Chapter Text
Three weeks after the world ended, Fred Jones discovered that dating Daphne Blake involved considerably fewer explosions than he had anticipated.
This was not a complaint.
It was merely an observation.
Fred had spent the better part of his teenage life assuming that romance, like most complicated human activities, probably required rope, counterweights, hidden pressure plates and a well-labelled emergency release. Daphne had been gently explaining that it did not. She had also explained that asking whether she wanted a “designated passenger-side trap compartment” installed beside her seat in the Mystery Machine was not, technically, a normal boyfriend question.
Fred had installed one anyway.
Daphne loved it.
She would never tell him that.
“You reinforced my side of the van?”
They were parked beside a lonely stretch of highway beneath the late-afternoon sun. Daphne stood with one hand on the open passenger door while Fred crouched beside the Mystery Machine with a wrench between his teeth.
He pulled it free.
“Steel plating.”
“Fred.”
“And an emergency flare launcher.”
“Fred.”
“And underneath the seat there’s a cable release connected to the rear axle.”
She stared at him.
Fred frowned.
“For emergencies.”
Daphne folded her arms.
“What sort of emergency requires me to disconnect the rear axle?”
Fred considered this seriously.
“An axle-related emergency.”
Daphne’s expression held for three seconds before collapsing into a smile.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Fred brightened.
“So you like it?”
Daphne leaned down and kissed his cheek.
Fred froze.
The wrench dropped onto his boot.
“Ow.”
From inside the Mystery Machine came a long, disgusted groan.
“Like, can you two save the romantic mechanical engineering until after lunch?”
Shaggy Rogers appeared through the side door carrying half a sandwich in each hand. Scooby-Doo followed him, chewing something that had probably once been a sandwich and was now mostly structural damage.
“Reah,” Scooby agreed. “Roo mush romance.”
Daphne looked at them.
“You two ate lunch twenty minutes ago.”
Shaggy shook his head gravely.
“No, that was pre-lunch.”
Scooby nodded.
“Rre-lunch.”
“Then what’s this?”
“Lunch.”
Fred climbed to his feet.
“And after lunch?”
Shaggy and Scooby exchanged a look.
“Pre-dinner.”
Velma Dinkley looked up from the laptop balanced across her knees in the back of the van.
“You realise your digestive systems are going to be studied by science after you die.”
Shaggy pointed one sandwich at her.
“That implies we’re letting science catch us.”
Scooby gasped.
“Run!”
He and Shaggy immediately ducked behind the Mystery Machine.
Velma stared after them.
“I was joking.”
A pause.
“Mostly.”
Daphne laughed and shut the passenger door.
For a few seconds, none of them said anything.
The silence felt strange.
Not bad.
Just strange.
They were getting used to that.
Crystal Cove was behind them now, though only by a few hours. Somewhere ahead lay Massachusetts, Miskatonic University, and the unanswered questions waiting there. Professor H. P. Hatecraft had sent them several letters already. Velma had read every one twice and pretended not to be excited. Fred had mapped the route. Daphne had packed enough clothing for everyone despite everyone insisting they could pack for themselves. Shaggy had packed six bags of food and one shirt.
Scooby had packed a chew toy.
Nobody had asked him to.
For the first time in years, there was no curse hanging over them.
No secret society.
No talking parrot plotting murder.
No ancient entity twisting generations of lives into a circle of obsession and misery.
No destiny.
That last part was the strangest.
Fred had expected freedom to feel larger.
Instead, it felt quiet.
Like waking after a storm and realising the roof was still there.
Velma closed the laptop.
“We should move.”
Fred glanced toward her.
“Something wrong?”
“The atmospheric temperature is rising, and the engine is already running hot.”
Fred immediately looked toward the Mystery Machine.
“Running hot?”
Daphne smiled faintly.
She knew that tone.
Fred had once displayed less alarm while being pursued by a robot dog.
He opened the hood.
A small puff of steam escaped.
Fred went very still.
“Oh no.”
Shaggy leaned around the front of the van.
“Like, on the scale of ‘we need water’ to ‘Fred is about to marry the engine,’ where are we?”
Fred stared into the engine compartment.
“Three belts are misaligned.”
Shaggy winced.
“That sounds serious.”
“One hose is cracked.”
Scooby covered his mouth.
“Ruh-roh.”
“And the coolant line is leaking.”
Daphne rested a hand on Fred’s shoulder.
“Fred?”
Fred looked at her with the expression of a man receiving tragic battlefield news.
“She’s hurt.”
Velma sighed.
“It’s a van.”
Fred and Daphne looked at her.
Velma raised both hands.
“Fine. She’s hurt.”
The nearest service station was thirty miles away.
The nearest town was six.
Gold Creek.
Velma found it on an old digital road map after several minutes of searching.
“Population four hundred and twelve,” she said. “Former mining settlement. Incorporated in 1882. Local economy collapsed around the nineteen-forties.”
Shaggy peered over her shoulder.
“Any restaurants?”
Velma scrolled.
“One diner.”
Shaggy turned solemnly toward Scooby.
“We ride at dawn.”
Scooby raised a paw.
“Ror dinner!”
“It’s four-thirty.”
“Early dinner!”
The Mystery Machine managed four more miles before Fred finally surrendered and pulled onto the shoulder.
They walked the remaining distance.
Gold Creek announced itself with a weathered wooden sign leaning slightly toward the highway.
WELCOME TO GOLD CREEK
WHERE CALIFORNIA FOUND ITS FORTUNE
Someone had painted a smaller message beneath it.
AND THEN LOST IT.
Daphne tilted her head.
“Charming.”
The town lay between two ridges of dry brown hills. It consisted of one main street, several boarded storefronts, an old church, a motel with six rooms and a cracked swimming pool, a diner called THE PANHANDLE, and a cluster of preserved nineteenth-century buildings surrounding a tiny historical museum.
At the far end of town, a rusted mining tower rose above the rooftops.
Behind it, carved into the ridge, was a black opening.
The mine.
Fred stopped walking.
Daphne almost bumped into him.
“Oh no.”
Fred’s eyes widened.
“A mining town.”
Daphne already knew.
“Fred.”
“Abandoned tunnels.”
“Fred.”
“Timber supports.”
“Fred.”
“Vertical shafts.”
She took his arm and physically pulled him forward.
“You can look at the mine after we fix the van.”
Fred allowed himself to be dragged.
“I wasn’t going to do anything.”
Velma passed them.
“You were calculating load-bearing capacity with your eyes.”
“I can do two things at once.”
Shaggy and Scooby had already disappeared into the diner.
The bell above the door was still ringing when the others entered.
The Panhandle looked as though it had not changed since 1956. Red vinyl booths lined the windows. A dusty jukebox stood beside the counter. Old mining photographs covered the walls.
Shaggy and Scooby were seated beneath a chalkboard menu.
The waitress stood before them holding a pencil.
“So that’s two burgers?”
Shaggy nodded.
“To start.”
The waitress blinked.
“To start?”
Scooby pointed at the menu.
“Rench fries.”
“Two fries?”
“Rour.”
The waitress looked at Shaggy.
Shaggy smiled apologetically.
“He’s cutting back.”
She stared at them for another moment, then walked toward the kitchen.
Daphne slid into the booth opposite.
“This is why people think we’re weird.”
Velma sat beside her.
“No, there are many reasons people think we’re weird.”
Fred remained standing.
He was looking at the photographs.
Daphne followed his gaze.
Most showed miners standing outside the old Gold Creek mine: black-and-white faces, heavy boots, lanterns hanging from hooks, mule carts, families posing beside rough wooden houses.
Then Fred stepped closer to one.
It was dated 1903.
Six men stood outside the mine entrance.
One held a pickaxe across his shoulder.
Fred frowned.
“What?”
Daphne came beside him.
Fred tapped the glass.
“Nothing.”
“That was a very intense nothing.”
“I thought…”
He stopped.
The man in the photograph had a wide-brimmed mining helmet, thick beard and heavy coat.
For half a second, Fred had known him.
Not recognised him exactly.
Known him.
A flash crossed his mind.
Dust.
A hotel corridor.
A huge figure swinging a pickaxe.
Scooby running.
Then it vanished.
Fred rubbed his forehead.
Daphne’s voice softened.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You did the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where your face goes blank and you say ‘yeah’ even though your face is clearly saying ‘something very weird just happened.’”
Fred looked again at the photograph.
“I thought I remembered him.”
“From where?”
“I don’t know.”
Velma had heard.
She stood.
“What kind of memory?”
Fred shrugged.
“Nothing important.”
Velma closed her eyes.
“Fred.”
He sighed.
“Like a flash. I saw a miner.”
Shaggy slowly lowered his menu.
“Like, can we establish whether this miner was the friendly kind before we continue?”
Scooby leaned closer.
“Rery friendly?”
“No.”
“Then I vote we continue never.”
The waitress returned carrying four glasses of water.
She had heard enough of the conversation to smile.
“You kids asking about old miners?”
Velma glanced toward her.
“Actually, yes.”
The waitress put the glasses down.
“Then you probably want the museum.”
She nodded through the window.
“Mrs Dunn runs it. She knows every story in Gold Creek.”
Fred looked toward the mine again.
“What kind of stories?”
The waitress smiled.
“Mostly about people who went into that mountain and didn’t come out.”
Shaggy pushed his menu away.
“Check, please.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“Then make it to go.”
Scooby nodded urgently.
“Ro go.”
The waitress laughed.
“Don’t worry. Mine’s been closed for years.”
“That always helps,” Shaggy muttered.
She walked away.
Daphne glanced at Velma.
Velma was staring at Fred.
“What?”
“You remembered something.”
“I said that.”
“Something you don’t remember experiencing.”
Fred shrugged.
Velma sat again.
“That keeps happening.”
Daphne’s smile faded slightly.
They all knew what she meant.
After the world had changed, most things had seemed better.
Much better.
Their families were different.
Their histories were different.
People who should have been dead were alive.
People who had been cruel were kind.
Crystal Cove itself seemed brighter, almost lighter, as though someone had opened curtains that had been closed for centuries.
But there were cracks.
Small ones.
Velma had first noticed them two days after the Entity’s destruction.
A newspaper clipping described Mystery Incorporated exposing a fake sea monster at Crystal Cove Pier.
They remembered the mystery.
The date was wrong.
Then Daphne found an old school photograph containing a teacher none of them remembered.
Fred discovered several traps in his bedroom that he did remember building, but for mysteries that apparently had never happened.
Shaggy occasionally remembered restaurants that had never existed.
Scooby once woke howling after dreaming about a laughing skeleton.
Velma had begun keeping notes.
She had titled the folder:
TIMELINE DISCREPANCIES.
Shaggy had renamed it:
WEIRD STUFF THAT IS DEFINITELY NOT OUR PROBLEM.
Velma had changed it back.
Twice.
“We don’t know what those memories are,” Daphne said.
Velma nodded.
“No. But they’re not random.”
Fred returned to the booth.
“So?”
“So we’ve travelled six miles into a town none of us has ever visited, and you immediately recognised a miner from a century-old photograph.”
Fred considered this.
“Coincidence?”
Velma stared.
Fred smiled faintly.
“I knew you’d hate that.”
The burgers arrived.
For approximately eleven minutes, the conversation stopped.
Shaggy and Scooby ate with the focused silence of trained professionals.
Fred drank half his soda and returned to staring at the mine photographs.
Daphne watched him.
There was something different about Fred since the reset.
Not worse.
Softer, maybe.
He smiled more easily now.
He talked to his parents without looking as though each conversation might be a trap.
He no longer woke in the middle of the night and started drawing escape routes.
Mostly.
But sometimes Daphne caught him looking at ordinary things with a strange fear.
A kitchen table.
A family photograph.
Scooby asleep on the floor.
Her.
As if reality might notice he was happy and correct the mistake.
Daphne reached under the table and took his hand.
Fred looked down.
Then at her.
She smiled.
He squeezed her fingers.
Across from them, Shaggy noticed.
“Aww.”
Daphne pointed at him with her free hand.
“Don’t.”
Scooby noticed too.
“Awwww.”
“Both of you.”
Velma looked up from her phone.
“Statistically, new couples exhibit increased physical contact for approximately—”
“Velma.”
“Right.”
They left the diner as the sun began sinking behind the ridge.
Fred had found a mechanic.
Sort of.
The owner of the motel knew someone named Earl who had repaired a tractor in 1998 and “still had most of the tools.”
Fred did not seem reassured.
“While Earl looks at the van,” Velma said, “we should visit the museum.”
Shaggy stopped.
“Why?”
“Fred’s memory.”
“That sounds like Fred’s problem.”
Fred looked at him.
“Thanks.”
“No offence, man, but every time one of you gets a mysterious memory we end up being chased by something that violates at least two laws of nature.”
Scooby nodded.
“Rand three laws of lunch.”
Velma continued walking.
“We’re only asking questions.”
Shaggy pointed toward the mine tower.
“That sentence has nearly killed us more times than monsters have.”
The Gold Creek Historical Museum occupied what had once been the town assay office.
A brass bell jingled when Daphne opened the door.
Inside smelled of old wood, paper and dust.
Glass cases contained mining helmets, lanterns, chunks of quartz, rusted tools and old coins. An enormous map of Gold Creek covered one wall.
A woman sat behind a desk reading a paperback novel.
She looked somewhere in her seventies, with silver hair tied loosely behind her head and a pair of glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.
“Five minutes till closing.”
Velma approached.
“Mrs Dunn?”
The woman looked up.
“That depends who’s asking.”
“Velma Dinkley. These are Fred Jones, Daphne Blake, Shaggy Rogers and Scooby-Doo.”
Scooby waved.
“Rello.”
Mrs Dunn stared at Scooby.
Scooby stopped waving.
“Ruh?”
She slowly removed her glasses.
Then she looked at Fred.
Then Daphne.
Then Velma.
Then Shaggy.
Then Scooby again.
Her expression changed.
Not recognition.
Something close.
“Have we met?”
Fred frowned.
“I don’t think so.”
Mrs Dunn continued staring.
“No.”
She looked almost disappointed.
“No, I suppose not.”
Velma glanced at Daphne.
Interesting.
“We wanted to ask about the mine.”
Mrs Dunn leaned back.
“Tourist board sends you?”
“No.”
“Developers?”
“No.”
“Treasure hunters?”
Shaggy immediately pointed at Fred.
“Him.”
Fred frowned.
“I’m not a treasure hunter.”
“You once dug up half a beach because you thought somebody buried a trapdoor.”
“There was a trapdoor.”
“Still.”
Mrs Dunn smiled despite herself.
“What do you want to know?”
Fred looked toward the photographs displayed along the far wall.
“I saw a picture in the diner.”
“That narrows it down to about three hundred dead miners.”
“A man in a helmet. Beard. Pickaxe.”
Mrs Dunn’s smile disappeared.
Velma noticed.
“You know who he means.”
Mrs Dunn stood.
“Come with me.”
Shaggy groaned quietly.
Scooby groaned louder.
Mrs Dunn led them to the rear of the museum.
A large wooden board stood there beneath a sign:
LEGENDS OF GOLD CREEK.
Photographs, newspaper clippings and handwritten accounts covered the display.
Mrs Dunn pointed toward one.
A drawing.
The figure wore a battered miner’s helmet.
A heavy coat.
Huge boots.
A beard covered most of his face.
A pickaxe rested across his shoulder.
Fred’s stomach tightened.
There he was.
Again.
And this time the memory hit harder.
A mine cart.
Scooby screaming.
Shaggy clinging to a rope.
A voice shouting—
Miner Forty-Niner!
Fred stepped back.
Daphne caught his arm.
“Fred?”
“I know him.”
Velma moved closer.
“From where?”
“I don’t know.”
Mrs Dunn was watching him.
“You’ve seen the Forty-Niner.”
Shaggy lifted one finger.
“Counterpoint: we have now seen enough Forty-Niner.”
Scooby nodded.
“Ragreed.”
Velma ignored them.
“Who was he?”
Mrs Dunn looked toward the drawing.
“Depends which story you believe.”
“Give us all of them.”
The woman smiled faintly.
“You really are investigators.”
Fred said quietly, “Mystery Incorporated.”
Mrs Dunn’s eyes moved toward him.
Something passed through her expression again.
“Of course you are.”
Velma frowned.
“You’ve heard of us?”
“No.”
Mrs Dunn looked at the drawing.
“But somehow I knew that was what you were going to say.”
Nobody spoke.
Outside, the wind moved through the street.
A loose sign creaked.
Mrs Dunn folded her arms.
“In 1849, Gold Creek wasn’t a town yet. Just tents, mud and men willing to kill each other over yellow rocks. One prospector, Jeremiah Pratt, claimed he found a new seam deeper in the ridge. Richest strike anybody had ever seen.”
She tapped the drawing.
“He called it the forty-ninth vein.”
Daphne glanced at Fred.
“What happened?”
“He disappeared.”
“Accident?”
“Maybe.”
“Murder?” Velma asked.
“Probably.”
Shaggy swallowed.
“Natural causes?”
Mrs Dunn looked at him.
“In a mine?”
“Worth asking.”
“Pratt vanished. So did three other men who supposedly knew where the vein was. Eventually people said Pratt’s ghost guarded it. Helmet. Lantern. Pickaxe.”
Scooby moved slightly behind Shaggy.
“Rhost.”
Shaggy moved slightly behind Scooby.
“Yep.”
Mrs Dunn continued.
“Every few decades, somebody claims to see him.”
Velma crossed her arms.
“And every few decades, someone probably benefits from frightening people away.”
Mrs Dunn smiled.
“You’ll fit in around here.”
“Any recent sightings?”
The smile disappeared.
Mrs Dunn looked toward the mine.
“Three this month.”
Fred straightened.
“Where?”
“Old mine entrance. Ridge trail. Once behind the museum.”
Daphne glanced toward the window.
“When?”
“Last night.”
Shaggy raised both hands.
“And on that horrifyingly convenient piece of information, we thank you for your time.”
He grabbed Scooby’s collar.
They made it three steps toward the door.
CLANG.
Everyone stopped.
A metallic sound echoed outside.
Fred turned.
CLANG.
Scooby’s ears rose.
“Rhat was rhat?”
Shaggy whispered.
“Somebody dropping a spoon.”
Velma looked at him.
“A thirty-pound spoon?”
“Industrial spoon.”
CLANG.
Closer.
Mrs Dunn went pale.
“That’s him.”
Fred ran toward the front window.
Daphne followed.
The street outside was empty.
The setting sun had turned the town orange.
Dust moved between the buildings.
CLANG.
A shadow crossed the road.
Daphne inhaled sharply.
Something moved beside the old blacksmith shop.
Tall.
Broad.
Carrying a pickaxe.
Fred’s eyes widened.
The figure stepped into the street.
Mining helmet.
Heavy coat.
Huge boots.
Wild grey beard.
A lantern swung from one hand.
The pickaxe rested across the other shoulder.
Shaggy appeared behind Fred.
“Nope.”
Scooby appeared behind Shaggy.
“Rope.”
The miner slowly turned toward the museum.
For one impossible instant, Fred knew exactly what would happen.
The miner raised the pickaxe.
His mouth opened.
And a voice like stone grinding against stone carried across Gold Creek.
“FORTY-NIIIIIIINE!”
Scooby jumped into Shaggy’s arms.
“RINER RORTY-RINER!”
Shaggy screamed.
“He said the thing!”
Fred shoved open the museum door.
“Wait!”
Daphne grabbed his sleeve.
“Fred!”
But Fred was already outside.
“Fred, what are you doing?”
“I know him!”
“That is not a reason to run toward the man with the pickaxe!”
The miner turned.
Fred ran after him.
Daphne groaned.
“Why do I love him?”
Velma hurried past.
“We can examine that psychologically later.”
Shaggy stood in the doorway.
“Nope.”
Scooby nodded.
“Nope.”
From somewhere down the street came Fred’s voice.
“COME ON!”
Shaggy sighed.
“Friendship is terrible.”
Scooby whimpered.
“Rerrible.”
They ran.
The Miner Forty-Niner disappeared between two abandoned buildings.
Fred followed.
Daphne followed Fred.
Velma followed Daphne.
Shaggy and Scooby followed everyone because decades of survival instinct had somehow failed to overcome peer pressure.
They emerged behind the buildings onto an old dirt track.
The mine tower loomed above them.
The miner was halfway up the slope.
“Stop!” Fred shouted.
The figure turned.
For a second, the setting sun caught the lantern.
Then he ran toward the mine entrance.
Velma frowned.
“He’s fast.”
Shaggy puffed.
“Why are ghosts always athletic?”
Scooby panted beside him.
“Cardio.”
They reached the mine.
Boards covered most of the entrance, but several had been torn away recently.
Fred stopped.
The darkness beyond seemed almost solid.
Daphne reached him.
“You are not going in there.”
Fred looked at her.
“Daph—”
“You have no helmet, no rope, no flashlight, no map, and we have no idea whether the supports are stable.”
Fred stared at her.
Then smiled.
“What?”
“That was very safety-conscious.”
“Fred.”
“I’m proud.”
She shoved him gently.
Velma crouched beside the entrance.
“Fresh bootprints.”
Fred joined her.
The tracks disappeared into the mine.
Shaggy arrived several seconds later.
“Great.”
He bent over, hands on knees.
“He has feet.”
Scooby collapsed beside him.
“Rery scary feet.”
Velma touched the dirt.
“Large work boots. Deep tread. Recent.”
“So not a ghost,” Daphne said.
“Probably not.”
Shaggy straightened.
“Wonderful. Mystery solved. Human feet. Let’s go.”
Velma looked farther into the tunnel.
“There’s something else.”
Fred leaned closer.
Velma pointed.
Beside the bootprints were several long marks in the dust.
Parallel lines.
As though something heavy had been dragged.
“A pickaxe?” Daphne asked.
Velma shook her head.
“Too wide.”
Fred touched one.
Another flash.
Lantern light.
A wooden hotel.
A huge miner crashing through a wall.
Fred pulled his hand back.
Daphne saw it.
“Again?”
He nodded.
Velma stood.
“What did you see?”
“A hallway.”
“What hallway?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was there?”
“Us.”
That silenced everyone.
Even Shaggy.
Fred looked toward the mine.
“I remember us running from him.”
Velma’s voice was quieter now.
“Fred, we’ve never been here.”
“I know.”
Scooby looked nervously toward the tunnel.
“Maybe rhe has.”
Fred looked at him.
“What?”
Scooby lowered his ears.
“Riner.”
Shaggy hugged Scooby.
“Buddy, please do not suggest the monster remembers us.”
A deep sound came from inside the mine.
CLANG.
Everyone froze.
Then:
CLANG.
Closer.
Daphne whispered.
“Fred.”
He stepped back.
A light appeared in the tunnel.
Dim.
Yellow.
Swinging.
The miner stepped from the darkness.
“FORTY-NIIIIINE!”
Shaggy screamed.
Scooby screamed.
Fred shouted:
“RUN!”
This time everyone agreed.
They tore down the slope.
The miner followed.
Dust flew beneath his boots.
Daphne grabbed Velma’s hand as they rounded the blacksmith shop.
Fred vaulted a broken fence.
Shaggy attempted to vault it, caught his trousers and flipped over backwards.
Scooby stopped.
“Raggy!”
“Go without me!”
Scooby grabbed Shaggy by the collar and dragged him through the dirt.
“I TAKE IT BACK!”
Fred turned.
“Left!”
They raced around the museum.
The miner appeared on the opposite side.
“Right!”
They turned.
He was there too.
Shaggy stopped dead.
“Like, how is he doing that?!”
Velma pointed toward an alley.
“Through there!”
They squeezed between two buildings and emerged back onto the main street.
A truck approached.
Fred raised both arms.
“STOP!”
The truck braked.
Its driver leaned out.
“What the hell—”
Fred pointed behind them.
“Miner!”
The driver stared.
“Tourist thing?”
“NO!”
The miner stepped into the road.
The driver screamed.
The truck reversed so quickly it struck a trash can.
Fred looked around.
“Daphne!”
“What?”
“Clothesline!”
She saw it.
A line stretched between the diner and neighbouring store.
Fred grabbed one end.
“Velma, pulley!”
Velma spotted the old awning mechanism.
“Got it!”
“Shaggy!”
“No!”
“I haven’t said anything!”
“It always involves me!”
“Distract him!”
“See?!”
Scooby grabbed Shaggy’s hand.
“Come on!”
“Et tu, Scoob?”
They ran into the street.
Shaggy waved both arms.
“HEY! MINER GUY!”
The Forty-Niner turned.
Scooby held up a dinner roll he had somehow retained throughout the chase.
“Rook! Rold!”
The miner charged.
Scooby’s eyes widened.
“Ruh-roh.”
They ran.
Fred looped the clothesline through the awning pulley.
“NOW!”
Velma released the mechanism.
Daphne pulled.
The line tightened across the street.
The miner hit it.
For one beautiful second, Fred smiled.
Then the line snapped.
“Oh.”
The miner kept coming.
Fred’s smile vanished.
“RUN AGAIN!”
They scattered.
The miner swung the pickaxe.
It smashed into a wooden barrel.
Shaggy and Scooby shot behind the diner.
Daphne ducked through the museum doorway.
Velma followed.
Fred turned toward the mine path again.
The Forty-Niner stopped.
Their eyes met.
Behind the beard, Fred could see almost nothing.
Only darkness.
Then the miner spoke.
Not shouted.
Spoke.
“You.”
Fred’s blood went cold.
The miner pointed the pickaxe at him.
“You came back.”
Fred stared.
“What?”
The miner’s head tilted.
Then someone shouted from inside the museum.
“Fred!”
Daphne.
Fred looked away for less than a second.
When he looked back, the street was empty.
The miner was gone.
They searched until dark.
No footprints.
No lantern.
No miner.
Nothing.
Mrs Dunn locked the museum doors.
Shaggy and Scooby sat on the floor sharing crackers from an emergency packet Daphne carried in her handbag.
Fred stood beside the Legends of Gold Creek display.
Velma paced.
“He recognised you.”
Fred nodded.
“He said I came back.”
“But you’ve never been here.”
“Apparently.”
Daphne sat on the edge of a display case.
“Could someone know who we are?”
“Of course,” Velma said. “We’ve been in newspapers. Television. Anyone could research us.”
“And fake Fred remembering things?”
Velma stopped.
“No.”
Mrs Dunn watched them from her desk.
“You really don’t remember Gold Creek?”
Fred looked at her.
“No.”
She looked toward the old drawing of the Forty-Niner.
“That makes two of us.”
Velma turned.
“What does that mean?”
Mrs Dunn hesitated.
Then shook her head.
“Nothing.”
Velma narrowed her eyes.
“That was definitely something.”
Mrs Dunn gathered her keys.
“It’s late. If you’re staying in town, motel’s across the road.”
Fred looked toward the display.
There were several photographs beneath the drawing.
He stepped closer.
One showed the mine in 1912.
Another showed miners in 1898.
A third looked much newer.
Black and white, but probably mid-twentieth century.
Fred leaned closer.
His heart stopped.
“Velma.”
She came beside him.
“What?”
Fred pointed.
In the photograph, a figure stood outside the mine.
Miner’s helmet.
Wild beard.
Heavy coat.
Pickaxe.
The same costume.
Exactly.
Velma removed the photograph from beneath its clip.
Mrs Dunn noticed.
“That was taken in 1956.”
Velma looked at the back.
A handwritten date confirmed it.
Daphne joined them.
“Is that supposed to be Jeremiah Pratt?”
Mrs Dunn shook her head.
“Nobody knows.”
Fred stared at the costume.
Every detail matched the thing they had just seen.
The torn coat sleeve.
The dent in the helmet.
The strange metal band around the pickaxe handle.
Velma’s expression had changed.
She was no longer sceptical.
She was scared.
Not of the monster.
Of the implication.
“This costume shouldn’t exist,” she said.
Shaggy looked up from the crackers.
“Why?”
Velma turned the photograph toward them.
“Because Fred remembers it.”
Shaggy blinked.
“That’s the opposite of an explanation.”
Velma looked at Fred.
“Fred remembers a mystery we never solved.”
She pointed at the photograph.
“And this picture shows the exact monster he remembers.”
Daphne swallowed.
“Maybe somebody copied it.”
“From what?”
Nobody answered.
Scooby slowly stood.
He came closer to the photograph.
His ears lowered.
“Ri remember him.”
Everyone turned.
Shaggy stared.
“Scoob?”
Scooby pointed at the miner.
“Riner Forty-Riner.”
Fred’s face went pale.
Velma whispered:
“You remember him too?”
Scooby nodded.
“Rittle bit.”
Shaggy looked at the photograph.
Then at Scooby.
Then at Fred.
“Like… I suddenly really, really miss normal fake ghosts.”
Outside, somewhere beyond the museum walls, something metallic struck stone.
CLANG.
The lights flickered.
Mrs Dunn turned toward the window.
Nobody moved.
CLANG.
Fred looked at the old photograph again.
This time he noticed something written beneath it in faded ink.
Five words.
He read them aloud.
“THEY ALWAYS COME BACK EVENTUALLY.”
The lights went out.