Rights to Harry Potter are held by JK Rowling. Those to Wonder Woman, Batman, Superman, et al to DC Comics/Warner Bros. Rights to Once Upon a Time is held by Edward Kitsis and Adam Horowitz. Joe 90 is owned by the estates of the late Gerry Anderson and Sylvia Anderson, ITC, etc. Rights to Scooby-Doo are currently held by Hanna-Barbera/DC/Warner Bros. Rights to other franchises used are owned by: Marvel Comics; the BBC; Susan Cooper; Jim Butcher; Charles Addams; Terrance Dicks; the estates of Ian Fleming, Peter O'Donnell, C.S. Lewis, Malcolm Saville, Enid Blyton, and Anthony Buckeridge; amongst others. This is a non-profit attempt to play with favourite franchises.

August 2007

"Jinkies! You again?!"

"Good to see you too, Velma." The tall dark-haired man looked up from his battered exercise book to see the short brunette with the square-framed glasses.

"That's not what I meant, Rex. What possible interest would you have in a creepy old house?"

"The British Kolchak, remember?! Jig and his friends noted that there were reports of unusual events on this site. He, George and Jon should be here shortly.

"I heard that you and your team were in London. A holiday, or so I understood. Still, once Fred heard of a mystery, he wouldn't be able to resist getting involved."

"You know us too well, Rex. It's probably not a ghost, though."

"True, given your track record. It always seems to be Mr Smith the caretaker or Mr Brown the crooked real estate developer when Mystery Inc. get involved.

"Do you have any details?"

"Yes, weird ones. So far we have heard of a Scottish witch and a Dutch woman who keeps sneezing, although someone said the latter had a hint of a Black Country accent. African, perhaps?"

"No, native to the English West Midlands, particularly Wolverhampton, Walsall, West Bromwich and Dudley. The area rose to prominence during the Industrial Revolution and was so-called due to the prominent coal seam.

"Those two spooks seem an odd combination for Lambeth!"

"Well, you're the native, Rex!" exclaimed the pretty redhead who entered, alongside a tall handsome blonde.

"You are half-Scots, my fellow reporter. Good to see you, Daphne. You too, Fred. Are Shaggy and Scooby around?"

"Somewhere, yes."

"Gadzooks, Master Milligan, what are you doing here?" A medieval jester was suddenly in the room.

"Investigating a haunting, Mr Claypole. Wait… Scottish witch… Dutch woman… Petrified Paintpots! Rentaghost!"

"Rentaghost! Raggy! Relp!"

"Zoinks!"

"Ah, the world's only talking Great Dane and his scaredy-cat owner are here.

"Rentaghost were a reputable, well more or less, firm who rented out ghosts to manor houses needing publicity, businessmen needing magical aid and the like.

"Timothy Claypole here is a jester-turned-poltergeist. His friends Hazel the McWitch and Nadia Popov are your ghosts. Is Dobbin here too?"

"Dobbin?!"

"The world's only magical phantom pantomime horse." A pantomime horse suddenly appeared and disappeared a few times. "Good to see you again, Dobbin. No 'He's behind you' stunts, please.

"Now Mr Claypole, I thought Rentaghost folded in the mid-1980s?"

"It did. Poor Master Meaker died some years back and passed on properly. Mistress Meaker retired shortly afterwards. A nephew of theirs decided to restart the business. If you can rent books and films, why not ghosts?

"The owner commissioned us to haunt here, for publicity I think."

"That was it, dearie. Ah, Mr Milligan laddie, I remember you when you were just starting out…"

"Miss McWitch, are you sure that the property owner hired you?"

The cheerful old ghost chuckled. "Well, it was a cash transaction apparently, so I doubt that young Mr Meaker did a full background check. Why would the wee laddie need to check? Who would be daft enough to want someone else's house haunted, eh?!"

"Hello, Rex!" called a familiar voice.

"Jigger! Up here!"

The short, stocky red-headed form of JIG "Jigger" Johnson entered, alongside the still somewhat tomboyish brunette Georgina "George" Kirrin and the tall Jonathan "Jon" Warrender, still with his mop of untidy blonde hair. Rex's old friend from Sheldrake Grammar had become a fine biologist and "animal whisperer" (the latter a trait he had as a schoolboy). Having befriended George and Jon, now a chemist and physicist respectively, they had established the Paranormal Investigations Bureau, with a state-of-the-art centre on Kirrin Island and branches at the Gay Dolphin Hotel in Rye and at Jigger's place near his old school. Since the British Crown had followed the United States in recruiting its former young detectives, journalists, inventors and the like to do special operations for it, George and Jon (of the Famous Five and the Lone Pine Club respectively) were quickly involved. As Jigger was already a partner in the bureau and Rex was bringing the same distinctive style with which he had recorded the insanities of school life to investigative journalism (with a particular interest in unearthly and/or unexplained phenomena – he was the only muggle correspondent The Quibbler had on its books), they were quickly brought on board.

Also present was a tall slim man. "Rex, this is the proprietor, Mr Mason," Jon announced. "Hello. I wasn't expecting Mystery Inc. Wait – what are Mr Claypole and the McWitch doing here?"

"According to Velma," Rex replied, "the ghosts said to be haunting this place are a Scottish sorceress and a Dutch lass who keeps sneezing. Congratulations, Mr Mason, your stunt with Rentaghost almost worked."

"Odds bodkins!" the jester exclaimed. "That's not our client!"

Another man entered. "Ah, Mason, I saw you enter. Have you thought about my more than generous offer for this property? I can demolish this Gothic revival eyesore and replace it with a contemporary high-rise block of flats…"

"No, Brown, I have no desire to sell this property to you…"

"Master Brown, you hired Rentaghost on the strict understanding that you actually are the rightful lord of the manor…"

"You were right, Rex," Velma noted. "It was a crooked real estate developer named Mr Brown. Hiring genuine ghosts, rather than a nut-job in a Halloween mask, is a new one for us.

"Jinkies! He's getting away!"

"No problem, Velma," Fred noted. "He's running straight for the tripwire to activate my trap! Now!"

Suddenly Brown stumbled over something, followed immediately afterwards by a net being pulled up into the air. "Fred," Shaggy noted, "I thought Scoob and I were supposed to run into the tripwire in exchange for Scooby Snacks, not the bad guy. The bad guy was supposed to be where we were." Indeed, all the living apart from the villain had been scooped up in Fred's net.

"Fred Jones," Rex said crossly, "you are the most addle-pated clodpoll I have ever met! Why couldn't you be more like your cousin Jupiter? His devices actually work. Even the Staggers would do a better job than this prefabricated death-trap. Honestly, I ask you…?"

"Ghosts!" Jigger called. "Is Dobbin with you?"

"Yes, we brought both our animated pantomime animals with us…"

"Even better! BERNIE!"

A green pantomime dragon, like a bipedal winged crocodile, appeared. "Mystery Inc.," Rex grinned, "meet Bernie St John." He pronounced the surname Sin-Jun. "He is the world's only known magically-animated phantom fire-breathing pantomime dragon."

"Bernie, stop that thief!" Jigger called. He had noticed that Bernie and Dobbin fell under his charm as well as any dog, cat, songbird, rodent or monkey.

Brown produced a pistol and fired a warning shot. Bernie snorted and fire spurted from his nostrils. His foe screamed as his gun hand was badly burned, the fire-damaged handgun dropping to the floor.

"Let us down please, Mr Claypole," Jon requested. The poltergeist psychically loosened the ropes that were keeping the net just below the ceiling. The captives were gently lowered to the floor, with Fred and Jigger quickly running over to each grab one of Brown's arms.

"What is happening, Mr Claypole," asked a tall blonde ghost with a thick Dutch accent, who had arrived alongside Dobbin.

"It seems our client was a common blackguard out to steal the manor, Miss Popov."

"That's terrible, Mr Claypole. Hello, old friends. What are you doing here?"

"Investigating a haunting!" Rex told her. "It turned out to be you lot!"

"Oh. Wait, there's some new flowers in here…" She sneezed and disappeared.

"Nadia Popov has extreme hay fever," Rex told the others. "Wherever there are flowers she sneezes. Whenever she sneezes, she, well, pops off."

"Now to unmask our crook…" Fred paused. "Sorry, no mask. I forgot."

"I recognise him from police reports," George noted. "He's Robert Brown, the great-great-nephew of William Brown. A real outlaw, that one…"

"Well, whoever he is," Jon said producing his mobile phone, "time to call in the CID…"

It was a couple of hours later. A handcuffed Brown was being escorted by two uniformed policemen into a police car. A Detective Inspector was taking formal statements from Mr Mason, Rex, Jigger, Jon, George, Rentaghost and Mystery Inc.

"So, this Brown was hiring ghosts to reduce the value of the land?" the Inspector asked.

"Yes," Brown snarled, "and I would have got away with it too, if it wasn't for those interfering ghosts and their fire-breathing pantomime dragon…"

"That's another new twist on our usual adventures!" Daphne quipped.

"So, is there any food?!" Shaggy asked.

"And some things never change!" Fred sighed.

"Scooby-Dooby-Dooooo…"

"No," Velma chuckled, "they don't!"

Early August 2017

Robert Brown sighed as he looked at the property he had so nearly acquired at a cut-down price. Since his release from prison some years before, he had established a number of companies via proxies (since he was disqualified from being a company director for another couple of years yet) to conceal his continued interest in the property. That young fool Mason was still refusing to sell it to his agents, but that land was worth a fortune, if he could get it cheaply enough. Why, the house was in prestigious South London, a short walk from Waterloo Station, the South Bank Centre, the London Eye, County Hall, the London Dungeon, Westminster Bridge and the Kennington Oval cricket ground. The Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square and many other London landmarks were within walking distance, or a short trip in the London Underground (or Tube, to use the local nickname).

How could he get it cheaply enough? A fake haunting seemed the obvious solution, but since the days of Thomas Carnacki, there had been far too many psychic sleuths around to be foiled by a fake. Hiring Rentaghost should have proved a masterstroke, but they had been recognised by ghost hunters and revealed his involvement. To make matters worse, his right hand would never fully recover from that damned dragon's fiery breath. It was so unfair!

"I would give absolutely anything to get hold of that land cheaply…" Brown mused aloud. Not that anyone seemed to have heard him.

He arrived back at his block of flats, overlooking the Oval. If he had been a cricket fan, he would have had a decent view of any match there from his balcony. With the property prices in London running to small fortunes, luxury flats on the site of the house would be worth a fortune. Given that the house was an eyesore, planning permission would be a formality.

Suddenly, he spotted an odd twisted candle, with a note attached in an unfamiliar handwriting. "Light this candle and make your wish, if you still intend to give absolutely anything for it." Well, it was worth a try. He lit the candle and made his wish. At once a tall blonde man dressed in a strange green, white and gold costume stood before him. What is one of those weird costumed characters that America seems to keep producing these days doing here? Has someone discovered my plans and set the heavy mob on me?!

"Hello," said the stranger. "My name is Neron. A deal's a deal! You want to scare this Mason into a cheap sale? I can help you with that.

"This will hurt. But it is cheap. I only ask for your immortal soul…"

Brown screamed in pain as he felt his body transform into something

"Oh, don't worry," said Neron. "You should be able to reverse it later. I think…"

A week later:

Andrew Mason was conducting a tour of the house. "This is a fine example of Victorian Neo-Gothic architecture. It is of importance for being…"

A scream cut him off. A female tourist was pointing upwards. A few feet above the floor was hovering a large red figure with cloven hooves, forked tail and two horns protruding from its forehead. It wore only short black trousers and carried a hot pitchfork.

Whatever it was (and the stereotype demon fit the bill perfectly!), the thing began to laugh manically. "This place is claimed by the hosts of hell. Leave at once or fire and brimstone shall sweep you all away."

As it said those words, it pointed its trident and sparks were sent flying, causing some minor damage to wallpaper or furniture. With one final mocking laugh, it vanished leaving only a distinct smell of sulphur and smouldering piles of ash.