Originally published in Adventures in Slime and Time 3
"Isn't it great?" enthused Ray Stantz, gazing out the bedroom window at Ghostbuster Central at the thickly falling snow that had already turned the sidewalks white below them. The streets were even growing white with it as rush hour traffic failed to keep up and the slush was buried under an accumulation of new snow. At this rate, the city would be snowbound by mid-morning.
"Yeah, great," said Peter Venkman without a shred of enthusiasm as he pulled a sweater over his head. "If you like chasing ghosts though waist-high drifts and having your nose frostbitten." He leaned sideways to study himself in the mirror and settle his hair to his satisfaction.
"But it's beautiful, Peter." Ray gestured at the window as he faced his friend. "It's only three days till Christmas. I love it when it snows for Christmas."
Peter shrugged, not quite willing to concede the point. Though he'd long insisted that Christmas was just another day, once he'd met Egon and Ray in college a part of him had reluctantly conceded that maybe it wasn't so bad if they were around for the holidays and he'd come to like it a little better once they'd founded the business but the old feelings were pretty well ingrained. Even after last year when they'd had a run in with Ebenezer Scrooge and the three Christmas ghosts he wasn't prepared to open himself completely to the holidays. It was hard to avoid buying into Ray's eager delight, though. "So maybe I'm finally getting the hang of this Christmas thing, Ray," he admitted, "but don't expect me to jump up and down when traffic bogs down and we wind up eating three day old cold pizza because we can't shovel out to go to the grocery store and then you have to fight your way through hordes of maddened shoppers on the subway who are convinced that if they wait ten more minutes some lunatic will beat them out of the last present in the whole city."
"What's the matter, Pete?" asked Winston Zeddemore as he pulled his bedspread into place and came to join them, circling around the giant tree that Ray had dragged up to the third floor to put in the big window--'so everyone can see it.' "I thought you said last year that you never appreciated Christmas until you almost lost it."
"So maybe I did," Peter conceded. "And I wouldn't mind it if everybody treated it like Ray did, like it was some kind of special treat instead of an advertiser's dream." He grew serious, staring at Ray, then at Winston and past him to Egon Spengler as the physicist returned from his morning shower and headed for his closet. Peter smiled. "I guess it's okay if you guys are around, but that's what makes it work."
"What makes what work?" Egon asked, coming to a complete stop and taking a serious look at Peter, an eyebrow lifting as he realized this wasn't one of Peter's practical jokes or moments of frivolity but a touch of rare introspection. "Are you all right, Peter?
"I'm fine, Egon. I was just saying that all that out there--" he gestured expansively at the window--"the Christmas hype, bugs me. All that crap, buy this, buy that, decorations up before Halloween. Christmas ought to be family." That reminded him of his father, who hadn't made one Christmas in ten when Peter was growing up, but it also reminded him of the three men who were with him now, family in all but blood. He grinned crookedly.
"And it is," Ray burst out. "All of us together, all Christmas Eve, and even if Winston goes to his folks for dinner and all that stuff on Christmas day, the rest of us will be here. We don't have to do all that shopping, commercialized routine. We just have to be here for each other."
"Yeah, even if it means watching those corny TV shows that Ray likes so much," agreed Winston. "If I have to sit through It's a Wonderful Life one more time . . . "
Peter shook his head. He wasn't inclined to enjoy the shows that Ray found so satisfying, because they reminded him of the years when he didn't have a real Christmas and he couldn't help comparing his younger self to the children in those programs who won out. Maybe a few more years of the guys being around would make Christmas work for him, but for now, he was prepared to take it one step at a time and not put too much of his heart into it for fear of being whacked.
"Everybody up and decent?" Janine poked her head in the doorway. "I think I deserve a medal for making it to work on time this morning," she hinted. "You should see it out there. Don't say it, Ray," she added knowingly before the youngest Ghostbuster could go into raptures over the weather. "My feet are still frozen and if you've ever been in a subway car full of people in heavy coats and smelling like wet wool and other less mentionable things . . . " She grimaced and added brightly, "You have a client. He was waiting on the doorstep when I arrived."
"A client came out in this weather? This does not sound good. It must be a Class 7 at least for him to fight his way here." Peter grimaced. "I hope he has a snowmobile or we'll never make it to his house."
Janine's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I'm not sure a snowmobile would be his first choice," she said with a quizzical smile as if she knew something they didn't. "Come and see."
The client was sitting in Peter's office smiling at the strings of tinsel and colored lights that Ray and Janine had strung all around the first floor to honor the season, and except for the elegant three piece suit he wore, he could have starred in a remake of Miracle on Thirty-fourth Street. He had a luxuriant white beard and the flowing white hair that peeked out from under his homburg fell to his shoulders. His cheeks were red from the cold and his vest strained against his considerable bulk. He was smiling, and the lines on his face seemed as if they'd been created by a lifetime of smiles. When the three men arrived he bounced to his feet with the energy and enthusiasm of a much younger man, and Peter had a sudden image of Ray in later years, still full of vitality, enjoying life as much as he ever did. Yes, Ray probably would grow old just like this character.
Behind him, Ray breathed, "Wow," in stunned tones. "You look just like Santa Claus.
"He must know that, Ray," Winston replied. "All he needs is a mirror."
"No doubt deliberately," Egon confirmed. "It took time to grow a beard like that." He caught himself and put his theorizing behind him. "Oh. Excuse me, sir. We're the Ghostbusters. How can we help you?"
"I'm afraid I'm troubled with a ghost," the man confessed, stepping forward to shake Egon's hand, pumping it up and down with gusto. "That's what brought me here, Dr. Spengler."
"How'd you know his name?" Peter asked, half suspicious of anyone so affable. From long years experience with his con man father he was sure that a man who could present such an appearance was likely to con people with the greatest of ease because he'd have no trouble pulling it off.
"I've seen your television ads," the client said, the corners of his mustache twitching as he smiled. "And, of course, the toys you endorse. Some of the children have complete sets."
"I knew those toys were gonna be a winner," Peter told his buddies, grinning triumphantly. The merchandising contract had been his idea and when it came to condemning the commercialization of Christmas, he excluded purchase of Ghostbusters toys from the list. "Those nice little checks from the toy company . . . "
"Never mind Peter, sir," Ray told their guest, edging closer. "He has dollar signs painted on his eyelids. We're used to him that way. Will you tell us about your ghost?"
"He's an ice spirit," the man explained as if that should say it all. "Lately he's taken to terrorizing my workshop. My . . . er, employees, find it upsetting."
"Wow, an ice ghost!" exulted Ray, nearly bouncing up and down in his excitement. Peter decided he would have to have a serious talk with Ray about his predilection for danger. "That could be nasty, couldn't it, Egon? Ice ghosts are always tough. Remember the one we ran into last winter in Rochester? I can't wait to see this one."
"Does this mean we have to put on parkas and boots and wade through hip deep drifts?" Peter asked warily. Ordinarily he loved his job but there were times when conditions made him long for a quiet day at home. "Can't we just invite him in, crank up the heat, and let him puddle away?"
"Ice ghosts usually are made of magic ice, Peter," Egon explained pedantically. "It wouldn't melt, even if we brought it inside. Remember the trouble we had with the Hob?"
"Yeah, but it would still go boom if we turned our throwers on it, wouldn't it?" Peter asked hopefully. They'd thought they'd zapped the magic ice that had entrapped the Northern spirit but that had been a copy supplied by Peter's father, and they'd never really used their throwers on the real thing before except to trap the prisoned specter.
"Maybe," Egon said thoughtfully in the tones of one who isn't entirely sure but would enjoy the experiment even if it meant running for their lives when the ice proved resistant to the proton streams. He rubbed his chin. "We won't know until I can take readings. I'll prepare some special equipment. Where shall we come, sir?"
"I'm afraid I'll have to take you. You can't get there on your own."
"He has a team of sled dogs out in the blizzard," Peter muttered to Ray. "It's not my favorite mode of travel."
The stranger gave a hearty laugh. "Ho ho ho. No, we won't need dog sleds where I'm going. Can we repair to your roof?"
"If there's a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer up there I'm not going," Peter complained. It probably was a helicopter, though he wouldn't have wanted to take Ecto-2 up in weather like this--and he hadn't heard one land.
"Wow," breathed Ray, caught up in the idea. "Do you mean he's really--"
Egon gave Peter an elbow in the ribs. "Perhaps he has a helicopter, Peter. Certainly not a sleigh and tiny reindeer." He picked up a P.K.E. meter from the corner of Peter's desk all the same and aimed it surreptitiously at their guest who chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he allowed the device to take a reading. The P.K.E. meter beeped like crazy, its antennae shooting up and blinking rapidly. His chin nearly on Egon's shoulder, Peter stared at the screen to register the buildup of power.
Peter took an involuntary step backwards. "You mean he's a g-ghost?" he demanded in surprise. He'd almost begun to wonder if Ray was right--after all the Bogeyman had been real, so why not Santa Claus, too? But a ghost? They had rarely been hired by creatures from the other side and although some of them, like Uncle Horace, hadn't been too bad, it wasn't one of Peter's choices for employment. Ghosts usually didn't have checking accounts.
"Of course not, Peter," Egon replied with a touch of scorn. "He's a Class 11 corporeal entity, extremely powerful but, I should say, entirely benevolent."
"Class 11 and he needs our help?" Peter asked, his retreat halted by the railing. "I don't like this, Egon. This does not sound good."
"Don't worry, Dr. Venkman," the Class eleven corporeal entity said with a smile. "You are perfectly safe from me. I don't even intend putting coal in your stocking this year." He drew himself erect and smiled benevolently at the gaping Ghostbusters. "I didn't introduce myself. Kris Kringle at your service. Or, as you probably know me better . . . "
"Santa Claus!" Ray clapped his hands together like a child who's been given a treat and jiggling up and down in delight. "I knew it! I knew it all along!"
"Riiight," Peter said with heavy skepticism. "My dad put you up to this, didn't he, buddy? Or you guys . . . " He cast a frown of burning suspicion at his three friends. Egon could have doctored the P.K.E. meter--except that Peter knew Egon wouldn't pull something like that. Egon's pranks didn't run quite this way, especially since he knew how ambivalent Peter was about the Christmas season. Egon's practical jokes were never hurtful or silly, except occasionally the latter when he recruited Slimer as an ally, and he'd never attempt to reconcile Peter with the holidays with this kind of easily disproved stunt. He understood Peter too well to think he could get away with a scam like this.
"No one put me up to it, Dr. Venkman," Santa Claus said with a smile, reaching out to pat Peter's shoulder. Peter stiffened and the entity withdrew his hand. "You have only to come to the roof and see."
"Eight tiny reindeer? Sure." His voice was filled with withering sarcasm.
"Of course not," the bearded man denied, laughing so hard his stomach shook. ('Like a bowlful of jelly', thought Peter sourly). "That was part of the Clement Moore poem. My reindeer are all of normal size. How else could they pull a sleigh full of toys? Come along, gentlemen. Bring your heavy coats and whatever equipment you need. When you defeat the ghost, I'll bring you home. But this is my busy season and I can't take much longer away from my workshop."
"Yeah, right," Peter said suspiciously. Full sized reindeer didn't usually fly but then this was different. He still suspected a huge gag in it; going up to the roof only to be laughed at for gullibility didn't rate high on his list of fun things to do. Yet Ray's enthusiasm was genuine. This wasn't Ray's kind of prank either, and certainly none of the others would do it to him. Since he'd become a Ghostbuster Peter had seen many things he would have considered impossible before. Maybe this was another of them.
"I think you should listen to him," said Janine who was peering over the top of the filing cabinets that separated her office from his. "He means it. Besides," she added, frowning as she remembered, "he was standing there in the snow when I met him but there were no footprints--it's like he materialized there."
"I want to see the reindeer and sleigh," cried Ray impatiently. "Come on, guys, let's grab our stuff. This will be fun."
"Ice ghosts and sleigh rides in the sky and he says it'll be fun," Peter groused to Winston but he went along when everyone suited up and put on their winter coats. Janine even grabbed hers and came to see them off, unable to resist. Egon made a detour to the lab when they reached the third floor and returned with several additional detection devices.
"I rigged this after our encounter with the Hob," he explained, returning. "It enables us to detect the presence of magic ice from a greater distance and to break down its component energies into comparable frequencies so we can adjust the outflow of the proton packs accordingly."
"Hey, great!" lauded Ray, edging toward the stairs that led to the roof, impatient for his sleigh ride.
"If you say so, Egon," Peter agreed, taking the device that Egon passed him and slinging it over his shoulder by its strap. Then, unable to come up with a delaying strategy Ray would buy into, he shrugged and followed 'Kris Kringle' up the stairs.
The wind hit them when they emerged from the shelter of the doorway, but that wasn't what made Peter stiffen and spin around in disbelief. It was the jingling sound of bells. This had to be a con, didn't it? No, there really was a sleigh, and harnessed to it stood eight reindeer, shaking their heads and stomping their feet, their breath steaming out into the chill air. Egon's P.K.E. meter zeroed in on them and his face lit with excitement. "Wow," he breathed, sounding almost as excited as Ray. "They're Class 9 and so is the sleigh. All physical manifestations--like the horse and buggy that carried Simon Quegg."
"No Rudolph?" Peter asked with disapproval.
"Peter!" Egon gave him a stern nudge. "Try to be a little less frivolous. Rudolph was from a popular song, not from the actual legend. This is serious."
"Right, Egon. We're gonna take a ride in a flying sleigh pulled by reindeer without wings or jet engines." Peter took a second look at the sleigh. "Oh, great, they'll think we're a UFO," Peter concluded without enthusiasm.
"Rain on somebody else's parade, Pete," Winston muttered in his ear. "Look at Ray. He's loving this."
"He would," Peter said tartly for Winston's ears alone. "Though I don't know why he should. He didn't have such great Christmases when he was a kid either." At least, he added to himself, not after his folks died. Yet Ray had never lost his sense of wonder. Peter wasn't sure if he'd ever had one. Maybe that was the difference between them. He knew he didn't want to do anything to cause Ray to lose that awe for the unknown, the strange. He didn't want Ray to change, and if that meant putting up with Santa Claus then he'd have to do just that.
"We won't be a UFO, Dr. Venkman," Santa Claus told him, stepping closer. Peter wondered uneasily if the old man had heard the rest of his words. He hoped not. "Explain it to him, Dr. Spengler," he added with a glitter of amusement in his eyes.
"Ectoplasmic energy doesn't register on radar, Peter," Egon reminded him.
"You said he was corporeal," argued Peter, reluctant to board the sleigh and lose all his preconceptions on the subject of Christmas.
"Well, he is, but entities of this type who consist of negative energy manifest for the meters as if they were ectoplasmic. Other than physical solidity, the energy projected matches that produced by ghosts. We will pass undetected."
"We, Egon?" asked Winston, frowning. "Last I heard, the four of us didn't produce ectoplasmic energy."
"The sleigh will shield us, won't it, Santa?" Ray cried. "Just like it shields the toys on Christmas Eve?"
"Precisely," said the old man, gesturing toward his vehicle. "Now if you'd all step on board, it's growing closer to Christmas by the minute and I can't have my elves' work interrupted any longer."
Peter climbed in reluctantly. Somehow it felt roomier inside than it had appeared when he was standing on the roof. The others crowded around him and Santa passed them a blanket to wrap around themselves. "Though you won't have time to become very cold," he informed them as Janine waved to them and called, "Be careful, Egon."
"What do you mean by thaaaaaat?" Peter's last word came out in a startled squeak as the reindeer took three bounds and launched themselves into the snowfilled sky. Peter put up a hand to brush the snow out of his hair and glanced down at the passing scene. Janine and Ghostbuster Central had already vanished from sight. Peter had flown in jet planes, even the Concorde, but he'd never seen the ground below pass so quickly before, and they'd barely begun. Even in the time it took him to think about it, New York was left behind, yet there was no icy blast whipping his hair and driving icicles through his teeth
"It's as if we were contained in a force field," explained Ray as he noticed Peter's surprise. "It would have to be. Maybe it's even a time warp, otherwise he'd never make it all over the world delivering toys to everybody."
"He doesn't deliver them to everybody, Ray," Peter pointed out, determined to resist the mystique that had enchanted the other three. "Lots of places don't celebrate Christmas."
"Quite true, Dr. Venkman," agreed the old man as he flicked the whip delicately, allowing the sound of its crack to do the work, the tip nowhere near any of his reindeer. "Christmas in your country is both religious and cultural. Some places it is merely cultural. There are large areas of the world where it is not celebrated at all. They have their own visitors whose jobs may not exactly parallel my own, but never think anyone wanting is left out."
"Yeah, sure," Peter objected, stuck in his role of devil's advocate and determined to play it out. "What about those slum kids who are lucky to get a package of gum for Christmas? Aren't you lying down on the job a bit?"
"Were this a perfect world, that might be different," Santa replied. "There are limits to my powers, and sometimes that is one of them. I must find other ways, or even wait until other years." The humor left his face and he turned to his reins, a solemn expression on the normally jolly mien.
"Peter," chided Ray with what was, for him, unusual sharpness. "We're his guests. Don't be rude."
"I wasn't, Ray. I was just asking."
"And so you should, Dr. Venkman. You and I will talk before I return you to Manhattan."
"I can hardly wait," muttered Peter under his breath.
"But it is not yet to be," Kris Kringle replied, his smile reappearing, "because we are nearly here. Brace yourselves for landing, gentlemen."
Not much bracing was necessary for the sleigh touched down as lightly as a drifting leaf in the middle of a clearing surrounded by a series of cottages and chalets so typically what Peter had expected that he was surprised out of his stereotypical thinking to consider the practicality of such structures at the North Pole. Before he could say so, he remembered Egon's explanation about the sleigh and reindeer and ectoplasmic manifestations and decided he wouldn't open himself up for another of Egon's lectures, full of twenty dollar words.
Before they could dismount an elf they'd seen lurking in the doorway came hurrying up. Peter had expected the elves to be tiny, too, like something out of a Grimm's Fairy Tale, but the elf had only pointed ears and his stereotypical clothing to distinguish himself from the average New Yorker. He had a brownish complexion, hair the color of Peter's own, and eyes as green. Spotting Peter, he stopped and stared, then he doffed his Robin Hood cap and scratched his head. "This one almost looks like one of us, boss," he told Santa.
Other elves began to unhitch the reindeer and a white haired woman with an apron tied around her ample middle appeared in the doorway of the biggest house, a tray of freshly baked cookies in her hands.
"This one is no elf, Jair," Santa told the elf with a smile. "This one is a skeptic. But these four men are the Ghostbusters, and they've come to rid us of the Ice Beast."
A cheer went up, many elves tossing their hats in the air to celebrate the occasion. "You are welcome here," Jair said, bobbing his head in a surprisingly elegant bow. "But you must beware for the Ice Beast is dangerous. He dragged off a cow last night."
"Cows live at the North Pole?" Peter asked skeptically.
"That, too, is legend, Dr. Venkman," Santa said. "True, this is a wintry clime but were we actually at the North Pole we would have been spotted long ago. Though ectoplasmic energy baffles radar, it is entirely visible to the naked eye when in such a concentration as this. Come in, come in. Warm up and taste my wife's baking, and I will show you a map of the area where the ice creature lurks."
Egon's hands were busy adjusting his P.K.E. meter, possibly to filter out the extraneous energy around the place, then aiming it in the direction toward which Jair had gestured. He frowned, tightened the energy field and tried again.
"It's out there," he said, pointing.
"I really wanted to hear that," muttered Winston.
"How big is it?" asked Ray. "What's it reading? Is it really magic ice?"
"No, I don't believe it's real ice at all," Egon replied, "though I feel certain it has that appearance. It's a Class 8. Elemental or better. Possibly a water elemental that has chosen to live here where its energy can be manifested in a solid form. It will be very dangerous."
Peter grimaced. "I really needed to hear that."
*****
Over a tray of the still warm cookies and cups of coffee--decaff, Peter noticed--Santa Claus, now clad in a long robe in red velvet and trimmed with fur, brought out a hand-drawn map that reminded Peter of the 'here be dragons' variety that had once marked the edge of the world for sailors to sail off. Each building in the compound was labeled and someone had painted them in bright colors that corresponded with their actual appearance. Beyond the structures was a ridge of snow and ice, marked as 'the barrier' and beyond that, a legend labeled a vast whiteness as 'the unknown.' Someone later in a different hand had traced in various features, hills and valleys and glaciers as if producing a survey map showing elevation and distance. The latter effort was much more proportional than the artistically pleasing sketch of the compound.
"Here," said Jair, bending over the map. "This is my work. I often make blueprints for the toys and designs for the electronics. The boss says I have a good eye."
"You do, my friend. I'd hate to lose you. These excavations of yours are dangerous."
"There's a whole world out there, boss. Maybe I can't walk down Fifth Avenue or the Rue de la Paix but I can explore around here. It's as well I did. I found the Ice Beast's lair. It's here." He jammed his forefinger against the map where a neat script said, 'Cavern.' "That is where you'll find him."
"Class 8s are really tough," Ray explained. "We can do Class 7s sometimes. Most demons are class sevens and they're the toughest. Sometimes Class 7s aren't that bad unless provoked. But this is a Class 8. They're the nasty ones. Well, I suppose they don't need to be," he added reasonably, "but they're powerful enough to do lots of damage if they want to. This one's being a pest--and if he's stolen a cow he might do worse. Has he ever communicated with you?"
"Communicated?" Mrs. Claus raised her eyebrows. "Not unless you call roaring and bellowing and clawing at the elves communication, Dr. Stantz." She shivered delicately.
"So maybe he's hungry--or just doesn't want to share the territory," suggested Peter. He didn't like the hungry ones, but maybe they could negotiate with it. Better not let Ray think of that. He was bound to volunteer to go out with a white flag. He'd done it before.
"We've been here for hundreds of years," Santa reminded him. "Until now he hasn't manifested. I think he's been roaming over this general area and happened close enough to find us. He doesn't usually come when I'm around."
"Well, maybe that's because he knows you're more powerful, sir," Winston theorized. "If you're a Class 11 . . . "
"That doesn't work, Winston," Egon corrected him. He'd been jotting things in a small notebook but now he snapped it shut and raised his eyes. "Santa Claus is a physical entity. Flesh and blood, if not exactly like us. That means he can be hurt. Remember our streams didn't faze the Bogeyman but he tripped and fell on the spilled marbles? Santa would be in danger if he confronted the ice ghost, and we're here to prevent that. Children everywhere would hold it against us if anything happened to him."
"Gosh, yeah," agreed Ray. "I say we go out there now and find the ice ghost. We can't let Christmas be late this year."
"No, we wouldn't want that," Peter muttered wryly. The elf Jair stared at him sharply but Peter merely rose and reached for his parka. There was a job to be done, no matter who was hiring them, and they were Ghostbusters. All this Christmas hoopla could wait until they trapped the ice ghost. "Come on, guys. We're about to run around and yell and be attacked. I live for my work."
*****
Half an hour later, Peter wasn't so certain of that. He had seen the ice ghost.
They wound their way through the village, the eyes of Santa's helpers following them until they passed between the last two buildings and followed a narrow trail between two ice spires that were part of the barrier than shielded the compound. Once through it, the wind hit, cold and nasty and stinging with ice particles. They pulled mufflers up over cheeks and noses and the hoods of their parkas down to their eyes. In heavily mittened hands the throwers they carried felt clumsy and awkward, but each man knew he could hit the trigger in plenty of time to meet the challenge of the ice elemental they were to face.
"Keep coming," Ray called from his place in the lead. He had the map gripped tight in one hand, folded down small to expose only the area they needed and he led them unerringly past barely noticeable landmarks, forging ahead with his usual vigor, undaunted by the cold. Peter shook his head, wondering how he did it.
They heard the creature before they saw it, thundering and crashing about. Of course it might not have been the monster. It could have been a team of berserk polar bears doing a little redecorating of their lair. Then it roared and Peter felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck.
"I don't like this, guys," he complained. "Are you sure you wouldn't be happier back in Manhattan hunting for bargains at Macy's?"
"I thought you were the guy who lived for his work," Winston reminded him, stopping beside him and raising his weapon.
"Well, yeah, I do, but it's nicer when we're inside and somebody's waiting to bring us hot coffee and big checks afterwards," Peter defended himself reasonably. His voice rose, "And I hate it when it looks like that!" Lifting one hand he pointed dramatically.
The ice ghost was big--well it wasn't as big as the Marshmallow Man or even as big as Nexa, but he was a lot bigger than Peter wanted to meet out here away from any kind of protection. They should have lured it nearer to the Compound and let all that ectoplasmic energy that Egon had talked about team up and zap him. The monster seemed like he'd been cobbled together from large ice floes, stuck together any which way, though he was roughly man shaped, with arms and legs and a head. There were even features on the jagged face; a gaping mouth with huge icicle teeth, glistening eyes like two tiny melted patches. Spikes of ice rose from its head as if it liked the punk look, and its fingers were curved icy blades as long as Peter was tall. He backpedaled a step or two.
"Get him!" shouted Ray, drawing a bead on the creature and firing. His blast struck the beast in the shoulder and it roared fiercely with pain and rage.
It shook itself free of the proton stream without effort and swatted at them clumsily. The guys jumped backward with yelps and cries of alarm.
"Egon," said Peter sternly as he collected himself. "What's the plan? Tell me you have a plan, big guy."
"Well, we could run away real fast," Egon responded, catching Peter's eye and smiling at him. "But that wouldn't be very useful. Try again, all of us at once. If you'll notice, he's rather ungainly. If he's really a water elemental, he might be slower than normal in the ice state. The concentrated effect of all four streams--"
"Run," yelled Winston as the monster lumbered toward them, growling, swinging a taloned hand in their direction. Peter dunked under the grasping fingers and fired and Egon slid sideways down a little slope in a spray of snow and braced himself against a partially exposed boulder, his stream lancing out to strike the elemental in the same place as Peter, near the creature's left shoulder. Ray let out a yell of delight and triumph and blasted away, hitting the target with pinpoint accuracy. Before Winston could skid to a stop on the slippery surface, the beast shrieked and shook himself out of the streams, jerking away from the threat of the proton streams. Egon was right that he moved clumsily but he wasn't slow, just awkward. A chunk of ice fell away from his shoulder and crashed to the ground, nearly braining Peter, who yelled in wordless protest as the ice missed him by inches.
"Let's not make Dr. Venkman a target," he chided, edging warily around the fragment to take a better aim as the entity moved toward his buddies.
"Blast that ice, Peter," Ray called as he darted away from the creature's clawing hand. He tripped over a protruding ice ridge and sat abruptly on the ground, scrambling backwards.
Peter obeyed, training his thrower on the chunk that had dropped from the ice ghost and firing. It resisted the thrower at first. Peter maintained his target without really looking at it, his eyes tracing the movements of the ice ghost as it stomped after Ray. Though it was ponderous and awkward, it was faster than they'd thought at first.
"Look out, Ray!" Peter called a warning. "It's after you."
"Stop him," called Winston, catching his balance on the icy ground and firing at the beast from behind while Egon edged sideways for a better shot and tried to lure the creature away from the hapless Ray.
Suddenly the ice that Peter had been blasting sizzled, steamed, and melted, the glittering water that had once been part of the ice ghost rising from the ground and starting to revolve as if trying to refreeze. "Hey," blurted Peter in astonishment as the water made a swipe at him, then he grabbed the trap from his pack and flung it out under the menacing water. The minute he keyed open the trap, it slowed, already starting to freeze again, then, before it could do so, the tug of the trap defeated it and it swooped down and in.
"Hey, guys, I got part of it," Peter shouted triumphantly, brandishing the trap. Then his eyes fell on Ray, who had backed up as far as he could, shrinking against a wall of ice that jutted up out of the ground behind him. His thrower leveled at the entity, he never stopped firing but the creature's sluggish side-to-side motions denied the occultist a permanent target.
"Ray!" cried Peter in alarm, dropping the trap and plunging to the rescue. As he moved Winston emerged from behind another ice spear, trying for a clear shot at the creature and Egon pulled himself up over the edge of the depression. Before the three of them could concentrate their aim on the same spot, the ice ghost reached down and grabbed Ray in one taloned hand, starting to lift him aloft.
"HELP!" Ray's voice came out in a startled squeak. "Guys, he's got me!"
"Don't worry, Ray, we're coming to the rescue," Peter called, his gloved thumb jammed against the trigger as he raced toward his captured colleague. "This ghost is toast. Well," he added, remembering the way the piece of it had melted before his eyes, "boiled water anyway." He stared at Ray in alarm as the entity held him at arms length, considering him. Did ice ghosts relish the taste of Ghostbusters?
"We have to stop him from moving," Egon called. "We can dissolve him if he's still, but not if he's moving. It needs concentrated energy at a given point."
"I'm open to suggestions, Egon," Winston replied.
Ray struggled in the icy grip, trying to fire his thrower, but the entity raised its other hand and plucked away the proton rifle, leaving a sizzling cord behind. He flung the detached piece at the others, who ducked involuntarily.
Peter blasted away at the entity, trying for a shot at the beast's elbow to shear it off and make him drop Ray, but when it felt the heat of the stream, it bellowed and jerked its arm away. Clumsy it might be. Unmoving it was not. Ray writhed in the chilling grip, struggling to work himself free, but the harder he tried, the harder the entity clutched him, and Peter could see Ray shivering as he fought for his freedom. Cold rose off the entity in waves, making the icy climate feel almost balmy in comparison.
As he raced closer, Peter's feet hit a patch of bare ice and slipped out from under him though he waved his arms wildly to keep his balance. Landing hard on his stomach he was nearly winded as he skidded down the slope like a human toboggan, closer to the ghost and its hapless prisoner while Egon and Winston yelled his name in alarm.
Peter fetched up hard against a rocky outcrop, his forehead hitting hard enough to make him see stars but not enough to lose consciousness. Groggy and confused he lifted his head and shook it. That was a major mistake. The terrain swayed and danced around him and Peter clutched his head and moaned, "I don't feel well," in an undertone. Then he caught his breath as he saw the ghost, still clutching Ray, who wasn't struggling any more.
From his new angle, Peter could see the creature poised on the lip of a drop while below it, a cavern hollowed out a hole in the ice. The creature balanced on the edge of the frozen terrain, growling and batting at the proton streams from Egon and Winston.
"Yahoo!" cried Peter, powering up and firing, not at the entity but at the cavern below him, automatically adjusting the thrower for wider dispersal.
"Peter!" Egon bellowed. "Shoot the ice ghost! He's freezing Ray."
"No, this is right, Egon," Peter called, his entire energy concentrated on his task as if his strength of will could add power to the proton stream. The creature saw him and gave a thunderous growl, swinging his free hand in Peter's direction, but when he did that, it put him off balance and he tottered toward the newly weakened rim of the drop. With a clatter and roar, it collapsed beneath his feet, pitching him toward Peter, who cried out in protest and jumped backwards to avoid its ponderous collapse. The hand that held Ray clutched him tightly nearly till the end, then he let go and Ray toppled into a snowdrift where he lay unmoving.
The ground trembled beneath Peter's feet as the ice ghost measured its length in the snow only inches from Peter. He let out a dazed, "Whew!" then jumped up and raised his voice. "Blast it before it gets up," he said, training his thrower on the middle of the creature's back.
"Yes!" Egon's eager reply showed that he understood Peter's strategy. "We can blast it before it's able to reach its feet." His stream shot out to hit the entity in the same place as Peter's, and Winston gave a whoop of triumph and fired too.
Steam rose from the creature as their concentrated streams held it in place before it could lever itself up. Unable to leap to its feet and resume the attack, it was helpless, like a turtle on its back. Its arms and legs made futile, struggling movements, but the energy from the proton packs was strong enough in such a concentration to melt the apparition. Peter blinked at it blurrily, his head throbbing, then glanced sideways at Ray, who was struggling feebly to climb out of the snowdrift. A wave of relief almost strong enough to topple him in his dazed condition ran through Peter.
"Trap out," Egon instructed and he and Winston flung their traps down beside the creatures. More steam rose from the creature and it began to melt, the water rising off it as if it possessed the entity's consciousness. "Now!" instructed Egon, slamming his booted foot against the trap's trigger, and Winston copied the motion.
Both traps opened, the dazzling light glittering off the surrounding ice, then, the creature roared one final time, exploded into surging water, and sloshed into the twin traps. The doors snapped closed over them and the air hissed with steam for a moment before it cleared away.
Peter spun around and started for the snowbank, but the abrupt movement made his head swim and he froze, reaching out to grab for something to steady himself. His fingers closed around Egon's arm. Where had he come from so quickly? "Ray?" Peter called anxiously. "Are you with us?"
Ray waded free of the snow and paused to brush himself off. Shivering violently, he stammered, "I'm okay, Peter," through chattering teeth. "I'm just c-c-cold."
"I'll bet you are, pal. I think he tried to put you on ice." Regaining his balance he staggered the last two steps to meet the snow-caked occultist and flung his arms around him in a futile attempt to warm him up. "Hang on, we'll haul you back to Santa's."
"Yeah, homeboy," Winston concurred, coming up and slapping Ray on the back. "You look like the abominable snowman if I do say so myself." He started to dust him off, the snow caking away.
"At least I don't look like an ice g-g-ghost," Ray chattered, his teeth clicking like demented castanets. "What about you, Peter? I saw you take a nasty whack on the head. You okay?"
"Look at me, Peter," Egon commanded abruptly, and Peter did. Turning was bad. Egon abruptly split in two like an amoeba and suddenly there were a pair of Egons staring at him anxiously through slightly fogged glasses.
"Whoa," breathed Peter in surprise, blinking furiously to rid himself of the eerie effect. "Egon in stereo. Hey, guys. Egon's been cloned."
"And you, Peter, may be concussed," said both Egons. Peter was disappointed to hear only one voice. "Come here and let me check your eyes."
Still clutching Ray's arm, Peter stumbled toward the double Egons, puzzled when they resolved into one again. He reached out blindly for the one he saw, hoping it was the right one, and all but fell against his chest. Egon's arms came around him just in time, and Peter sagged into unconsciousness.
*****
"Dr. Venkman? Are you awake yet?" It was that 'ho ho ho' voice just over his head. Peter resisted it, sinking deeper into the warmth and comfort of his blankets that were blessedly slime free and tried to pretend he was still asleep, but the voice went on in soothing tones. "It's nearly dinner time. Wake up, Dr. Venkman."
He opened his eyes to a dimly lit room and the unwelcome presence of Santa Claus bending over him.
Completely free of the headache that had been thundering away behind his eyes when the group of them had returned to the compound, yet relaxed and dazed with sleep, Peter said the first thing that came into his head. "I don't believe in you, you know."
"That's remarkably stubborn of you," Santa said, patting him on the arm. "You see. I'm solid and real." His eyes twinkled with sudden mischief. "'Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.'"
"I can buy that you're real," Peter admitted, yawning and stretching and pulling the covers up toward his chin. "I just don't buy into all this Christmas magic."
"Your friends said you didn't like Christmas very much," Santa said, sitting on the edge of the bed and peering down at Peter as if he were a specimen in a jar. "They said you were doing better than before, but that you weren't entirely happy with it. Christmas should be a time of joy."
"Yeah, but it isn't," Peter corrected. "Lots of people get really miserable at Christmas. Ever hear of seasonal affective disorder? It's when this time of year gets too much for people and they go into depression. Shorter days, less sunlight, those nasty holidays to live through. People who don't have much to look forward to really hate the holidays. What are you doing about it? As much as you ever did for me." He glared at Santa accusingly.
"In many ways I am a miracle worker, Dr. Venkman," Santa said with a wistful smile upon his face, "but I am not God. I have my limitations."
"I'll buy that. All those years . . . " Peter bit his lip. This was crazy. Why was he even talking to the old guy?
"I don't recall skipping you at present time," Santa said earnestly.
"Yeah, but you never gave me the one thing I really wanted," Peter accused. He caught himself immediately. He wasn't going to make himself vulnerable in front of this character if he could help it. "Doesn't matter anyway," he started, when Santa stretched out a hand and touched Peter's mouth to silence him.
"You resent me because your father never came home at Christmas, and that was the one thing you most wanted," the Christmas spirit said with certain knowledge. "Yes, Peter, I know that. If I could have brought him, I would have done it, but the one thing I have no control over is the actions of any particular human being. You would have had me influence your father to come home--but unless he chose to be there himself, it would have been meaningless. I'm not saying he didn't want to come, either. I know he did. Once, he, too, was a small boy with wishes and hopes that didn't all come true. I try to create moments of magic and dreams for children but I can't make those moments too overwhelming or the children will begin to believe that they are entitled to anything they wish for, without effort and without paying their dues. You and I both know this is a hard world and miracles rarely happen. With my toys and midnight visits I strive to create a sense of wonder and hope, a belief not that children may have everything they want but that sometimes dreams come true. If a child learns something like that is possible he may strive to make his dreams come true. Like you did."
Peter blinked at him in surprise. He'd thought he was listening to Santa describe someone like Ray Stantz who had never lost that sense of wonder. "I never did anything special," he said flatly.
"You decided you wanted to go to college--the first in your family to do so," Santa said. "You worked hard and fought down the side of you that might have followed in your father's unsavory pursuits. You rose above the party animal you started out to be, you made two friends in college who are yours for life. You dreamed a dream that you and your friends' interest in ghosts could become a business and you made them see the light. You've often risked your own life for your friends and for the sake of the entire world--for strangers, people you don't even know and might not like very much if you did. If that isn't special, what is?"
"Yeah, I'm a great guy," Peter said wryly, unwilling to buy into Santa's scam, because that's what it had to be, a scam.
"You are a lucky man, Peter," Santa continued. He rose and went to the window near the head of Peter's bed. With a wave of his hand the frosty glass cleared away, revealing a lighted room. "Come here," Santa urged him, drawing Peter from the warmth of his bed. Peter came reluctantly, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, grateful for the fleecy rug that kept his feet warm. "Look," Santa urged.
Peter did. He saw the TV room at Ghostbuster Central, he and his friends sitting there laughing over some forgotten incident, the warmth of their companionship lighting the room. The scene shifted and he saw himself emerging from Calimari's mystery cabinet, his friends gathering around to clap him on the back and welcome him home. He saw Egon putting out a hand to pull him to his feet in Mrs. Faversham's attic, felt again his relieved delight when Nexa released his friends from their blubbery confinement and gave them back to him. Even Slimer appeared, a pest as usual, but a pest that was part of life at the fire hall even when Peter was most infuriated with the spud. He saw Slimer hugging him, saw the spud go out and stand up against the spirits that had inhabited their old uniforms risking his own existence to save Ray and the rest of them. Maybe the spud wasn't so bad--well, maybe. Incident after incident with his friends paraded past, too many to name or even count, including last year's Christmas day dinner after restoring Christmas to the world. Ray's face was full of relief and joy as he made a Christmas toast and Peter, who had lifted his cup willingly for the first time that he could remember that year, noticed Egon watching him, a smile of deep contentment filling his face as he recognized Peter's acceptance of the day. Egon always knew where Peter was coming from--he could read Peter like one of his computer programs. Ray was thrilled that Peter was enjoying Christmas at last but Egon took it one step further. He knew what Peter had gone through to come to that point and he was happy about it.
Peter wouldn't take away Ray's joy or Egon's contentment. Santa was right. He did have what really mattered. "You're right, I am lucky," he admitted, feeling a sudden deep gladness filling him. "Hey," he continued eagerly, "Where are my friends. Is Ray okay?" His last memory of Ray was his friend wrapped in a down-filled comforter, a hot water bottle at his feet, sipping hot chocolate, still shivering from time to time. He'd appeared okay and his teeth had stopped chattering, but that bitter all-the-way-to-the-bone cold could be dangerous.
"Gently, my friend." Santa put his hands on Peter's shoulders and turned him in the other direction. Ray lay sleeping in a second bed just beyond Peter's, blankets heaped over him, his face slightly flushed, his hair mussed. His breathing was deep and regular and normal
"He's fine, as you are."
"Courtesy of the North Pole emergency department," Peter said with a final edge of suspicion.
"I am a Class 11 entity, Peter," Santa reminded him. "I have some powers. I could not have brought one of you back from the dead, but short of that, you can rest content that I can do my best for you. Your concussion is healed and I have staved off the incipient pneumonia that Ray would likely have suffered. He's fine. We'll let him sleep now. Meanwhile, how would you like to see my workshop?"
"Not as much as Ray would," Peter admitted. "What I'm really in the mood for is dinner. I'd like to eat myself into oblivion."
"Ho ho ho. So it shall be. Here are your clothes. Come to the kitchen when you're dressed." He whisked away.
As soon as he was gone, Peter tiptoed over to the sleeping Ray and smiled down at him. Carefully so as not to disturb him he reached out and encircled Ray's wrist with questing fingers, seeking the pulse that beat there. When he felt it thumping away, strong and normal, beneath his fingers, he relaxed and tiptoed away again, pausing at the window where Santa had shown him his best memories. It had become simply a window again and the frost was already tracing new designs on the glass. Peter smiled. When it came right down to it, he was lucky after all. He had friends and a future that would be whatever he could make of it. Who said only idealists had dreams?
*****
"Home already?" Janine asked when the guys came trooping down the stairs the next morning after Santa dropped them off on the roof. It was still snowing hard outside but it must have stopped in the meantime because it wasn't much deeper than when they'd departed. Janine's next words gave them a reason for that. "That didn't take long. You just left."
Egon paused in the act of hanging up his coat. "Just left? Fascinating. We went yesterday--we stayed there overnight."
"Oh yeah? Take a gander at that snow out there. It's still coming down. You were only gone about half an hour." She gestured at the nearest window. "I'll have to stay overnight if it keeps up like this."
"Wow," breathed Ray, fascinated. He carried his proton pack around to the rear of Ecto-1, where he stored it in the rack, his eyes drifting to the window and the huge flakes of snow that fell so thickly. "A time warp, just like I thought. We must have gone through a time warp, guys. That's how he can deliver all those presents in one night. He can warp time. Isn't it great?"
"Maybe it never happened," Winston offered with a grin to show he didn't mean it.
"Wanna bet?" challenged Ray, pointing to the small scraped place on Peter's forehead. The psychologist had tried to comb his hair down over it before they left Santa's workshop that morning but hadn't been too successful. "Then how did Pete get bunged up?"
"Naturally clumsy?" suggested Janine, running her eyes over Peter to make sure he wasn't seriously hurt.
"We missed you, Janine," Peter said brightly in the type of voice he used when teasing her. "Sort of like when you stop hitting yourself with a hammer, but we missed you."
"Egon!" complained Janine fiercely. "I want to blast him. Let me borrow your thrower."
Peter stuck out his tongue at her but he was feeling too good to mean it. He was in remarkably high spirits for one who'd been forced to fight nasty monsters in the cold and been concussed in the process. He was probably even a little slap happy but they all were. He remembered the delighted expression on Egon's face when first he and then Ray had emerged from their bedroom and the physicist realized they were both fine, and the way Winston had jumped up and pounded him on the back. More scenes for Santa's magic window.
"Peeeter." Slimer appeared, reminding Peter that life wasn't perfect. The spud was his cross to bear, but there were worse ones. "Ray! Guys." He zipped toward them and embraced them each in turn babbling unintelligibly. Peter shoved him away but not quite as hastily as usual.
"What did he say, Ray?" Winston asked, scrubbing the proof of Slimer's affection from his cheek.
"Just that next time he wants to come too. He loves Santa Claus." Ray grinned, his excitement overflowing. "Wasn't it great, guys. We got to help Santa Claus!"
"I wouldn't start calling the Times about it yet, Ray," Peter chided. "They'd never believe it."
"No, but we do. We know it really happened," cried Ray with earnest delight. "Just think. Nobody's toys will be late this year and it's all thanks to us." Ray paused at the window to feast his eyes on the snow. "Everything's perfect," he cried. "I bet this'll be our best Christmas ever. Even you have to agree to that, Peter."
He and Egon turned their eyes on Peter, eyeing him knowledgeably, then they grinned at each other. Ray nodded and Egon smiled in confirmation. Those two always figured him out. Peter lowered his eyes for a minute before looked up and grinned at them, then he glanced past them to the window. "You know," he began, "that snow isn't as bad as I . . . "
Before he could finish, the outer door opened in a blast of wintry air and a wild swirl of snowflakes. A snow-caked figure carrying a suitcase and a brown paper bag with gift-wrapped presents peeking out of the top let himself in and turned to close the door hastily against the storm, stomping his feet and brushing ineffectually at the white flakes that covered his winter coat and hat. Removing them both he draped them over Ecto-1, picked up suitcase and package again and turned to greet the startled Ghostbusters and Janine. Slimer slid up beside Ray and hung his arm over the occultist's shoulders, chortling to himself in delight as if he had recognized the newcomer instantly.
"D-dad?" Peter faltered, unable to believe his eyes. "What are you doing here?"
Charlie Venkman gave his feet a final stamp and picked up his suitcase and bag, advancing on his son with determination. "Well, it's Christmas, my boy. A father ought to see his son for the holidays. Can you put me up for a few days?"
Peter's mouth fell open. "Dad?" he said again not quite ready to believe it. "You mean through Christmas?"
"Of course I mean through Christmas, but if it's a problem I can go to a hotel. I just wanted to spend Christmas with my boy."
"No dad of mine spends Christmas in a hotel," Peter corrected. Maybe his dad had been planning some big con and it had fallen through landing him with free time near New York but that didn't matter now. What did was that his dad was really here for Christmas. Grinning from ear to ear he launched himself at his father, flinging his arms around his neck. Ray let out a cry of alarm and caught the package before Charlie would have dropped it and Egon snatched the suitcase as the elder Venkman hugged his son with delight.
"Merry Christmas, son," Charlie said quietly, hanging on for all he was worth.
Peter cleared his throat when the words he wanted to say stuck there. "Merry Christmas, Dad," he breathed at last, words that had been many years in coming. Amazing how right they felt.
A sound echoed dimly through the firehouse, a faint contented noise that might have been a laugh. Peter's eyes opened wide and he lifted his head at the almost imperceptible 'ho ho ho' that was not quite sure he'd really heard. He couldn't have heard it, could he? Nah!