My article was written before the recent revival of interest in all things Scooby. Ever since the Cartoon Network began showing old episodes several times a day, a whole new generation of Scooby fans have emerged, and he and his cronies Shaggy, Fred, Daphne and Velma have become modern-day icons. Everywhere one goes, merchandise related to the show - from coffee mugs to underwear - can be found, usually with Scooby’s befuddled face emblazoned thereon.

Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island

Not surprisingly, this renewed focus on the show has led to an all-new Scooby-Doo adventure cartoon being produced. Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island was recently broadcast on the Cartoon Network. In light of this, I decided it was time to do a follow-up piece. Assisted by Skeptical Briefs co-editor Benjamin Radford, I sat down and-in eager anticipation-watched the latest adventures of the Mystery, Inc. gang.

Alas, Ben and I were stunned, shocked and appalled to find out that the entire thrust of the show has been changed. No longer do the intrepid investigators prove that the paranormal is all a ruse. In their latest incarnation, Daphne is now a TV reporter for an Entertainment Tonight-type show. She goes to New Orleans to look into reported hauntings, bringing her old friends along. She and the other members are once again beset by a ghost of a pirate, as well as assorted zombies, werewolves and vampires. But this time, when Fred and Velma present possible rational explanations for the weird events, they are pooh-poohed by Daphne, who goes so far as to tell Fred “you’re not a skeptic, you’re in denial.” When Velma suggests that these horrifying apparitions are really humans behind masks, she is ridiculed. Obviously the new storywriters are parodying the show’s past, but at what expense? At the end, we see that there really are ghosts, zombies, werewolves and vampires running amok. It’s all such a sad betrayal of the original show’s glorious skeptical tradition.

After shedding a few bitter tears, Ben and I agreed that at least Scooby and Shaggy remain true to character-cowardly gluttons reliving the old “feet-do-your-stuff” tradition of 1930s comedies. Perhaps with this bedrock of tradition remaining there is still hope for the Scooby-Doo cartoon series to redeem itself and go back to its skeptical roots. But then, I guess I'm in denial. Scooby-Doo, how could you?

Doubting that I could withstand this ordeal alone, and not wanting to renege on a promise, I invited Tad S. Clements, a member of our group and a retired professor of philosophy, to accompany me. The offer of a free lunch was enough to entice him to join me in this endeavor. While driving to the school, the two of us racked our brains as to what to tell the assembled hordes. A learned discussion on the differences between Stratonician and Cartesian skepticism didn’t seem quite appropriate. I encouraged Tad to speak first, but he demurred. As president of the group, he strenuously argued, I had a moral responsibility to precede him. I began to question the wisdom of inviting a professor of ethics along.

Entering the library, where flashbacks to my own parochial education assaulted me, I noticed several books by Charles Fort and Erich von Daniken on the shelves. Not a good omen. As the first study group marched sullenly in, I began to understand what actors mean by the concept of “flop sweat.” Cursing Tad under my breath for his refusal to be first in the firing squad, I wondered what I could possibly talk about that would interest these young men and get them to understand the importance of skepticism. And then, like a gift from heaven — secularly speaking of course — it came to me: Tell them about urban legends!

Urban legends are stories passed along as true — such as the “spider in the bubble gum” or “the vanishing hitchhiker,” which, while usually quite entertaining or frightening, turn out to have no basis in fact. As Jan Harold Brunvand points out in his many books collecting these legends, when you try to verify them, the usual response is that “they happened to a friend of a friend.” Such “FOAFs” never seem to have a definite name or other identifying features when you wish to track them down.

“How many of you saw the movie Three Men and a Baby?” I asked the students. Most of their hands went up. “Has anyone heard anything unusual about it?” Indeed they had. As the story goes, in one scene in the film, you can see the ghostly image of a young man hovering in the background. It was rumored to be the spirit of a young boy who had been killed years before in the home the movie was filmed in. Apparently he must have been a member of Screen Actors Guild as well.

Tad, sensing that we were not going to be pummeled with flying projectiles, got into the act. “What might you do to investigate this claim?” he queried. He was on to my scheme — get the kids to come up with their own version of Occam’s Razor: What might be the simplest explanation for this ghostly apparition? After some vigorous give-and-take, I explained to them that a few skeptics had decided to see what this really was. They discovered, by freeze-framing the video, that it was the blurry background image of a manikin that had been featured earlier in the film. Also, it couldn’t have been the ghost of a former inhabitant of the home, since the scene was filmed on a sound stage. The legend was interesting, but so was discovering the truth behind it.

The students came up with other urban legends they were familiar with, and we discussed what sort of support would be needed to verify them. Tad and I then ended with a few basic pointers on the scientific method and how it can be applied to paranormal claims. We chanted together the skeptics’ mantra: “Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.” The students seemed, for the most part, genuinely interested — we could at least hold their attention for ten minutes, and most importantly, we had made them active participants in the discussion. I highly recommend this approach to any of you who might find yourself in a similar situation.

Tad and I heaved a sigh of relief that we'd escaped our ordeal. To show her appreciation, the librarian led us to the school cafeteria, where she bought each of us lunch. Come to think of it, maybe we didn’t escape unscathed after all — I'd repressed the memories of how awful such meals can be. It reminds me of the story of the rat in the fried chicken . . .

Helen Ackley forgot to address the last question when, in 1990, she attempted to sell her 18-room mansion in Nyack, and she had to return the $32,500 deposit she received on her $650,000 asking price because of it. It seems that Jeffrey and Patrice Stambovsky fell in love with the stately old home (which bears a resemblance to the abode on Thirteen Thirteen Mockingbird Lane where the Munsters once resided), and were all set to move in, when a local architect made a passing remark that “Oh, you’re buying the haunted house.” Haunted? The Stambovskys did some research, and found out that Mrs. Ackley had been claiming for years that the home was the habitat for an army of poltergeists, one of whom was “a cheerful, apple-cheeked man” who looked like Santa Claus. A 1977 article in Reader’s Digest-one of the world’s most read publications-contained that quote, while a 1989 article about real estate in suburban Nyack described the mansion as "riverfront Victorian - with ghost.” A 1982 article in the local Nyack paper quoted Ackley as describing the ghosts as “dressed in Revolutionary period clothing, perhaps frozen in a time warp, waiting for someone or some reason to move on.”

It was her buyers, though, who decided to move on. Mr. Stambovsky, a 38-year old bond trader, was a good skeptic, but his wife, who was pregnant at the time, reacted much like she'd, well, seen a ghost. She refused to move into the home. Stambovsky promptly demanded that the deal be terminated, and asked for his deposit back. “We were the victims of ectoplasmic fraud,” he told the press. He and his wife were irate that Ackley never said boo to them about the ghosts residing within. They had expected to move into premises that were vacant.

Ackley, who had moved to Orlando, Florida, refused to allow them to renege on the deal, standing pat on the tried-and-true seller defense: caveat emptor, let the buyer beware. In this case, beware of spooks.

While their friends warned them they didn’t have a ghost of chance to get out of the deal, the Stambovskys sued. A lower court ruled against them, saying that it was the buyers’ responsibility to search for problems in the house. But the plucky couple appealed, and in a 3-2 decision of July 18, 1991 the Appellate Division of State Supreme

Court ruled in their favor. Writing for the majority, Justice Israel Rubin stated that he was “moved by the spirit of equity” to allow the couple to break the contract. Since Ackley “had deliberately fostered the belief that her home was possessed by ghosts,” she should have mentioned this to the Stambovskys. Because they were from out of town, they could not be expected “to have any familiarity with the folklore of the Village of Nyack. Not being a ‘local,’ plaintiff could not readily learn that the home he had contracted to purchase is haunted. Whether the source of the spectral apparitions seen by defendant seller are parapsychic or psychogenic, having reported their presence in both a national publication (Reader’s Digest) and the local press, defendant is estopped to deny their existence, and, as a matter of law, the house is haunted.”

While skeptics should be critical of the assertion that “as a matter of law” the house is haunted, there is no doubt that the Stambovskys got a raw deal. Unbeknownst to them, the place had been included in a five-home “haunted house” walking tour of Nyack, and, the ruling continued, “the impact of the reputation thus created goes to the very essence of the bargain between the parties, greatly impairing both the value of the property and its potential for resale.”

Justice Rubin couldn’t resist adding that, “a very practical problem arises with respect to the discovery of a paranormal phenomenon: ‘Who you gonna call?’ as a title song to the movie Ghostbusters asks. Applying the strict rule of caveat emptor to a contract involving a house possessed by poltergeists conjures up visions of a psychic or medium routinely accompanying the structural engineers and Terminix man on an inspection of every home subject to a contract of sale. In the interest of avoiding such untenable consequences, the notion that a haunting is a condition which can and should be ascertained upon reasonable inspection of the premises is a hobgoblin which should be exorcised from the body of legal precedent and laid quietly to rest.”

This is without a doubt one of the funniest court rulings to come down the pike in years, although the implications might not be so laughable if others decide to rely upon legal precedent to break their contracts. I think I might try to get back the damage deposit from my last apartment by claiming that the holes in the walls weren't a result of the drunken parties I’d thrown, but rather came from crockery-tossing poltergeists my landlord never warned me about. Likewise, when your neighbors complain about loud noises, tell them that the ghosts of Jimmy Hendrix and Janis Joplin have infested your abode, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

As for Mrs. Ackley, she was finally able to resell the mansion for slightly less than the $650,000 asking price. Stambovsky took a rather pragmatic attitude toward the event. “My feeling is that Mrs. Ackley is a very neat old lady who likes to spin tales,” he said. “But if my wife is influenced enough by that stuff to feel uncomfortable, that’s a good enough reason not to sink our life savings into the place.” Now that’s the spirit.

(Thanks to Dave Henehan for sending me the hilarious Appellate Court Decision.)