The Umpteen Ghosts of Scrappy Doo
My junior year of film school, I had an internship at Barstowvania Movie Ranch. The term “ranch” was pretty misleading because the place was a tribute to classic horror and post-apocalyptic science fiction. There were car henges, dusty motels, European villages, and jungle swamps made out of old hose, all out in the middle of the desert. If you had a dream in your heart and a thousand bucks, you could shoot any of the pieces for a day. If you had three, you could shoot whatever you wanted.
The centerpiece of the ranch was a real castle, which had been flown brick-by-brick from the north of Wales. Its exterior had a portcullis and arrow loops. Inside, there was a great hall and over fifty freezing cold stone chambers.
“That place is haunted as hell,” Ted had told me on my orientation day. “They shot 13 Ghosts of Scooby Doo there, and the place has never been the same since.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bad energy. I heard they summoned real ghosts for the show. And Scrappy Doo was supposedly into some dark stuff. Like that whole ‘Puppy Power’ thing? Total racist. Can’t believe it flew at the time.”
“No,” I said, “I mean what do you mean when you say they shot 13 Ghosts of Scooby Doo here? That was a cartoon. Scrappy Doo is a cartoon.”
“You’re gonna learn a lot about show business here,” Ted said, giving me a pat on the shoulder.
A couple of weeks later, some college students with rich parents swung through to film a movie called “King Arthur’s Ghost on Krokodil,” and it was my job to sweep the set after they left.
I had been cleaning up alone just long enough to discount Ted’s claim the place was haunted when a handsome, genteel ghost with a mustache appeared right in front of me.”
“End my suffering,” he said in a melodramatic voice.
“Holy crap, are you the ghost of Vincent Price?”
“I am — trapped here for eternity because,” and he ruffled his mustache with deep disdain, “I needed the money!”
“Are you talking about 13 Ghosts of Scooby Doo?”
“So, you know.”
“Well, sort of.”
“We were tortured here for thirteen weeks of shooting. Always stepping on our lines. Constant windmill fist punches to the shin. He ran Velma off by body shaming her.”
“What? I always thought she was the best.”
“I know, right?” the Ghost of Vincent Price said, steepling his fingers. “Total pro, too. She didn’t need to say ‘Jinkies!’ They just wrote it for her. Very unselfish performer.”
“So, is she trapped here too?”
“No, luckily for her, he drove her away before the shame could tie her soul to this old castle. But Shaggy and Scooby are here!”
The ghosts of Shaggy and Scooby appeared on either side of Vincent Price.
“Like, end our suffering, man!”
“Reah. Rendar ruffering.”
“Jesus, I didn’t realize you guys were dead,” I said. “Or real people.”
“ReeGeeEye,” Scooby said, looking down at his ghost feet.
“Yeah, we’ve been, like, rendered useless by technological advances, man. Who’s gonna hand color me eating a two-foot-long, fully-loaded, everything-on-it double-Dagwood delight when a computer could do it?”
Shaggy and Scooby both broke out into uncontrollable ghost drool at the description of the sandwich.
“But I thought you guys were real actors.”
“Do you not understand how cartoons are made?” Vincent Price asked.
“I thought I did!”
They all glared are me like I was dumb.
“Okay, okay. I’ll look it up when I get home. How am I supposed to end your suffering?”
“You must defeat his powerful spirit in single combat to free us and uncurse this castle,” Price said dramatically.
“You mean Scrappy Doo?”
“Rikes!” Scooby said, jumping into Shaggy’s arms. Their teeth chattered and their knees knocked together.
“Like, could you not say his name, man? We’re trying to keep the vibes as positive as possible here.”
“Was he really that bad?” I asked. “I mean I know the consensus was ‘super annoying and generally awful,’ but people still work with Johnny Depp.”
“He eroded my sense of self, man. Every time I did bad, he was, like, tearing me down, telling me I wasn’t good enough because I wasn’t like him — it was all about the puppy power. When I did good, he acted exactly the same; he’d always tell me how he coulda done the lines better or eaten the sandwich funnier because he had the puppy power. He wouldn’t talk to us off-set, man. We were like second-class citizens.”
“Rah, runrateful ruppy rorgot rho rought rim rinto this rusiness,” Scooby grumbled. “Ruddenly romeone rant rink rout of ra rame rater rowl. Reeds a rivate ressing room.”
“So, where is he?” I asked.
“Re’s rat — “
“Maybe Vincent can tell me.”
“Of course,” the Ghost of Vincent Price said with a smile. “To end our suffering, you must climb to the turret of the highest tower in this castle to face him. Take this with you,” he said, taking off his ghostly cape and wrapping it around my shoulders.
“Will this give me protection from his spirit energy?”
“No; it’s just Vincent Price’s cape. It was a thank you gift. I thought it was cool enough as-is.”
“Oh, no, it’s very cool!” I said, not wanting to hurt the Ghost of Vincent Price’s feelings. “I can’t wait to show it off to the guys after I end your suffering.”
I climbed to the turret of the highest tower in the castle (no big whoop) and came to the heavy oak and iron door that led into the room they used to shoot scenes where princesses were being held against their will.
I said a prayer, gathered my thoughts, and pulled the door open.
“Scrappy Doo, where are you?” I called as I entered.
At first, there was no response. I looked around and saw a small empty room featuring only a dimly lit writing desk. Then, teal and brown ectoplasm began to swirl from all directions and coalesce into a single mass. First, the mass grew two chestnut arms with pugnacious clenched fists. Then, two fearful back paws designed specifically to bigfoot the competition. Finally, a face came into form. It had a broad, sneering smile and small, hateful eyes.
“Dunna-duh-nuh-duh-nuh!” it said, flexing its furry muscles. “Puppy power!”
“I’m here to ease Shaggy and Scooby and the Ghost of Vincent Price’s suffering,” I said, balling my own fists.
“They belong to me,” he said. “I’m the star of the show. I can’t be here without my supporting cast.”
“You’re not a star,” I told him. “You’re a joke.”
“Put ’em up! Put ’em up! Why I oughta!” he said, squaring off in a drunken boxing stance.
I unclasped the Ghost of Vincent Price’s cape and threw it over Scrappy’s head.
“Hey, who turned out the lights?” he asked.
I couldn’t help but groan at the line, but I also realized that was my one good idea for fighting a spectral actor/cartoon dog. I thought back to everything I knew about Scrappy Doo’s career and got an idea.
I ran over to the writing desk, pulled out a piece of paper, and scribbled a brief contract as quickly as I could. I picked up a corner of the cape, and slid the paper underneath, where Scrappy was trapped.
“Okay, I give up,” I said. “You’re really too powerful and terrifying and charismatic. I don’t stand a chance against puppy power. If you’ll just give me your autograph, I’ll turn the lights back on and leave you alone. You can have Shaggy and Scooby and the Ghost of Vincent Price.”
“I’m glad you’ve admitted defeat before I had to maul you too badly,” Scrappy said from under the cape. “My apologies if this isn’t my best signature. It’s hard to see.”
“Anywhere on there is perfect. I promise.”
He pushed the signed contract back to the edge of the cape, where I grabbed it. I whipped the cloth away, exposing his dumb dog face.
“Congratulations, Scrappy. You’ve just been canceled again.”
“What?”
“You just agreed to cease production of your horror show immediately, never make another lousy movie ever again, and report directly to hell, where you belong.”
I held the contract right up to Scrappy’s muzzle and he howled in rage. A fiery chasm opened below him and a demonic arm reached up and grabbed him by his dog ankle.
I collected the Ghost of Vincent Price’s cape and headed back down the turret and out of the castle. The ghosts didn’t seem to be there anymore, so I figured their suffering had been eased.
This story is part of 13 Ghost Stories in 13 Days. Each entry in the series was written and published in a single day during October of 2020. This idea was completely stolen from Mark Macyk.
Day 1: The Devil’s Diphthong
Day 2: The Podcasting Ghost
Day 3: The Portal Potties
Day 4: The Household Accident
Day 5: The Scarecrow Competition
Day 6: The Cursed Father
Day 7: When the Car Hits the Tree
Day 8: Thank Christ It’s Halloween
Day 9: The Greek Halloween Myth
Day 10: The Ghost & The Cockroach
Day 11: Pampered
Day 12: In the Name of Menohpeque
