In 1977, four teenagers and a dog—Andy (the tomboy), Kate (the nerd), Kerri (the bookworm), Peter (the jock), and Tim (the Weimaraner)—solved the mystery of Sleepy Lake. The trail of an amphibian monster terrorizing the quiet town of Blayton Hills led the gang to spend a night in Deboën Mansion and apprehend a familiar culprit: a bitter old man in a mask.
Now, in 1990, the twentysomething former teen detectives are lost souls. Plagued by night terrors and Peter's tragic death, the three survivors have been running from their demons. When the man they apprehended all those years ago makes parole, Andy tracks him down to confirm what she's always known, they got the wrong guy. Now she'll need to get the gang back together and return to Blyton Hills to find out what happened in 1977, and this time, she's sure they're not looking for another man in a mask.
Does anyone of a certain age not love Scooby-Doo? How many of us grew up watching Fred, Daphne, Velma, Shaggy, and Scooby run through spooky mansions catching thieving butlers and shady real estate developers? I own the entire series of Scooby-Doo, Where Are You! and my favorite episode of Supernatural is the one where they’re sucked into a Scooby-Doo cartoon. I even own all the Funko Pops! I’m saying all this to explain why, when I found Meddling Kids at Barnes & Noble, I bought it faster than a cat lapping chain lightning.
Based on the blurb, I was expecting a more adult version of the Scooby gang. I wanted a story that delivered the humor I’d expect, blended with some genuinely scary happenings. I wanted higher stakes and real monsters. What I wasn’t expecting was a full-on Lovecraftian horror story that was hilarious and still managed to make these “kids” feel fully human—flaws and all—rather than the cardboard cutouts this sort of story usually serves up. I mean, let’s face it: as much as I love Scooby-Doo, I’m not expecting a lot of depth from the gang while we’re all haunting out.
Stylistically, reading this was a fricking blast. It regularly switches between second and third person, slips from traditional prose into play format (complete with stage directions), and includes some brilliantly made-up words that the author seems to have invented on the fly. If that sounds like utter chaos—it is. And I loved every single word of it. If any book should be chaotic, it’s a violent Lovecraftian Scooby-Doo send-up that somehow had me laughing out loud and contemplating life, sometimes on the same page.
I had such a good time reading this book that it reminded me of being a kid again—curled up on the couch, watching Scooby and Shaggy get used, once again, as bait in one of Fred’s elaborate traps. It was both nostalgic and refreshingly new at the same time. I’m just hoping we either get a sequel or, even better, a movie. That’s one I’d absolutely be there for on opening night.
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