroft, the Scourge of Oakhaven, have circulated so wildly that his books are now legendary. His lineage makes his books pure gold within the horror community.

Her infamy has increased not only his fame, but his wealth as well.

He should be angry. But instead, he vindictively hopes the buyer who hired that extraction team is happy. He isn't unhappy, after all.

Because in spite of his loss of what could have been, things have only improved for him and his life.

Because now he has extra money to throw around.

Maybe he'll never be able to find the spellbook, but he can seek out the woman who caused him to lose it in the first place.

He doesn't care for any of her friends, not particularly. They didn't pick at his brain the way she did. The way she toyed with him in his own mind has added a whole new dimension of curiosity and desire to really understand her.

She's wormed her way right into his mind, where she refuses to leave.

So more than anything, he wants a way to return the favor.

In a way, she can be his new spellbook. His new quest. His new fascination. And this time, finding what he's looking for can be made into a game. Into a puzzle. One in which he'll inevitably come out as the victor of.

Yes, he thinks, this is what he wants.

He wants finding Velma Dinkley to be a game.

He wants it to be a long, convoluted, and frustrating game. He wants his efforts to be met with next to no payoff, just so that the day they meet again will be that much more rewarding.

Fortunately, it seems things will play out in his favor for once.

Because he has a clue as to her existence, a fact he can cling to until he can shove it right back in her face.

It's the only clue. It's the only evidence of her having ever been inside his head. All he has of her is that taunting scrap of paper she had left in his hand before beginning the chase.

And he's going to use it to find her.

Try not to take it so personally, the scrap reads. If it's any consolation, you were always my favorite. ♡- V.D.

#scooby doo #scooby doo and the witch's ghost #ben ravencroft #velma dinkley #daphne blake #scooby doo fanfiction #my writing

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