By Dan Hass
“You’ll never guess who just jingled into the station.” Officer Fendall kicked the door closed, offering a Styrofoam cup of coffee to the sergeant.
“No…” The sergeant sipped, frothing his mustache.
“Yep. Insisting to speak with an officer.”
“Nooo…”
“A particular police sergeant, in fact.”
“Nooooo…”
“It’s that time of year, sir.”
The officers sighed, looking at a stubby table stacked with discount peppermint creamer and a withering evergreen that wouldn’t last till Christmas.
“We have real crimes to investigate,” said the sergeant. “We can’t cater to every crackpot who—”
“Finally!” The crackpot stormed inside. “Officers, we have to hurry.”
“What now, Ebenezer?” asked Officer Fendall. “Reindeer nibble your begonias? Sugarplum fairies snatch your wallet?”
“You wouldn’t make mockery if the Ghost of Christmas Past were tallying your quarterly sins—and Christmas Yet to Come stoking his crematorium.”
“Here we go again…”
“Honestly,” whinged Ebenezer Scrooge, fixing himself a cup, “I had to raise rent by two percent this year—below market, mind you—and I’m still one ‘bah, humbug’ away from being crucified to a candy cane.” Scrooge avalanched powdered creamer into his coffee. “I would’ve been here earlier, but I had to drop a shilling into every beggar’s soup tin I passed—just in case those parasitic apparitions keep tabs on my philanthropic alms.”
“Mister Scrooge,” interrupted Officer Fendall sternly, “unless this is an emergency…”
“An emergency?” Scrooge gnawed the Styrofoam lip of his drink, leaving bite marks. “Nine years and 364 days ago, I was abducted. Spirited from my bedchambers by a trio of phantasmic aberrations. They teased me, taunted me, tortured me. Conjured ghostly visions of ghastly fates should I not comply with their tinseled brainwashing.” Scrooge’s hands trembled. “I barely fooled them into thinking I’d reformed, but…”
“You think they’re coming back for you?” asked the sergeant, rubbing his temples.
“If not me, then who? Oil tycoons? Coal magnates? Some woebegone Rockefeller? Consider the economic damage!”
“Yes,” said the sergeant. “You know how the constabulary frets over the GDP.”
“But I’ve concocted a theory…” Avoiding eye contact, Scrooge occupied himself by performing minor good deeds around the office. Stacking coffee cups. Scrubbing coaster stains. “And this Christmas, I intend to set the ledger straight.”
“Hit ’em right in the jollies,” said Fendall.
“Precisely.” Scrooge straightened, ripping a check out of his pocketbook. “Which is why I’ve come bearing one final donation. My most charitable deed to date.” The sergeant reached out, but Scrooge whipped back his hand. “On one condition.”
Fendall frowned. “Not exactly charity then…”
A flicker of fluorescent bulbs fired like a warning shot.
A single jingle. Haunting, distant, dissonant. Scrooge flinched.
“No, of course, you’re right.” Sweating bullets, Scrooge dumped out his entire purse. “A free offering, freely given.” Scrooge crossed himself, spinning in circles, muttering, “Bring us some figgy pudding, bring us some figgy pudding…”
The officers traded a look. “We can’t accept this,” said Fendall.
Scrooge staggered, gripping the doorframe.
“We’d be happy to help, free of charge.” The sergeant sighed, stepping in. “In the spirit of Christmas.”
“Fool!” Scrooge hissed. “Don’t invoke them directly!”
But the bell was rung. The cornucopia, kicked.
“They’re coming… Please, you have to believe me.”
“Oh, we have to believe?” The sergeant scoffed, standing up. “You were always a swindler, Scrooge, but this season, you’ve been robbed of all reason.”
“Heed my warning! I’m begging you, Tiny Ti—”
“Sergeant Cratchit,” the officer corrected.
Hunched, Scrooge dabbed his damp brow, pressed his ear to the door, then lurched backward, paling. “You have to do something!”
“Sorry, Ebenezer. I don’t know what to say. Except, of course…” the sergeant’s lips curled into a smirk. “God bless us, every one.”
A cinnamon-scented gale blew the door off its hinges. Wreathed in wreaths, garlands, and woolen cloaks, three revenant visages swished in the shadows.
“Oy!” Officer Fendall shook his finger at the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. “You can’t—” A snap of pale fingers. Fendall crumpled. “Lord have mercy, I die in a zeppelin crash?”
“What the hell is going on?” demanded Sergeant Cratchit, backing into a corner. “And what the hell is a zeppelin?”
Wasting no time, Scrooge popped the lid off the peppermint creamer, pouring powdery white dust in a protective circle. “Hold fast, Timothy!” hollered Scrooge. “I’d hoped for your help putting down these foul phantoms. But I won’t waste my days trying to change my ways.” Sneaking a bottle from his coat, Scrooge spritzed his vocal cords with gingerbread throat balm. “We’ve no choice but to buy ourselves another year.”
The figures loomed, ominous. The Ghost of Christmas Present presented a bone-white sickle wrapped in bloody-red stripes.
“We believe you,” cried Cratchit, dodging a swing of the scythe. “Just tell us what to do!”
“These specters of goodwill are still ghosts, like any other. You can bite them with iron. Burn them with silver. But there’s a reason why every story about them is stripped of song. For only one weapon can banish these demons until December comes again: a Christmas carol.”
“So, you’re suggesting we—”
“Sing, lad!”
Officer Fendall needed no convincing, belting, “Deck the halls with boughs of holly!”
Forming finger-pistols like tommy guns, Sergeant Cratchit joined in with a stuttered “fa–la–la–la–la–la–la–la–la.”
Each ululating la–la–la tore through the row of wraiths like bullets, ripping their robes to shreds, spattering walls with ectoplasm.
“Louder!” Scrooge joined arms with the officers, carrying the chorus. “‘Tis the season to be jolly, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.”
The specters stumbled—sprawling across the floor, then sinking through linoleum. Dissolving. Dragged back from whence they came.
But as Scrooge and the officers rang out a reprise—”sing we joyous, all together“—the spirits scratched and clawed, uttering their final rebukes.
“Keep Christmas in your heart…” threatened the Ghost of Christmas Past.
“All year round, till we meet again…” insisted the Ghost of Christmas Present.
“Next time, we’ll wear earplugs…” warned the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.
Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.
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