(Author's Note:  I do apologize for the terribly short chapters… I'm used to writing ones that are far too long.  However, if you think it is easy to write a fanfiction that theoretically needs to deal with simultaneously occurring events in Hell, Wuthering Heights, Hogwarts, Holy Hell, and Middle-earth, I suggest you try writing one.  In fact, you could take this fanfiction, seeing as no one has even bothered flaming it yet!  However, as you will soon see, everyone from Hell/Wuthering Heights, Hogwarts, Holy Hell, and Middle-earth will come together and the chapters will go on and on forever.  For now, you'll just have to deal with these absurd little 700-word affairs.  Please do express your satisfaction/dissatisfaction in reviews!!)

"Heathcliff!" Cathy hissed in her lover's ear as they hovered in the parlor, "They're coming inside!  It is the devil!  Will we never be let alone?"  She threw her head back, partly in anguish, and partly to tempt Heathcliff with the luster and bounce of her transparent curls.

"Devil be damned!" shouted Heathcliff, suddenly full of bravado, hurling a monstrous (in both size and aesthetic value) vase into the opposite wall with his ghostly powers, where it shattered with a terrific crash.

"Eh, eh?  'oo sidat, wot?" an old, gravelly voice asked.

In their anxiety over the approach of the five strangers who had materialized out of thin air, Heathcliff and Cathy had failed to hear the heavily pronounced clomp-clomp of limping boots coming down the stairs and towards the front door (conveniently near the parlor.)  These boots, or rather their owner, were on their way to welcome the potential buyers into the manor… his manor.

The old man's face blanched when he saw the specters hovering near the end table in this sparsely furnished room, an inexplicable bluish tinge to their transparency.  Generally speaking, the sudden onset of pallor is a perfectly excusable response to the sight of a couple of ghosts smashing your pottery and hurling curses at satanic powers in your parlor.  Yes indeed it is excusable; no one ever argued to the contrary.  This, however, is not what caused this ancient specimen of withered testosterone to pale.  Pardon my French, but he did not give a shit whether whoever decided to throw the ugliest pieces of his interior decoration into walls was dead or alive.  The old furnishings held far less meaning for him than they should have, even taking into account that he was not one for putting much store in material possessions.  He had just officially inherited, and he wanted to get rid of the damn place already.  He had been living there for nearly three hundred years.

"Haithcliff 'nd Caithrin!  Ye sowls 'uv cim t'aunt may!  Gee baick t'aitivur Hell 'ee bin tuh!!  'Aunt may nivur mare!!"  The old man was angry now, shaking his fist towards the sky.

A knock came at the door.  They all ignored it.

Heathcliff and Catherine themselves looked shocked, until Catherine finally managed a bubbling laugh.

"Oh Joseph, we can't go back to Hell!  God sent us back here Himself!  And oh, I'm ever so glad that you've been taking care of it for us… not much time could have passed after all, for you are still alive!  And the Lord above knows that you'd long ago seen your best days by when I passed.  Perhaps things aren't so very different!  I only hope that we were not sent here by God only to be intruded upon by five advocates of Beelzebub!"

"Tik nawt th' nime uva Lord un vine!  An' ait's bin wale ayvir un 'undraid airs."

"Over a hundred years?" Heathcliff asked with a certain arrogant incredulity.

Joseph nodded.  "Narer taw 'undraid, dursay."

Knock-knocking at the door.

Catherine laughed again, "Joseph, you crackpot old fool!  Of course it hasn't been two hundred years!  If it had been two hundred years, you wouldn't be alive and taking care of my dear childhood home for me, silly man!"

"'T'aint ye laind neemare, Caithrin Lantain.  Wuthrin Haits bay me nown, naw.  Awl ye saindints 'ee loon did un gown affer 'ese taw 'undraid airs.  Wuthrin Haits bay me nown, un aye'm goonay sayl't, aye'm."

No longer laughingly doubtful, Heathcliff and Catherine stared at the incomprehensible old man with vacant expressions on their silvery faces.

The knock came again, louder and more impatient now.

"It's going to storm!  Please do let us in, sir!" came a high-pitched feminine voice from outside.

"Un maiman, Missy.  Kipe 'ee paints awn!  'Ee wos lakelay awnly God lairfin a' un o' ye jakes."

"What do you mean that Wuthering Heights is yours?  Why aren't you dead too?  You cannot sell this place!  It is our home!  Joseph, why aren't you dead?"

Joseph just laughed in his peculiar, borderline cruel way, a gravelly, grating chuckle.  "Bay gown, naw!  Yale bay braingun daw me pruprurtay vayloo."

With that, he went to the door and gave admittance to the four potential buyers and their real estate agent/former teacher/werewolf.

Heathcliff and Catherine hated them immediately.

"We will start over again, Cathy," Heathcliff whispered as Joseph led the wizards in a tour of the old house, "No more Edgar… just the two of us together in Wuthering Heights for all eternity, our souls intertwined, the way it was meant to be.  Now all we need to do is rid ourselves of Joseph and those damned fools who wish to buy our home from him…"

(Another Author's Note Disguised as a Disclaimer: You're not supposed to understand Joseph.  It's supposed to be comic.  So if you didn't get it before this little note, LAUGH.  NOW.  If you really want to know what he's saying, I can start inserting translations.  Or you could just skip over all his lines.  But he says some pretty funny stuff, taking into account his character ("Be gone now!  You'll be bringing down my property value!"), so you may just want to read it aloud until it dawns on you.)