by Sheila Paulson

Originally published in Slime Trails 4

"Say what!"

Peter lifted his eyes from his rapt contemplation of several mysterious and brightly ribboned gifts under the second-floor Christmas tree at Ghostbuster Central and stared instead at Winston, who had just been summoned to the telephone by Ray on this fifteenth of December.

It was clear Winston was awed and delighted by the news he'd heard because he continued eagerly, "That's great! Where? No kidding! You guys will love it. You... when? You're kidding, right?" His face fell like a little boy who'd just been told Santa Claus was a myth. He caught himself immediately and pasted on a big, determined grin that Peter thought was only fifty per cent genuine. "No, never mind. I was just surprised, that's all. You have a super time, Mom. Make sure Dad rests, and keep him away from all that cholesterol. You know what his doctor says." He listened a minute longer then said, "Right. Sunday's good. We don't have any busts scheduled then. You go off and enjoy the sunshine. This isn't the greatest December I've ever seen. I have to drive Ecto through one more sleet storm I'm gonna have Egon invent a super thrower that will melt the roads ahead of us."

Ray came over to join Peter in front of the tree, dropping down to sit cross-legged beside him. "No touching, Pete," he admonished, bending close until his nose was nearly poking though the wrapping of a package labeled, "To Ray from Peter."

"No sniffing either," Peter chided in return, grabbing Ray by the shoulders and pulling him back. "Not that anything I give you would have an unpleasant reek, mind you. Besides, it's empty. Opening them is half the fun, that's what you said. So I wrapped a lot of empty boxes for you to practice on."

Ray stuck out his tongue at Peter. "That's not nice."

"Not nice? Moi?" Peter struck as much of a pose as he could while sitting cross-legged under the Christmas tree. "I suppose mine are all socks and underwear," he added, gesturing at one or two large boxes. He wasn't going to admit he'd poked them and even shaken one of them when none of the guys were here. It would be sure to ruin his reputation. He was the one who wasn't supposed to like Christmas. Never mind that the last few years had been nearly perfect, the qualifier being the same old one, that his dad never showed up, generally forgot cards and presents and simply left Peter devoid of relatives at this time of the year when they meant more than any other time. Of course Peter had the guys and that meant more to him than anything, but he would have loved to see his dad once in awhile even if he was passing through on the way to somewhere else. Even if he was in town for some spectacular scam like the one with Hob Anagarok.

He wondered if he wouldn't be the only Ghostbuster without family this year. Winston wound down his conversation with his mom and put down the receiver looking a little bit dazed. "You guys won't believe this," he said. "That was my Momma. She entered a contest and just won a ten day Caribbean cruise for her and Pop. They're leaving next Wednesday."

"How come I never win anything that good?" Peter demanded, pretending vast disappointment while he studied Winston surreptitiously. Some of the seasonal good cheer had vanished from his buddy's face.

"They'll be back in time for New Year's," Winston concluded. "We're gonna get together Sunday and do our family Christmas then so Mom and Pop can take off for warmer temperatures and lots of sun."

"Gosh, Christmas in the Caribbean," breathed Ray, awed and delighted at the Zeddemores' good fortune. "They'll have a super time, won't they? Wow, that's great, Winston."

"Yeah, they need a break. Dad works too hard, and he gets too bent out of shape over little things. He needs to relax. His cholesterol count was over 250 last checkup and Mom's got him on a strict diet. He won't like that part of it, but it'll do him good to get away and relax."

"Any room for me to stow away in his suitcase?" Peter asked hopefully. "Think of it, Winston. Tropical skies, beaches, girls in skimpy little bathing suits? No snow, no winter winds, no ice storms. Now that's my idea of paradise."

"You and me both." Winston grinned. "They'll have a super time. Mom's so excited. She's never been out of the country before, so it'll be a big treat."

"It sure will," agreed Ray. "And don't worry about Christmas. You can hang out with us instead of going over there, and you can make sure Peter doesn't put any of that lethal stuff of his in the punch. Last time Egon got soused and didn't even realize it until it was too late."

"Look who's talking, Stantz," Peter retaliated gleefully. "I seem to remember you dragging yourself out of bed hung over last year, too."

"Yeah, and was Egon ever steamed at you," Ray remembered fondly. "You can be part of the punch patrol this year, too, Winston."

"Did someone mention punch?" Egon had paused halfway down the stairs. "I warn you, Peter, if you make the same punch this year as last I, for one, will find a way to redesign the ghost traps to pull in corporeal beings, or at least one psychologist."

"Hey, Egon, Winston's folks won a Caribbean cruise," exclaimed Ray, bouncing up from under the tree, eager to share the news of his friend's family's good fortune.

"Indeed." Egon adjusted his glasses and bestowed a smile on Zeddemore. "The Caribbean would be pleasant this time of year, certainly more pleasant than Manhattan is proving. That's nice for them, Winston."

"Sure is. Means I got a few less days to get my gifts for them wrapped though," Winston said, concentrating on planning. "I better get to work."

"Maybe you can motivate Peter," said Egon dryly.

"Hey. I don't wrap my own presents," Peter corrected him, shaking his head. "That's what beautiful women in the stores do for me."

"Or Janine?" Egon asked suspiciously.

"Only the ones I buy for you, Egon," Peter said with a broad and mischievous grin. "Only those. I even wrapped Ray's myself."

"Gosh, is that why they look so strange?" Ray teased him.

"I can always take 'em back, you know, Tex."

"You said they were only empty boxes anyway," Ray reminded him with a grin. "I can live without more empty boxes."

Peter pounced on him and the conversation degenerated into an impromptu wrestling match between the two of them while Winston egged each of them on in turn and Egon made some dry, disparaging remarks about juvenile behavior, though he halfway looked as if it would have taken only mild encouragement to get him into the fray. Seeing that, Peter whispered something in Ray's ear while pretending to get him in a choke hold, and a moment later, he and Ray sprang up, Ray grabbing Winston and Peter tackling Egon around the knees. Peter had been right. Thus provoked, Egon enjoyed himself mightily.

But later on, when Ray had gone out, braving the ice, to pick up his latest Captain Steel comic book and Winston had ventured into the chaos of the holiday shops to buy his parents a couple of last minute presents they could take with them on their trip, Peter wandered upstairs to the lab where Egon was setting up a new experiment, complete with a device that made use of a television screen and several Rube Goldberg contraptions.

"Yo, Spengs?"

"I'm really rather busy with this, Peter," Egon replied, tightening a connection with a precision tool, his attention almost entirely on his work. He would have said the same if Peter had come into the lab wearing a Santa costume complete with false beard. "Especially after play time downstairs," he added pointedly.

"Oh, come on, Egon, you enjoyed yourself as much as we did," Peter retorted, grinning knowingly.

Egon hesitated, realized he couldn't deny it, and said, "I must admit it was rather stimulating. However, as a general practice..."

"Don't get stuffy on me, Spengs. It's the holidays, remember. Everybody gets to act like a big kid--even you."

"If you put it like that..."

Peter grinned, then moved in on the gizmo Egon had been working on. "I hope this isn't my Christmas present," he remarked, leaning back against the table and crossing one leg over the other. "It's kinda big to get into my stocking."

"It happens to be an ectoplasmic monitor complete with a variable deflector that I can adjust for individual classes."

"In other words, you strap it to your back on a bust and we can track down ghosts just fine."

"No, Peter," said Egon with amused patience. "Do you remember my attempt to penetrate the layers of Slimer?"

Peter grimaced as he recalled the way the device had set off the bag of unpopped popcorn that Slimer had eaten and nearly overwhelmed the lab with it. "Oh yeah, I always remember every single one of your brilliant successes."

Egon pretended to glare at him. "This device will do that kind of job far better." He finished tightening the connection. "I've worked all the bugs out of it, and now we'll be able to penetrate the layers of ghosts far better at the same time shielding us from them."

"Right. And ghosts will line up for your super dooper x-ray machine?" asked Peter doubtfully, lifting an eyebrow at Egon. "I seem to remember you once wanted to open diplomatic relations with the spirit world. Someday I'm going to have to talk to you quite severely about your perception of reality."

Egon ignored that deliberately as he piddled with the unit. "I'm adjusting a control field that will hold them in place. They will be released from the trap directly into the field for me to study them, and the trap will remain open during the examination, so that when the field shuts down, they'll return directly into the trap. I'm currently designing a filtering process that will delete the trap readings from the field. This will tell us whether ghosts, especially the more solid ones, have a specific internal structure or whether they simply project an appearance upon ectoplasm."

"The eternal question," Peter said with amusement. "I, for one, haven't been able to sleep at night, wondering about that."

"Know your enemy, Peter," remarked Egon sententiously. "After all, Slimer might be able to change his form briefly, but he has a consistent shape the rest of the time."

"Yeah, an ugly one."

The little green ghost, who had been drifting idly near the ceiling watching Egon work, shot down to hang in the air directly in front of Peter. He stuck out his tongue at the psychologist and gave him a loud raspberry.

"Yeah, right," Peter said, disgustedly wiping slime from his face. "I'll sure sleep better knowing what's inside Slimer. Or maybe I'll sleep worse."

"Do you think Winston is happy about this trip, Peter?" Egon asked abruptly without looking up from his adjustments on a small grid device attached to the unit.

Since that was why Peter had ventured upstairs in the first place, he shook his head in fond surprise. "You're reading my mind again, aren't you, Spengs," he muttered. "I think he's happy for their good luck, but I don't think he's too happy about them being gone on Christmas."

"They'll still have their celebration," Egon replied practically. "After all, I won't see my mother until the 6th of January." Egon's mother was spending the holidays with cousins in Fresno who had been after her for years to come to them. Since it had been a busy month with a lot of ghosts and little chance for Egon to get away for more than a day or two, she had finally yielded and flown out for an extended stay rather than expecting to get together with her son. The cousins had told Egon he was more than welcome to join them, but the physicist had declined, pleading a heavy workload. The cousins and his mother got along very well, but they had never approved of his becoming a Ghostbuster, and the thought of spending Christmas justifying his career hadn't appealed. Egon didn't always fly home to Ohio at Christmas anyway, often enjoying the holidays with his friends at headquarters instead. It had become a tradition for the Ghostbusters to spend Christmas Eve together whenever possible and open their gifts then, even if the next day Winston would go to his folks and Janine would head for Canarsie to be with her parents while Ray had Christmas dinner with his Aunt Lois.

"Yeah but you're used to it," Peter said thoughtfully. "I saw Winston take that call. He was thrilled until he found out when it was. Suppose he ever spent Christmas away from his folks?"

"Yes. When he was in Vietnam."

"Well, that's not a great memory," Peter remarked, grimacing at the thought. Winston never talked about his time in Vietnam unless it could be tied to a specific need on a bust. He said it hadn't warped him, and it was true he'd displayed no trace of post-traumatic stress syndrome but his tour was obviously not a fond remembrance either. "Okay, Spengs," said Peter, getting down to serious business, "we gotta make this a good holiday for Winston."

"You might remember Raymond," Egon replied. "His aunt Lois is in Paris."

"With Pierre?" Peter asked, grinning. Ray's aunt had recently met a Frenchman who was attached to the U.N. and had begun dating him. Ray thought it was wonderful and he'd encouraged his aunt to have a great time. When her delight in Pierre's company had been reciprocated and he had invited her to come to Paris with him for the holidays, Ray had been almost as excited as his aunt was. The only disappointment was he'd have to forego the traditional dinner with her that he had shared sometime over the holidays with her ever since he'd left Morrisville and come to Columbia. He was still delighted on her behalf but he'd put aside her presents at the back of the tree without comment.

It was strange. Since his mother's death Peter was usually the one without relatives at Christmas. Charlie Venkman hadn't made a point of dropping in and nine times out of ten he even forgot to send a card. Peter had received one this year, to his great delight. It had come three days ago, actually before Christmas, garishly adorned with stylized reindeer, and it had contained a brief note explaining that Charlie's work had taken him to Fort Lauderdale and he wouldn't be able to get away. Peter hadn't expected him to come, but he was tickled about the card. It was the first time in years a card had arrived on time for Christmas, or even at all. Somehow that vulgarly colored card had put Peter into the spirit of things, and he'd been having a ball ever since.

"Well, Spengs," he said shaking his head and grinning at the same time, "at least we've got each other."

Egon eyed him suspiciously. "I know you too well, Peter. You're up to something."

Peter drew back and struck a dramatic pose, hand on his heart. "Word of honor, Egon. What could I be up to?"

Egon didn't answer. Instead he made a last adjustment and drew back, eyeing his device. "There. It's finished."

"Oh, joy," murmured Peter with a false display of delight. "Now my life is complete. But let me warn you, big guy, if this is my present, I'm really disappointed."

"Are you kidding, Peter," said Winston from the doorway, grinning. "This is Egon's present to himself." He came in. "You got it done, homeboy? Great. So when is the great unveiling or whatever?"

"If we're gonna do Slimer again, let me put on armor or something," Peter returned. "Or at least a wetsuit. I thought you were going shopping, Winston? Braving the maddened hordes and all that. 'Tis the season to run amok with a credit card."

"I was going but I changed my mind," Winston replied. "It's sleeting again. I'm not going out there unless I have to. Bad enough we have to go screeching all over town when there's a ghost. I might just give them cash for the trip anyway, so they can buy themselves lots of souvenirs."

"That sounds a practical idea, Winston," Egon approved. "Maybe you could loan them your good camera, too. They'll want lots of pictures. My mother always takes plenty of pictures when she goes on a trip."

Since Egon and the others had been the recipients of several interminable slide shows after Egon's mother had returned from Europe and Hawaii, Peter couldn't help grinning at the look on Winston's face, but then he bucked up. "Yeah, guess I could do that. My dad's a crazy man when he gets a camera in his hand. He took a zillion awful black and white snapshots of me and my brothers when we were kids."

"Yeah, he showed me one of you in the altogether lying on a bearskin rug," said Peter wickedly. "Said he showed it to all your dates."

Winston grimaced with remembered embarrassment. "Yeah, tell me about it." A rattle of sleet against the lab windows made him look up with relief. "I hope Ray is okay out there. Last thing we need is for him to break his leg on the ice."

"Ray will be careful," Egon began.

"Ray? Careful? You're talking about Ray Stantz, perennial boy scout," Peter reminded him. "He's not being careful. He's taking running starts and sliding half a block at a go. I betcha anything."

"He's on the subway," Egon corrected. "It doesn't sleet underground."

"If there's ice, that boy will find it," Winston said, shaking his head in cheerful certainty.

*****

Ray proved him right, returning later clutching his comic book in a sack as well as several other unexpected parcels, and wincing when he moved. "I knew it," said Peter, walking around Ray in a circle as if he expected bones to jut from his flesh at unexpected intervals, and grinning broadly at the way Ray shifted the packages so Peter couldn't see them clearly. The other two guys and Janine converged on him and looked at him in concern.

"I knew it," Peter said. "Skating down the street, weren't you, Tex? You're lucky you didn't break anything."

Ray flushed. "It was fun," he defended himself as he set the parcels aside and shrugged out of his coat. "Besides I only tripped once."

"I hope you weren't hurt, Ray," said Janine as Egon took the coat and surveying him critically.

"No, just a little black and blue. I'm okay." Ray gathered up the parcels. "Nobody peeks at these," he threatened. "They're a surprise."

"Santa Stantz, that's you," said Peter with a big smile.

Ray turned and pretended astonishment. "What makes you think any of them are for you, Peter?" he teased. "After all, you're only giving me empty boxes."

"And a big bah humbug to you, too, Ray," Peter called after the occultist as Ray headed upstairs to dispose of his loot. He grinned. "I hope he got me some great goodies."

"I knew you'd come to like Christmas one day, Peter," Egon said, shaking his head. "Because someday it would strike you that it's a time when you would be given presents."

"I always liked the presents," Peter confessed. "Even when I said Christmas was just another day. I could never resist a good haul."

"Figures," said Janine, returning to her desk. "If there's a dollar sign in it anywhere, Dr. V is on the job."

"Is that kind, Janine?" Peter asked her, leaning against the corner of her desk.

"Maybe not, but it's true."

Peter stuck out his tongue at her. "Come on, Melnitz, be nice or I won't give you your Christmas present."

"Good. I half expect a frog to jump out of the box when I open it."

"Frogs make good pets," Peter informed her haughtily as if he'd been caught out, then he winked at her. "Love to chat but I've gotta make a sneak run upstairs and see if I can get a peek at what Ray just bought," he said, and hurried up the stairs.

He heard Winston laugh behind him. "Sure is good to see Pete enjoying Christmas this year, isn't it?" he asked.

"It is indeed," Egon replied, sounding as if he really meant it, his voice retreating as if he were heading for the front door.

"So where you going, homeboy?" Winston called.

"I think the sleet has stopped. I need to do some more shopping."

"Don't forget to buy a terrarium for Janine's frog," Peter called as he reached the top of the stairs. Something heavy crashed behind him, one of the books from Janine's desk. Her aim was getting a lot better. He'd have to work on his timing.

*****

Egon's shopping trip didn't take very long. He returned the minute he opened the door. "Too much ice," he said. "If I go at all, it will be by taxi. I'll wait until tomorrow. Winston, would you like to help me test my new invention. I think Slimer will cooperate."

"Just so long as nothing nasty is gonna jump out at me," Winston conceded warily and followed Egon up the stairs. He got a kick out of watching Egon at work; the physicist always had an interesting project at hand, and some of them were actually useful on the job. Besides, he was good company except when he was at his most engrossed in his work. Then he could ignore major explosions and naked dancing girls surrounding him as if they weren't even there.

Winston caught himself frowning as they went up the spiral stairs to the third floor. He was annoyed with himself for doing it, too. Okay, so his folks weren't going to be in town at Christmas. Big deal. Winston wasn't a kid who needed mommy and daddy around. He was a mature adult who was only a few years away from the big Four-Oh. This was stupid, that's what it was. Just because they were having their dinner on Sunday instead of on Christmas, when Peter hadn't seen his dad for the holidays for years.... Besides Ray and Egon were in the same boat and they weren't acting like babies about it. He squared his shoulders. The one thing he didn't want to do was let the folks know he minded. They deserved a great holiday. He'd make sure he did nothing to wreck it.

As they reached the third floor, they heard Peter in full cry. "Come on, Ray. Just a little hint. Just a teeny-weeny little hint. That's not so much to ask."

"Not even a clue," Ray said determinedly. "Not until Christmas Eve, Peter. That's the rules."

"Give it up, Peter," Egon cautioned, pausing in the bedroom door to find Peter, his arm slung persuasively around Ray's shoulders as he tried to wheedle the occultist's Christmas secrets out of him. "Ray can be as stubborn as a mule when it comes to his presents. And you sound all of ten years old. I expected more of you."

"Too bad, Spengs. Guess you'll have to wait until Christmas Eve, too. Cause he won't give you a clue, either."

Egon's face fell, though he caught himself instantly. Peter looked past him and favored Winston with an amused wink. "So who's the big kid?" he asked brightly.

"I'm going to test my experiment now," Egon said quite formally as if proving a point. "You're all welcome to come and monitor it. I plan to start with Slimer, then if that proves successful, with the next ghost we bust."

"Goodie," muttered Peter. "It's almost time for dinner and you're gonna show us Slimer's guts first? I think I just lost my appetite."

Put like that, the experiment didn't appeal to Winston much, either, but he turned for the lab as Peter stuck two fingers in his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. "Yo, Spud!" he bellowed loudly enough to wake the dead, or at least to summon them. "Front and center. Egon wants to photograph your innards."

Slimer appeared hovering near the ceiling, and looked down at them nervously. "Not hurt?" he demanded suspiciously.

"When have I ever hurt you in an experiment, Slimer?" Egon demanded haughtily as if such an action was beneath his dignity.

"Well, uh, lemme see?" the little ghost burbled as he tried to remember, holding up his fingers to use for numbering. Peter smirked and elbowed Ray while Egon drew himself up, the picture of affronted dignity.

"Come on, Slimer, I'll make you popcorn afterwards," Ray volunteered, smiling. "Egon won't hurt you. I promise. It'll probably feel pretty good."

"Don't mention popcorn and Egon's gizmo in the same breath," Winston cautioned, remembering the last time Egon had tried an experiment like this. The spud had consumed a whole bag of unpopped popcorn right beforehand, and Egon's experiment had popped it--all of it at once. The memory clearly amused Peter. He trailed along to the lab though he was probably not very interested in the experiment, and propped himself up on a stool, the picture of a man who is prepared to enjoy himself for all he is worth.

"Okay, Spengs," he announced. "I'm ready. Let the performance begin."

"It's hardly a performance, Peter," Egon chided. "I'm using very strict scientific controls. As you would know if you ever read my interim reports."

"Gosh, Egon, I'm three months behind with my Playboys. And you expect me to keep up with interim reports?"

Egon turned his back on Peter deliberately. "Slimer, come here. I want you to position yourself right here, in front of the lens. I promise you, it will not hurt, and if you behave yourself, I will see you get two pepperoni pizzas personally delivered to you tonight."

Slimer's whole mien changed, his eyes lighting up and his tongue slurping across his upper lip in sheer anticipation. It wasn't a particularly pretty sight, but Slimer followed it up by swooping over and taking his place in front of the device and hovering there obediently. "Li' this?" he asked.

"Perfect. Well done, Slimer. Raymond, I need you to adjust the monitor that will give us our results. This should be most interesting." His glasses slid down his nose, a sure sign he was excited about it. Winston got a kick out of watching Egon when he was excited. Often his vocabulary would grow even more elaborate and his glasses would descend further and further. Once, at a particularly thrilling moment, they had fallen off completely. Winston shook his head as Egon bent over the control panel making minute adjustments. Peter abandoned his stool, sneaked up behind Egon and reached around him to push the glasses into place with his forefinger. Egon lifted his head, glared at Peter, and turned back to his work. Ray shared a grin with Winston; both of them had seen the humor that lit Egon's eyes.

"I've designed a beam that will penetrate surface ectoplasm," Egon explained, choosing his words with care, probably knowing Peter was waiting to find fault with anything too scholarly, though Peter usually understood it. "With most ghosts above class two, the surface cohesion of the ectoplasmic form has a rigid ecto-molecular structure which retains a specific shape. It's fluid and elastic and can change drastically; as, for example, when Slimer elongates an arm to reach down and try to steal our dinner. He reverts to his normal shape immediately without damage. Yet he can pull away chunks of himself and fling them at nasty ghosts without damaging his normal shape. So either all ecto-molecular structure can hold its form loosely or perhaps contact with the atmosphere allows him to retain that form."

"Wait a minute, Egon," Ray interrupted. "Once he's shed slime, for instance, it doesn't retain its form when in contact with the atmosphere. It trickles down the backs of our necks and gets on our pillows and makes puddles inside our boots."

"Hmm, a valid point. Perhaps it's only when in contact with the ghost itself that the form is retained. Maybe anything shed dies, in a manner of speaking of course, since it was never alive. But it alters."

Peter grimaced expressively. "You mean I've been slimed with 'dead' ectoplasm? I hate that, Egon. I'd have been much happier if I'd never known it."

"Since it was never alive in the first place, Peter, all ectoplasm is, in effect, dead," Egon pointed out, busy over his dials. "But once it is shed it loses cohesion. Intriguing. I think there might be a monograph in this. Ray, would you like to collaborate on it with me?"

"You bet. I think it's great. Hey, we're starting to get an image. Look!"

The Ghostbusters stared at the screen where the outline of Slimer was displayed. As they watched, internal shapes began to display, misty and vague but definitely there. "Hmm," Egon remarked, fascinated. "This is definitely intriguing. What do you think we're seeing, Ray?"

"I know what we're seeing," Peter said positively. "That's the spud's stomach--and those are my keys. I've been looking for them everywhere. Cough 'em up, Slimer, right now."

"Aw," said the little green ghost in disappointment and burped them up without effort. Coated with thick green ectoplasm, they fell into Peter's outstretched hand.

He looked at them, looked at his hand, then flung them away in disgust. "Gaaa!"

Ray collapsed in laughter and even Egon cracked a smile. Peter favored them both with a glare and went after the keys, picking them up with a rag. "If you messed up these keys, Spud, you're dead," he declared darkly.

"He already knows that, Peter," Winston retorted, unable to hold back his own laughter at the thoroughly disgruntled expression on the psychologist's face.

"Well, you know what I mean," Peter insisted lamely, holding the keys by the tip of one of them. "I'm gonna wash these off and if there's one shred of damage..." His voice trailed off as he headed for the sink, while the other three men laughed in sheer delight. Slimer swooped away and vanished through the ceiling without looking back as if he'd decided discretion was the better part of valor.

"Well, anyway," Ray said, still chuckling, as Egon shut down his machine, "we made a start. The keys were in some kind of internal containment area. Maybe it is his stomach. I could kind of make out some other shadowy forms, too."

"We needed more time," Egon replied as he flipped the last switch and the device powered down. "And we don't need any frivolous interruptions, Peter."

"Hey. It wasn't frivolous. I need my keys." Peter lifted them out of the sink and began to towel them dry one by one. "You wouldn't like it if he'd eaten something of yours, Spengs. I'm surprised he hasn't gobbled down a Christmas ornament or two the way he keeps drooling over them."

"He better not," Ray said hotly, defending his work in the firehall's elaborate decorations.

Mention of Christmas reminded Winston of his folks and their upcoming trip. He was glad they had won the cruise and knew it would do them both good. It would sure give his dad something to think about besides his diet, though cruise food was pretty spectacular. Winston wouldn't have done a thing to discourage them from their trip. But his parents had planned to call Frank and Charlie and tell them not to fly in for the big day. Charlie would come on Sunday; his work was flexible and he could shift, but Frank and the kids wouldn't be able to rearrange their schedule this late. they'd go to Jackie's folks instead. Winston heaved a sigh. Instead of the big family dinner, everybody talking and laughing and being together, he'd have Christmas here at the firehall. Well, that wouldn't be so bad. The guys were family too. But somehow it wasn't quite the same as his plans. Winston looked at the garlands of holly and strings of colored lights that even adorned the lab, then lowered his eyes. He knew he was being childish. What did it matter when he and his parents had their Christmas celebration? They would still be together.

Yet he knew when Christmas morning came, he would feel it badly.

Sensing Peter's eyes on him, he pulled himself together and made a remark about Peter's keys, and Peter responded in kind, but his expression was still speculative. Trust Peter to know how he was feeling. If anyone had the market on Christmas disappointment it was Pete. Winston would still have a holiday dinner and gift exchange with his folks. Peter was lucky to see his dad at this time of year when he was out hustling all the harder. Peter had hated Christmas for years, claiming it was only one more day. Winston didn't want to get like that. He'd been glad when Peter started to change ever since a time warp took them back into the 1800s and introduced them to Ebenezer Scrooge and the Three Christmas Ghosts.

"...definite physical structure," Egon was saying to Ray. "Nothing quite as clearly defined as that within a living person, but further research should tell us even more. Remember when we first met Slimer, how he would eat and drink and the substance would fall through him?"

"Yeah, and he learned not to do it any more once I started working with him," Ray replied. "So he can control his inner structure. Maybe he designed himself a stomach."

"Which begs the question," Egon said thoughtfully, "of elimination."

"Let's not beg that question," Peter said, grimacing in distaste. "I don't want to know."

"Yeah, but Slimer eats and eats, and doesn't get any bigger," Ray replied. "So either he can convert it all into ectoplasmic energy or--"

"Let's just stick with that theory, Ray," Peter said. "Because it's a lot better than thinking when he slimes us it's the remains of all those dinners. It makes the whole concept of being slimed all the more...uh, interesting." He glanced up in the direction in which Slimer had vanished and abruptly dumped his keys into the sink again.

"It's just slime, Peter," Ray said with a grin. "Same as always. But just think, Egon. Slimer must convert his food. So ghosts could have some kind of ectoplasmic equivalent of a digestive system. This is great."

"It is indeed," Egon agreed.

"Not if my keys were gonna be converted," Peter returned, scrubbing at them industriously. "You know, Spengs, I think I would have been a lot happier if I could have kept my nice, safe illusions."

Egon smiled. "Come on, Peter. This is science."

"Yeah and he slimed the inside of your boots this morning. Making his daily deposit or something?" When Egon grimaced at the concept, Peter smiled to himself, satisfied, and started drying his keys again, whistling to himself under his breath. Ray's mouth stretched wide in a happy grin, and Winston chuckled. One thing about this place, it was never dull.

*****

Winston's Christmas dinner with his parents and his brother Charlie was a warm and happy family time. They all bemoaned the fact that Franklin couldn't be there but made extravagant plans for the following year. It seemed weird to Winston to have only one of his brothers there. The three of them had always been close, and only the fact that their jobs had taken them to different towns prevented him from seeing them more often. The three of them had been united every since they were old enough to talk. Winston was the oldest by a year, then Frank, then Charlie. They had a conspiracy to keep their names secret, though Winston's was fairly obvious. He was Winston Churchill Zeddemore, Frank was Franklin Roosevelt Zeddemore and Charlie was Charles DeGaulle Zeddemore. His father was a World War II buff, who had been too young to enlist but old enough to be fascinated. Winston considered his father lucky. He and Charlie had both served in Vietnam, and Winston could have told his father there was nothing fascinating about war.

He could still remember Christmas in the Delta. Some of the guys in the unit had planned a party with a highly suspect punch, and one of the guys had a foot-high silver Christmas tree sent to him from home. Though they were scheduled to move out the next day, the squad gathered together on Christmas Eve and had a party, some of them exchanging token gifts, those who'd received packages from home opening them, some of the guys singing carols. A few of them had wandered off, some had gotten blind drunk, and Winston had remembered finally sitting all by himself, holding the paperback mysteries his mother had sent because he'd said he could carry them with him easily, and feeling as if he were a million miles from any warm and decent human contact. Ten minutes after midnight, their position had fallen under heavy VC fire and they'd had to run. Winston had shoved the books down the front of his shirt and run with the rest, and when the smoke had cleared, six men were dead, including their lieutenant, and four had wounds, one of them bad. Merry Christmas, Winston.

The memory of that night was all the more vivid as he returned to Ghostbuster Central bearing his presents. He shoved it aside, remembering how delighted his father had been at the loan of Winston's camera and a supply of film for the trip, and the way his mother had exclaimed in delight at the sundress and sandals Winston had bought her. Finding a sundress in December had been a real achievement and he was proud of it, all the more when her eyes lit with delight. Spending the whole day with his folks was always good, especially now that his father could accept Winston's career choice, though Christmas had been good those first few years Winston had been a Ghostbuster, before his father had seen the light. It had always been good, and this year was no exception. Remember that, Winston, he told himself. Don't think about the Delta.

Winston knew he had come through his tour in Vietnam in far better shape than many men. Part of it was the common sense he'd inherited from his Momma and his grandmother from Puerto Rico. He knew he had some terrible memories and he set himself to work through them. And part was the support his family had always given him; they'd been ready to listen when he awoke in the night from a bad dream and he and his father had talked through a lot of things. He and Charlie had served as a support group for each other, until both of them had been able to put their memories into perspective. Even now he or Charlie would phone each other and talk at least once a month, mostly not even about Vietnam, but sometimes when a particularly dangerous bust had reminded him of it, he'd call and talk to Charlie.

And he was lucky the job came with a built-in psychologist. Peter hadn't served in Nam, but he'd faced death on the job, up against particularly nasty ghosts, and he and the others had spent time in hospital waiting rooms when one of them had been hurt badly on a tough bust. Peter had worked out a support system for them all because he knew some of their really bad jobs could have lingering aftereffects. The guys provided their own support group and Peter knew just how to work them into talking things out when necessary. Winston had really struck it lucky when he walked into Ghostbuster Central and applied for what he thought was the weirdest job on record simply because he didn't want to work construction all his life. Little did he know it would turn into a career, a job that fascinated him enough to take night school classes in parapsychology and related fields.

Now as he let himself into the converted firehouse, carrying his Christmas haul he shoved aside the memory of Christmas in Southeast Asia and concentrated on the day he'd just spent. It was a good Christmas, even a few days early. It wasn't the day that mattered, he told himself. It was the people. He was grinning when he made his way upstairs.

He found Peter and Ray sprawled on the couch watching an old Western on tape, one of Peter's John Wayne movies but they straightened up when Winston came in. "You look like you cleaned up," Peter said, nodding at the gifts.

"I sure did. I've even got a gift from my folks to you guys." He saw Peter and Ray brighten, remembering the huge box of chocolates the Zeddemores had sent back last year. "Except we've gotta hide it from Slimer. Where is the spud anyway?" He looked around quickly, half afraid the little ghost would sneak up on him.

"Egon's running more tests on him," Ray said with a grin. "He's established Slimer does have an internal structure though it isn't very clearly defined, and he wants to track food through it."

"Yeah, so I decided to stay as far away as possible," Peter said. "And Ray wanted to watch the Knicks game. So we left the Spud to Egon's tender mercies."

Winston separated the guys' still-wrapped gift from his own opened presents and set it beneath the tree. "There you go, guys. I think it's probably some kind of food, so don't tell Slimer or it'll be gone."

"He can probably smell it," Peter complained.

"Come on, Pete, you've made so many terrible threats to Slimer about touching the presents he's scared to go near the tree."

"He'd better be," Peter agreed. "Knowing the green guy's attention span, I just hope he remembers."

*****

Slimer was still being good two days later, the day before Christmas Eve. As the actual holiday neared, he had taken to hovering near the tree as if he was fascinated but didn't dare try to touch it. Peter saw Winston watching him, or maybe he was just watching the tree. The psychologist was pretty sure Winston minded the idea of Christmas without his parents, though he'd seen their flight off in cheerful good spirits. Remembering his own long-ago unhappy Christmases, Peter was pretty sure Winston was fine, most of the time. It would be the actual day that would bother him, and knowing Winston, he'd handle it okay. Winston was probably the best balanced of the guys and even if he felt bad on Christmas Day, it wouldn't warp him. Peter hoped when the time came, their own celebration would help. There would be the traditional Christmas Eve gift exchange with all four of them and Janine present. The next day had always varied, with some of the guys gone to separate dinners. Janine would leave after the Christmas Eve party and spend the rest of the holiday with her parents. Winston traditionally got up on Christmas morning at the crack of dawn with his gifts and went over to play Santa for his brothers' kids. Peter had found his Santa hat the other day shoved to the back of Winston's locker when he was looking for a spare trap and had appropriated it. This year the Ghostbusters' Scrooge planned to play Santa on Christmas Eve. Peter was looking forward to it.

On years when Egon had flown out to Ohio for all or part of the holiday, Ray would drag Peter along to Aunt Lois for the day. Otherwise Peter and Egon would spend it together. Now that he could think about Christmas with fondness, Peter realized even when he wasn't much of a holiday lover the guys had made sure he wouldn't have to spend it on his own. He remembered a year at Columbia when he'd struggled against doing anything remotely connected to Christmas and Egon had spent the whole day with him, never once mentioning the holiday, falling in with every plan Peter made, including eating Chinese take-out and going to a spaghetti western. Afterwards, Peter had realized Egon had done it to show Peter he needn't be alone at Christmas and he'd relished the memory of Egon's companionship, even though he didn't finally warm to the holiday until the Christmas of the time warp and the encounter with Scrooge and the three ghosts. Egon and Ray had never pushed him but they'd always made sure his Christmas was memorable, even at the expense of some of their own celebrations. Peter wasn't given to wallowing in sentiment but he knew Christmas wasn't trees and decorations, wasn't even presents. It was being with people you love.

This year, Winston wouldn't have his folks. Although they'd celebrated already, Peter was pretty sure Winston would be down on the actual day. Even now, Peter had some of those feelings when his dad didn't show up, though Peter knew better than to expect him. The difference was that he no longer let it warp him.

On the twenty-third, Peter was roused out of bed early by the alarm bell, and Ray bounced up happily with the enthusiasm only the occultist could manage before eight o'clock. Peter groaned and pulled the covers over his head as he heard the rattle of sleet against the window. "I'm not going," he groaned.

Egon grabbed the blankets and yanked. "You are going, Peter. Though I admit it doesn't sound particularly appetizing. Come on, rise and shine."

"You rise, Egon. You shine," Peter said sourly, but by the time they were showered, dressed and heading down the stairs, he was actually awake, though not particularly enthusiastic about it.

Janine met them. "It doesn't sound too hard, guys. Sounds like a class three. The guy on the phone says the ghost comes around every year and this year his grandkids are coming for Christmas and he doesn't want to scare them. So he wants you to come and trap it."

"What is it doing?" Egon asked practically.

"He says it just comes and beats at the front door and demands to come in. Says he's even tried to talk to it and tell it that it's at the wrong place, but it won't talk to him. It just says, "I want to come in," over and over, and then after awhile it starts knocking again."

"A seasonal fixed repeater," Egon reasoned as he took his heavy coat from the locker and put it on.

"Gee, Egon, maybe it's looking for somebody to have Christmas with," Ray said sympathetically.

"Well, don't invite it for dinner, Ray," Peter retorted. "Bad enough we've gotta put up with the spud snatching pieces of the turkey without another ghost to egg him on." He slid his arms into his coat. "So how bad is it out there, Big J?" he asked with a gesture at the garage doors.

"If I didn't take the subway to work, I wouldn't have come in," she remarked. "I skated the last few blocks here. And you should have seen what the steps were like up to the platform when I was coming here. It's cold and blowing and they were going through salt like you wouldn't believe. You better drive, Winston. It's nasty out there."

"You made my day," Peter complained.

"At least it isn't too far," Janine consoled them, giving the address. "Delancey Street rather than the Upper East Side."

"Parked cars and telephone poles are just as hard down here when you skid into them," Winston muttered. "I hate sleet. Oughta be a law against it."

The roads were as bad as Winston had feared, and the rush hour traffic was still backed up because of it. Peter braced himself all the way to the bust as if sitting stiffly would prevent a skid. It didn't, of course, but Winston was a superb driver and he brought them to their destination mercifully accident free, if possessed of a few white hairs from the experience. Grateful their boots had decent traction, they went up to the house in question. No ghost was in evidence, but Egon took a P.K.E. reading, raising one hand to shield his glasses from the sleet.

"It's been here recently," he said. "The readings indicate repeated brief visits. With a little study I can postulate the length of the time gap. Let's step inside." They gathered their proton packs and carried them into the entry hall where they stripped off their coats and put on the packs.

The building contained four apartments, and Ray pushed the buzzer of the one belonging to their client and they were admitted. Peter wondered why the ghost didn't bother with the buzzer, but then he realized a spirit wouldn't be stopped by a security door. He'd just drift through. Weird he wouldn't pop through Mr. Welton's door, too.

Welton proved to be a skinny, grey haired guy with a wrinkled face and twinkling eyes that wouldn't have been out of place on Santa Claus, if Santa had been on a crash diet for a year. "Come in, come in," he urged. "I hated to send for you on such a nasty morning, but Joan and the kids'll be here this afternoon if they don't shut down the airport again and I don't want the ghost bugging them. He comes every year and I've gotten used to him. I've tried to talk to him, tell him he's at the wrong place and all that stuff, and he listens and goes away but then he comes back later. If it weren't for the kids, I'd say leave him alone. He only does it two days out of the year, and half the time I'm gone visiting one of my kids and their families anyway. The last few years since you four started your business I thought about it, but he never hurt anybody. I wouldn't'a called if it wasn't for the grandkids."

"Does he talk to you?" Ray asked, fascinated. "What does he say?"

"First time, I didn't even know he was a ghost," Welton said. "He looks pretty solid. I opened the door and he stood there and stared at me and said, 'I want to come in.'

I said, 'I don't know you, buddy. You got the wrong place.' He just looked at me and that's when I noticed he was kinda wispy around the edges. I asked him if he was a ghost and he said, 'I want to come in,' again. I said no and shut the door and he went off, but he's back half an hour later. 'I want to come in.' Well, I said no way was a ghost coming in my place and he probably had the wrong apartment. He started apologizing like he knew what I was talking about, just, 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean it,' over and over, and then he starts with asking to come in again. I got to where I just looked out the peephole and if it was him, I ignored him. It was only two days a year after all, and half the time I wasn't home. I'm the only one on this floor; got the whole floor for my place, so he isn't bothering the other tenants. But I don't want the grandkids scared. Bust him."

"He doesn't sound like he'll be too hard," Winston said. "Poor guy, maybe he's coming for Christmas and doesn't realize his family moved. You don't recognize him, do you?"

Welton shook his head. "Nope. He's no kin of mine."

As he had talked, Egon had busied himself with the P.K.E. meter, checking the apartment for evidence of the ghost. "Gentlemen," he said now, "the strongest readings were in the hall out there. In the apartment itself, the only readings are near the door. While I'd hesitate to say the ghost has never come inside, he hasn't done it in a considerable time." He held the meter up against the door and it reacted faintly. "You see. Residuals only." As he moved the meter toward the interior of the apartment, the device stilled.

There came a thunderous knocking at the door.

At that, Egon's meter reacted again. He aimed it at the door, and the beeping and blinking intensified.

"It's out there," Egon said.

"At least it's kinda polite," Winston remarked. "Most ghosts don't knock. They just come right in."

"How do you want to handle this, Spengs?" Peter asked.

"Power up your throwers and I'll open the door. It's a class three, as I suspected from Mr. Welton's description. I'll have a trap ready. This should not be difficult."

So it proved. When the other three men held their proton rifles at ready, Egon stowed his meter, took out his trap and opened the door. Three beams hit the ghost dead center before it could lower its hand from knocking. Egon let the trap fall beneath the ghost, who looked like a man in his late twenties in an old fashioned topcoat, a package in brown paper wrapping stowed under his other arm. "I want to come in," the ghost said.

"No way, pal. The guy who owns this place doesn't know you," Peter said. "Hit it, Egon."

The physicist stomped on the trigger release and the ghost slid into the trap, still calling, "I want to come in." The trap closed over his last demand.

"Easy," Peter observed.

"Gosh, Peter, what if he had a Christmas present for somebody?" Ray stared at the full trap in dismay. "He only comes at Christmas. What if he has a last present to give?"

"He can't give it here, Ray," Peter explained with some sympathy. "Whoever it's for doesn't live here any more, and we can't let him scare Mr. Welton's grandkids."

"I know, but.... Maybe we should have talked to him first."

"We can still do that," Egon said. "He's one of the most solid looking ghosts I've ever seen. I'd like to study him with my ectoplasmic monitor. You can ask him what he wants then. He'll be held in position, unable to escape back here."

"I agree with Ray," Winston said. "I think he had a Christmas present and he was looking for somebody to give it to. I feel like a jerk for trapping him."

Peter slanted a look at Winston, able to guess all too easily what the black man was thinking. Somebody else who won't be with his family at Christmas. He said quickly, "This guy's been coming around for years. And anyway, I don't think you can unwrap ectoplasmic presents. Whoever it was for might have moved to get away from him. Besides, it didn't have to be a present. It could have been his laundry or a roast from the butcher. Let's not get carried away here." He caught Ray's eye and tried to signal him by glancing at Winston.

Ray caught on right away, but he didn't look willing to give up. "I think we should ask him. You can study him, Egon, but we can talk to him, can't we? I hate busting class threes at Christmas."

Peter had never minded in the days before he'd come to like Christmas but in the last few years he'd come around to Ray's way of thinking. Of course just because the ghost had been a living person instead of a nether entity like Slimer didn't mean it was automatically a nice guy, but some ghosts showed up at holiday time because they wanted to see their families one last time. Like this ghost, they were more oriented to a place than a person, and sometimes, like Uncle Horace, they got a little confused. Uncle Horace hadn't known he was dead or even why he was lingering until he saw his niece and remembered he had wanted to say goodbye to her. Maybe this ghost had a similar purpose, though from the look of his threads he probably had been knocking for years with no luck. Most people weren't so calm about a ghost at the door as Mr. Welton was.

Reminded of their client, Peter went into his efficiency mode and presented the bill. Mr. Welton studied it, nodded and whipped out a Visa card, leaving Peter to fill out the form.

"I think we should help the ghost," Ray said to Egon. "Not just study it. It's Christmas, Egon. Maybe we can help him."

"You can talk to him in the containment field, Ray," Egon agreed. "But I agree with Peter. You can't assume the package he held was a Christmas present, and even if it was, it's no longer real, simply an ectoplasmic projection, something he evidently felt strongly enough about that it has become a part of his image in the afterlife."

"When I go, I'm gonna take my stereo with me," Peter said with a grin, giving Mr. Welton back his Visa card. "That way, I can have music while I wander the earth and haunt people like everybody who stiffs us on a bill and all the guys who still wear polyester suits."

"Ignore him," Ray told their client with a quick smile at Peter.

Peter stuck out his tongue at Ray and pocketed the invoice. "Come on, team. I want to get home before much more of that nasty sleet comes down." He removed his pack and put on his coat, and the others followed suit.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Welton," Ray called back over his shoulder as they started for the elevator.

*****

Once they left the building, they discovered the worst of the sleet had eased and now it was snowing. They scraped off the car and started home, and at the first stop light Winston grimaced. "Look at this. Snow on top of sleet? It's gonna be even slipperier than before. I hate this." He sounded nasty-tempered, and Egon spared him a concerned look before catching Peter's eye.

"And a big bah humbug to you, too," Peter teased, deliberately provocative in an attempt to win a smile from Zeddemore.

Winston favored him with a dirty look. "You want to drive, Pete? It's like dancing on butter. Not my idea of a good time. On top of that we have to bust a poor guy who only wants to be with somebody he loves at Christmas. This job sucks."

"We don't know that's what he wanted, Winston," Egon said sincerely. "However, we can try to find out while I'm studying him. I'm not entirely certain he was more than a classic apparition, a fixed repeater who had little awareness beyond the pattern he was reliving."

"He was more than a classic apparition, Egon," Ray argued. "Welton said he talked to him."

"But all he said back was, 'I want to come in,' Peter pointed out. "I don't think we'll be able to reason with him. You can't, not with that kind of ghost. He's not really conscious of anything, just repeating a moment in time."

"I hate that," grumbled Winston, braking carefully for an upcoming traffic light.

"We broke his pattern though," said Ray quickly. "Maybe he can talk to us. We can try anyway. Maybe we can help him disperse peacefully."

Winston looked skeptical and unreceptive, but then he concentrated on his driving and didn't enter the conversation again though Egon and Ray speculated about the ghost all the way back to the firehall. Peter thought about Winston. The ghost with his package seemed to have triggered all Winston's suppressed bad feelings about the holiday. Unless they could do something for the class three, Peter doubted Winston would settle down very happily until Christmas was over.

*****

"Didya get the ghost?" Janine asked when they climbed out of Ecto and shed their coats. "You were gone a long time."

"We got him right away," Ray replied, displaying the full trap. "It was the roads that took us so long. It's really slick out there. We saw four fender benders on the way back here."

"I'm not taking Ecto out again today even if the mayor calls to say Gracie Mansion is haunted," Winston snapped and started for the stairs. "That was not fun." He stomped up to the second floor. Ray looked after him sadly.

"Egon's gonna play with the ghost now," Peter said to Janine as she stared after Winston in surprise. "And Winston's gonna help."

"We might help the ghost disperse peacefully instead of putting him in the containment unit," Ray explained to Janine. "It was kind of sad. He had a Christmas present and wanted to give it to somebody, but they moved and the new guy didn't want him to keep coming around."

"We don't know it was actually a Christmas present, Ray," Egon reminded him, slotting his proton pack into the holder in the back of Ecto. "It could have been anything."

"Yeah, but he only came on December twenty-third and twenty-fourth," Ray insisted. "So it's gotta be a present. He had one last gift to give and never got the chance. I'm gonna go up and see if Winston's okay," he concluded and headed up the stairs, still carrying the full trap.

"I think it's sad," Janine said sympathetically. "And I bet Winston hated it. Poor guy, he's been trying so hard not to mind not seeing his folks at Christmas."

"Yes, he has," agreed Egon. "He thinks it's irrational, since he spent some time with them already and he wants them to have a wonderful trip. He's afraid he's acting like a child about it."

"We're all kids at Christmas, Egon," Peter said teasingly.

"Even you, Peter?" Egon lifted a questioning eyebrow, but his eyes were knowing.

Venkman looked mildly abashed. "Well, maybe the last few years. Anyway, why not? I just wish this ghost hadn't been like this. Winston was doing okay until then and I had all these plans for Christmas Day, to try to make it a good one for him."

"Don't put them aside," Egon urged, smiling at Peter. "It will still be good for him. And for you," he added knowingly as if he could read Peter's mind. Half the time Peter suspected he almost could.

"Oh well, I'm okay," Peter said offhand. "I mean, you guys are here and my dad even sent a card. That's gotta be a record, getting a card in time for Christmas."

"He did you one better than that, Dr. V," Janine spoke up. "He sent you a present." She gestured at a package on the corner of her desk. "It just came."

Peter tried to keep his utter delight from showing on his face, realizing he had failed when Janine and Egon shared a satisfied and sentimental look. "Go ahead," the secretary urged. "Open it."

"Not before tomorrow night," Egon interrupted, snatching the package. He felt it carefully. "On the other hand, I think it may be gift-wrapped inside. It might be better not to put a brown parcel under the tree. It will surely remind Winston and Ray of the ghost, and that would be a mistake.

Peter tore open the parcel enthusiastically to find Egon was right. The present from his dad was wrapped in garish purple and silver paper with a silver (and now squashed) bow. Janine took the package from him and fluffed up the bow automatically before Peter reached for it.

"No you don't, Peter," corrected Egon. "No shaking or rattling it. It's for tomorrow night. And though I know you've been sneaking a look at the presents under the tree when no one was watching, I hope you will pretend surprise tomorrow night when you open them."

"I don't have to pretend, Egon," Peter protested quickly. "I don't have x-ray vision, not even for that ten ton box you've got for me under the tree." His dad's gift felt like it might be clothes. But Peter didn't care what it was. The fact that it had come meant more to him than anything. He grabbed it from Janine, weighed it once in his hand, then he tucked it possessively under his arm and started up the stairs. "You coming, Egon?"

"Yes. I want to run tests on the new ghost."

"Ray's gonna want to talk to him, you know that, don't you?"

"Yes, though I'm not certain the ghost can respond to him. We won't know until we get there." He nodded to Janine and followed Peter up the stairs and watched him put the gift from his father beneath the big tree with all the other gifts. When Peter would have bent for a closer look, Egon grabbed his wrist and pulled him to his feet, steering him toward the stairs to the third floor.

They found Ray and Winston already in the lab. Ray had powered up the ectoplasmic monitor and set the coordinates already and had even positioned the trap. When they'd started all this activity, they must have got Slimer's attention because the little green ghost was hovering at Ray's shoulder telling him a long, involved tale that was nine-tenths incomprehensible but which seemed to indicate the spud was bored with having his insides studied and mapped. Ray assured him a different ghost would be used this time, which made Slimer retreat to the far corner of the lab where he hovered near the ceiling prepared to zip through if the new ghost proved frightening.

"Ah, you're ready. Good," Egon said as he followed Peter into the lab. "I'll run my tests while you attempt to question the ghost, Raymond. I admit, I'd as soon help him disperse peacefully if possible."

"Sure, once you've done your x-rays," Winston muttered. He glanced up at Egon immediately and said, "Sorry. Bad mood. I know it's not your fault, m'man."

"He sounds like you used to, Peter," Egon informed the psychologist in an undertone. Peter opened his mouth to protest he'd never sounded like that and then he realized he must have with his stubborn and occasionally sullen insistence that Christmas was merely another day. Egon and Ray had been pretty tolerant to put up with him so long, and not only to endure but to go out of their way to make sure his Christmases were the best possible. Peter surprised Egon with a warm smile then he turned to Winston and draped a casual arm around his shoulders.

"Okay, Zed, let's plan our campaign," he said. "Who better to question this ghost but yours truly, Silver-tongued Venkman."

"Is that another way to say 'long-winded Venkman'?" Ray teased.

"Long winded? I'm not long winded. I simply have the gift of knowing when to talk and what to say--"

"But not the gift of knowing when not to talk or when to shut up," Egon said, displacing Ray at the controls of his machine and adjusting them. Ray grinned at his remark.

"You wanna trash me too, Winston?" Peter asked hopefully. "Get in on the act?"

"No, they're doing pretty well on their own." Winston shrugged and slid away from Peter but he gave him a quick, apologetic look. "So let's do it. Let's give this guy a happy ending if we can." Peter could almost hear the 'Somebody deserves one,' that Winston didn't say. He was pretty sure Winston had told himself his attitude wasn't helping, and knew it logically. But logic didn't always work, especially at this time of the year. Christmas was hard for a lot of people, even those with families right on hand.

"That'd be great," enthused Ray. "Want me to open the trap?"

"Let me erect the defense field," Egon instructed.

"What defense field?" demanded Peter, struck by the ominous nature of this new term. "You didn't do that with Slimer?"

"Slimer wasn't attempting to escape either. All this will do is secure the ghost in the field while we finish our tests. It will contain a ghost as strong as class seven."

"Oh, good, so we can look at demon innards," Peter muttered. Many class seven were powerful demons. "No thanks. Just do it, Spengs."

Egon keyed open the trap and the ghost shot out, tall and erect, the package beneath his arm. He stood there blinking as if the light was too bright for his eyes, then as the trap closed and the field took over, he raised his hand and tried to knock. "I want to come in."

"Fixed repeater," Peter muttered instructively to Winston before he jumped forward. While Egon adjusted dials and noted results on the screen Peter leaned as close as he could to the field and said, "Why?"

"I want to come--" The ghost stopped and turned his head as if it were an effort to move at all. He blinked at Peter unseeingly a moment, then his attention steadied and he frowned.

"Who are you? Where is Celeste?"

"I'm Peter Venkman, and you're at Ghostbuster Headquarters. You've been knocking at a certain door."

"I want to come in. Celeste?" He turned, scanning the room, his eyes passing over each of the Ghostbusters in turn and rejecting them. "CELESTE!"

"Celeste isn't here right now," Peter said. "No, wait. I want to talk to you. Maybe we can help you."

"Yeah, we want to help you find out what happened," agreed Ray.

"Do you know what you are?" Winston asked. He still didn't look happy but at least he was interested in the ghost.

The ghostly head turned slowly in Winston's direction. He frowned. "I want to come in," he said, then he grimaced. "I--can't seem to think...."

"You've been knocking at that same door for years," Peter explained in a carefully gentle voice. "Every year at Christmas. You ask to be let in, and no more."

"I can't remember. I have to find Celeste." His face puckered with concentration. "I have to give her--to give her...."

"That present?" Ray asked, pointing. "Is that for Celeste?" He didn't want to use the G-word on the specter either.

"I have to find her. Give her....give her this present," the ghost repeated as if he were learning a difficult lesson. "Have to get there before Christmas. I--what day is it?"

"December twenty-third," Peter told him. "Nineteen ninety-two."

"Ninety-two?" echoed the ghost in disbelief. "No. It's 1946. Home. Finally home. Celeste...said she would wait."

"Forty-six?" Egon mused. "World War II would have ended the year before. Were you stationed overseas?"

"South Pacific," the ghost explained, taking time over each word as if he had to relearn speech. "Okinawa. Just discharged. Home for Christmas. Celeste.... I want to come in." His eyes widened. "Where is Celeste. Home for Christmas, no Celeste...." He bowed his head, misery etched upon the remarkably solid features. "...have to find..."

"What's Celeste's last name?" Ray prompted. "Maybe we can help you find her."

Peter wasn't sure that was the wisest offer Ray had ever made. If the ghost had looked for her in 1946, she was, at best, in her sixties. Probably long married, with children and grandchildren. Peter wondered if she had even waited the way she had promised. Maybe the ghost had looked for her only to find her gone, married to someone else. "What can you remember?" he asked instead. "Did you go to her house?"

"I was...I remember going. Walking. Cold. Snow on the ground. Ice. Christmas decorations, lights on the trees." He struggled to think. "Hurry, hurry, hurry. Surprise Celeste."

"Did she know you were coming?" Winston asked. "Did you telephone her?"

"No. Just got home. Plane. Idlewild Airport. Got a ride into Manhattan, took the subway..." He frowned, thinking it over. "Walk three blocks. Celeste. NO!" Abruptly he flung his arms up over his head and flinched. The 'package' beneath his arm went flying and vanished into the protection field as he ducked, then abruptly collapsed.

But before anyone could say something, he was straightening up, shaking his head as if in further confusion, reaching out and reclaiming the package that seemed to appear from midair at his fingertips. "Crazy driver," he muttered. "Lucky not hurt. Hey--leave me alone..." He grabbed at his coat as if to prevent someone rifling his pockets, then his shoulders slumped. "Celeste," he breathed. "I want to come in."

"What happened?" breathed Ray, trying to make sense of the pantomime.

"I think he was struck by a car," Egon said slowly, reasoning it out in his mind. "Possibly a hit and run. It was evidently a dark and snowy night. Maybe he wasn't even seen."

"Yeah, and then I think somebody lifted his wallet while he was lying there," Winston agreed, a tinge of bitterness lingering in his voice. "And I hate to say it, but I don't think he was ever identified. Celeste didn't expect him. Maybe he didn't have any family." He made a gesture compounded of frustration and pain. "That sucks."

"Yeah, it sure does," agreed Peter. "Hey--uh, what's your name?"

The ghost blinked at him. "PFC Barney Fellows," he said automatically. "Nope. Just plain Mister. No more army chow, no more orders, no more stupid second looeys who don't know the time of day." It came so easily it must have been a familiar complaint.

"Barney," Peter said. "Hey, Barney, where does your family live?"

The ghost shook his head. "No family. Just Uncle Milt out in Portland, crazy old bastard. Haven't seen old Milt since I was six. Just Celeste. I want to come in."

"Did you go to her door?" Peter tried.

"Father opened it," replied Barney. "Looked at me like he didn't see me. I want to come in. Wouldn't listen. Slammed door. Celeste! Celeste! Doesn't hear me. Doesn't come. I want to come in."

"Oh, gosh, that's awful," mourned Ray. "He didn't know he was dead and he went over there, and they couldn't see him. It probably took him time to learn how to be visible, or maybe it's because the ambient ectoplasmic energy level is higher since Gozer tried to break through. It must have seemed like they shut the door in his face."

"I want to come in," repeated Barney.

"So does he know he's dead?" Winston asked in a stage whisper.

Peter frowned. "I'm not sure he can reason that far. His entire awareness is focused on getting to Celeste. He can answer questions, but I don't think he can reason very much. He's not entirely conscious. Halfway between a regular apparition and the kind that know what's going on."

"Should we tell him?" Winston asked. "At least that way he wouldn't have to think Celeste stood him up without even a 'Dear John' letter."

"Yeah, but it would be traumatic, too. I bet you're right, Winston, somebody mugged him for his wallet. Maybe he wasn't even dead then. Maybe the cold did it. And when he was found, there was no way to identify him. I bet it was a lot harder to identify people back then."

"When the military had records of his fingerprints?" Egon asked in surprise.

"I bet they found him down in the gutter, no wallet, and thought he was a wino or something and didn't try very hard," Peter said. Things like that happened. Of course maybe he was identified later, but that wouldn't have helped him if his ghost didn't understand. He had probably tried to go to Celeste that same night. She wouldn't have known and her father couldn't have seen him. "He doesn't seem to hear us unless we're talking to him directly. But I don't think he'll be able to disperse unless he can find Celeste or at least find out what happened to her. And I sure hate the thought of sticking him in the containment unit after everything he's been through."

Ray leaned closer to the ghost. "Barney? My name's Ray. We want to help you find Celeste. What's her last name."

"Rodman. Celeste Angela Rodman," Barney replied.

Winston grabbed the Manhattan white pages and flipped through the pages, then traced down a column with his finger. "No Celeste Rodman. Hey, Barney, what was her dad's name?"

"Jacob."

"No Jacob either."

"Well, you didn't expect it to be easy. Old Jacob would probably be pretty decrepit by now," Peter said. "Maybe in a nursing home or living with one of his kids if he hadn't already bought the big one. Or they could have moved away. Barney? Did Celeste have any brothers and sisters?"

The ghost concentrated. "Yes. Betty. David. Younger. David was a brat and Celeste used to tell me about him in her letters. Reading her diary. He was twelve when I went away."

"Okay, say he went around '42 or '43," Peter theorized. "The kid brother would be in his late fifties. Any Davids in there, Winston?"

"No, but there's an Elizabeth. Suppose that could be Betty?"

"Only one way to find out." Peter headed for the phone on the lab table. "I'll call and see."

"And what will you tell her, Peter?" Egon asked. "She'll find it strange the Ghostbusters are calling her in the first place."

"True," said Winston with stubborn determination, "but we gotta try. I think even now Celeste would want to know Barney didn't dump her and not bother to come back. If it were me, I'd want to know, even if I got married later. Besides, if we can find Celeste, I bet we can get Barney to disperse peacefully." He folded his arms across his chest over the phone book and faced them down, an implacable expression in his eyes.

"You'll find Celeste?" the ghost asked so wistfully that even Peter felt a tug of sympathy for him. He looked at Ray, who was watching the ghost with wide-eyed pity and then at Winston, who wasn't about to give an inch.

"We'll sure try," Peter promised. "I'm gonna make some phone calls."

He was aware of the ghost's eyes upon him as he picked up the phone and dialed the number Winston gave him. It rang three times then it was picked up. "Hello?"

Peter started his spiel. He was looking for a Betty Rodman who had a sister Celeste. The person on the other end of the line said shortly, "Wrong number," and hung up.

Peter grimaced. "Wrong Rodman. Give me another number, Winston."

The black man read out the next one. "I'm starting at the top of the list. It's an Albert Rodman. Maybe he's a cousin or something."

He wasn't. Neither were the next three people Peter called. He should have expected such a thing, but it was still disappointing, especially when some of the people were rude. One very young voice offered Peter a Merry Christmas but said very positively her mother was Sally and her dad was Bill and she didn't have any Auntie Celeste or Betty.

"This one might work," Winston said. He was still determined to find the right person, but each wrong number seemed to add to his general lack of enthusiasm for the whole Christmas scene. "It's an E. Rodman. Maybe Betty never got married. Give it a try, Pete."

"Sure, why not." He dialed the number Winston offered. Egon looked up from his screen where he'd been taking readings of Barney all this time, and let his gaze rest on Winston. He must have heard the growing depression in his voice, too.

The person who answered was a woman. She said briskly, "Rodman residence," and waited.

"I"m trying to track down a Celeste, Elizabeth or David Rodman," Peter asked, falling into his line. He was perfecting it by this time. The voice had a definite middle-aged edge to it. The right age to be Betty, anyway.

"Yes? My name is Elizabeth, but I don't think I'm the one you're looking for. Who..."

"I want the he Elizabeth Rodman who is daughter of Jacob Rodman with a sister Celeste and a brother David," Peter explained.

"Who is this?" Suspicion crept into her voice, but she hadn't hung up on him. Maybe that was a good sign.

"My name is Peter Venkman," he admitted, disappointed. "I'm trying to track someone down due to a complication at my job."

"Venkman! One of the Ghostbusters? I saw you on television last week on the David Letterman Show. This is amazing. You had your little green ghost with you and he did tricks. Letterman didn't know what to make of you." She chuckled, hostility vanishing, and Peter wasn't sure if she were a fan of his or of Slimer's, horrible thought. "What can I do for you?"

"I was looking for a Betty Rodman."

"Oh, cousin Betty. That's who I thought you meant but I didn't want to give out information to just anyone. You want my uncle Jake's daughter. A complication of your job, you said? Don't tell me Uncle Jake is haunting somebody."

"No, not to my knowledge. Actually, we're not looking for Betty. We're looking for her sister Celeste."

"Celeste. Oh my gosh. The Ghostbusters looking for Celeste. But she isn't dead. That's crazy."

"Where is she, Ms. Rodman?"

"I haven't talked to Celeste for twenty-five years," Elizabeth said reminiscently. "Now that's strange, isn't it? But we were never close as kids. I was David's age. After he died in Korea I lost track of that branch of the family."

"Then you don't know where to find her?"

"No, I didn't say that. She married. She was supposed to marry some guy who was in the war but he never came back. The army said he did, but he never looked up Celeste again. She waited, kept saying he'd come back but he must have had second thoughts or something. It broke her heart. Even David didn't tease her about it. I haven't thought of that in years." Peter felt a surge of triumph. It sounded like there might be a chance for Barney and Celeste to work out their differences even if it couldn't be the traditional happy ending. At least the hurt feelings and misunderstandings could be smoothed out.

"Where is Celeste now, Ms. Rodman?" Peter asked, gesturing at Winston and Ray to keep down their exclamations of relief and enthusiasm. Winston was actually smiling at the thought of Peter's success.

"Why, right here in New York, Dr. Venkman. She married a policeman, a nice fellow, steady work, and they had four kids. Or was it five? No, four. Her husband's name is Mike Flannery and last I heard they lived somewhere over on West 90th, but of course they coulda moved. No wait. I got a Christmas card a couple years ago from Betty and she said Celeste and Mike were still at their same place. I always meant to look her up but I never did."

"Thanks, you've been great," Peter praised her. "We really appreciate this."

"But why..."

"Ask Celeste," Peter urged. "It would come better from her. She'll tell you about it."

He hung up, grinning a mile wide. "She's here. She's married to a Mike Flannery, somewhere in the West Nineties."

Winston flipped pages eagerly. "This is great. I never thought we'd track her down." The success of the call had bolstered his spirits a little. "Now if only she's home and not out of town with her kids for the holidays. Here's the number." He read it out and Peter jotted it down.

"Wait a minute, Peter," interrupted Ray. "How do you want to handle this? It's going to be a real shock for her to have us call out of the blue like this. She might have a heart condition or something. I think we should go up there."

"All the way to West 90th in the sleet?" Peter asked without enthusiasm. He could understand Ray's point, but he didn't want to trek out in the cold, even for Barney, if the lady wasn't home in the first place.

"It's for Christmas, Pete," Winston reminded him, favoring him with a stern look. "We can do it."

"Okay, but let's make an appointment first," Peter said. "No point in going out in all that," with a gesture at the window, "if we don't have to."

"Call her, Pete," Winston urged. "I want to work this out. It won't feel right if we have to put Barney in the containment unit. He deserves to see Celeste this Christmas."

So Peter dialed the number. He could hardly refuse that plea, not when it meant so much to Winston. Besides, Peter had become involved himself. He felt sorry for Barney who had gone all through World War II and then come home to be the victim of a hit and run accident. It wasn't fair. Anything the guys could do to resolve his situation, Peter was up for it.

After a few rings, a woman answered. "Hello? Mike? What time..."

"Mrs. Flannery? This is Peter Venkman, of the Ghostbusters."

"Who? Of the what? The Ghostbusters? We don't have any ghosts here, Mr. Venkman. Are you sure you have the right number?"

The voice sounded strong and alert. Peter hesitated. "I do if you're Celeste Rodman."

"That was my maiden name," she agreed in surprise. "What is this about? You're upsetting me."

She sounded confused and alarmed rather than really upset, so Peter decided to go on a little more. She would certainly never let them visit without further information. "Mrs. Flannery, this is a strange situation. We captured a ghost today at your old home on Delancey Street."

"Really? How interesting." She sounded as if she meant it instead of making polite chitchat. "You mean my father? But how can that be? He died in Cleveland. This isn't a trick, is it?"

"No trick, Mrs. Flannery. Would it be possible for us to come over there now? We'd try not to take too much of your time, especially since tomorrow is Christmas Eve."

"That doesn't matter much to me, Mr. Venkman. Christmas is my husband's holiday. I don't celebrate it any more. Oh, I go to church with him, because he expects it, and I buy the gifts, decorate the tree and all the trimmings, but Christmas--well, it's an excuse for people to commercialize everything. It's not like it used to be."

"You know, Mrs. Flannery, I didn't used to like Christmas much either," Peter said thoughtfully as he heard the note of old bitterness in her voice. "But then I realized Christmas was a special time because I've got my friends. Did you--lose someone at Christmas time?"

She was silent a moment, then she said sharply, "Is this a trick? Did Mike put you up to this?"

"No trick. I wouldn't lie to you. We want to help you if we can."

"Well, you can't. No one can. Oh, don't get me wrong. I love my husband and my children and they don't know how I feel about Christmas. I can pretend with the best of them, and sometimes, when the grandkids are here, I even like it a bit. But I just can't forget--" Her voice broke off in stunned surprise. "I can't believe it. Here are you a total stranger and I'm babbling on about that Christmas. The Christmas when...." She drew a shaky breath.

"The Christmas when Barney didn't come home?" Peter asked very gently. He hadn't meant to do it on the telephone but the opportunity had presented itself and he couldn't let it sail past. She would never open up like this again, not without a lot of hard work. Peter had to grab the chance while he had it.

She gasped in stunned disbelief. "You can't know that. You can't. Unless--oh, dear god, you said you had a ghost there. Not Barney! Barney can't be dead! I always told myself I could bear it if he was happy, wherever he was. He isn't dead?"

Peter gave himself a hard mental kick. Nice going, Venkman. "I'm sorry," he began.

She braced herself. "Is it Barney? Just tell me that."

"Yes," Peter admitted carefully, though he hated doing it. He knew how it felt to have his illusions shattered; his father had done that for him all those Christmases when he was a boy. Now he was doing it to a total stranger who sounded like a nice lady, and who didn't deserve what was about to happen. Peter's shoulders sagged. Egon noticed and edged closer to give Peter support as if he'd guessed what had happened and Ray looked worried.

"Barney's dead? He's a ghost? He--did he tell you about me? How did you find me?"

"Yes, he told us. And we found you because we started calling all the Rodmans in the phone book and found your cousin Elizabeth."

"Lizzy? That snob?" She caught herself and her voice changed, firming up with determination. "I want to see Barney. Should I come there?"

"Or we can bring him to you," Peter volunteered.

"I want to see him. I want to know why he didn't come home like he promised. He never broke a promise to me except that one, the most important one. I have to know. Please. Bring him quickly."

Peter agreed to it, jotted down her address and hung up. "She still remembers him, and I think she's still hung up about him," he said. "Even after all this time. She wants to see him."

"Great," enthused Ray. "We can go right over. Do you think it'll be okay, Peter?"

"I don't know. It sounds like she never forgot him though."

"Celeste. You talked to Celeste." The ghost suddenly sounded more alert. "I want to see her."

"You will," Peter assured him. "But there's something you ought to know. We told you what year it was. Do you remember?"

"Nineteen ninety-something." The ghost hesitated. "I--died. That's what happened. The car...the man who stole my wallet...I...her father couldn't see me because I was a..."

"A ghost," Peter told him gently. "Yes. But you can see Celeste and you can talk to her, just like you're talking to us. She's aged, but she still remembers you. It's what both of you need because she never forgot you either. We'll take you in the trap, the way we brought you here. Do you remember that?"

Barney nodded. "Yes. I can remember some things. But before--all I could think of was finding Celeste."

"And now you're gonna," Winston put in, beginning to smile. "Okay, guys, let's pack it up. And I'm driving. I wouldn't trust Ray behind the wheel. We'd wind up through the front window of a store, the way he handles the wheel."

"I'm a good driver," Ray defended himself but without heat.

"Uh huh," said Winston skeptically, reaching out to ruffle Ray's hair. He seemed in much better spirits than he had before, and Peter exchanged a relieved grin with Egon.

"So did you get your research all done, you mad scientist?" he asked, returning with him to the control panel and leaning his elbow against Egon's shoulder.

"Yes, it's fascinating, Peter. He's much more solid on the outside than Slimer. We should in fact be able to touch him as if he were alive."

"And not get slimed?" Peter asked suspiciously. "I'd hate for Celeste to get slimed. She seems like a great lady."

"No, I don't believe she'll be slimed," Egon replied. "This is most fascinating, Peter. The strongest portion of Barney's form is his surface cohesion. Though he would not feel entirely solid, he would appear firmer than most ghosts. Perhaps he compensates for this by maintaining no internal forms. What this study has told me is that there is a considerable variant in the substance of ghosts. Until I study other ghosts of various classes to see if there is a consistent pattern, I will not be unable to formulate a valid hypothesis."

"Uh huh," said Peter in similar tones to Winston's of a moment before. "Right, Spengs. How about we wait for the twenty dollar lecture until we've reunited the lovers?"

Egon adjusted his sliding glasses into their proper position on his nose. "Well, if you say so, Peter," he replied, sounding a little disappointed.

"It sounds great, Egon, but we've got something else we need to do first," Ray put in. "Barney, we're going to put you back in the trap now. We'll take you straight to Celeste. But you've got to remember, for her a lot of time has passed."

"I want to see Celeste," Barney insisted and went willingly into the trap.

"I think we should tell her what happened to him first," Winston suggested. "Because he's not exactly the most coherent ghost I've ever met, and it might make it a little easier for her to see him." He shrugged. "Guys. Sorry, I've been such a jerk the last day or so. I know it's stupid, but I just couldn't seem to stop."

"It's okay, Winston," said Ray quickly. "After all, Peter's a jerk a lot so we've had plenty of practice putting up with it."

Peter stuck out his tongue at Ray. "Ignore the boy wonder," he said. "But he's right. It's okay. It's tough not having your family at Christmas."

"But we already had our Christmas," Winston said, almost as if he was arguing with himself over an issue he felt needn't matter. "It shouldn't make any difference and I'm really glad for Mom and Dad."

"Yeah, but it'll still feel funny not to see 'em," Peter said, understanding in his voice. "You always do, so that makes it harder."

"Yeah, the only time I wasn't with them on Christmas was when I was in Nam." He shook his head, his eyes darkening with memories, none of them pleasant by the look of his expression. "We tried to have a good Christmas there, but it didn't take. Especially when we got shelled right after midnight. Not my idea of a good Christmas."

"You never talk about Vietnam very much," Egon observed as he began to shut down his ectoplasmic monitor. "We've always been willing to listen."

"I know you would, guys. And I know you'd do your best to understand, but it's hard to understand when you haven't been there. I guess I wanted to keep those days separate from now. I'm not messed up about it like some guys I know. Charlie was there too, so we call each other if it ever comes back too strongly and talk it out. Besides, I'm a lot luckier than some of the vets. I've got a great job and the best buddies in the world." He grinned at them affectionately. "So I hope if I'm a jerk on Christmas day you'll put up with me."

"Of course, Winston," Egon agreed promptly, his voice full of understanding. "We haven't been annoyed with you. I hope you realize that."

"No, you've been great. And it's not as if I'm the only one. Your mom's out in California and Ray's aunt is in Paris, and Pete's dad is down in Florida somewhere."

"Yeah, but Aunt Lois takes off every now and then," Ray said surprisingly. "I'm sorry I won't see her but it's happened before. Besides, going over to spend the day with her is more for her than me, so she won't have to be by herself. I've got you guys and we have our Christmas, but she doesn't have any family in town and she'd be alone if I didn't go."

"My mother and I are not always together," Egon replied. "So for me, this is not completely unusual."

"And my dad and I never are together at Christmas," Peter said. He still minded that, but he'd learned to live with it, and Christmas with the guys made up for any lingering bad feelings he might still have. "Well, a couple of years ago he showed up and it was great, but this year his card came on time and he even sent a present."

"Hey, great, Peter," enthused Ray, ready to enter into the spirit of the occasion. "I didn't know that. What is it?"

"Egon wouldn't let me open it," Peter said pointedly, favoring the blond with a look of pretend annoyance. "Not till tomorrow night."

Winston laughed. "I can't wait to see what it is," he said. "Knowing your dad it's bound to be something, well, different. Come on, guys, let's take Barney over to Celeste's. I don't know about you characters but I'll feel a lot better if we can give 'em a happy reunion."

The drive wasn't quite as bad as their earlier call had been. Enough snow had fallen that it gave Ecto traction and rush hour was over. The roads were still unpleasant, but conditions were not as dangerous as they had been when the Ghostbusters had been out before. Winston grumbled a little about people who lived all the way on the Upper West Side but it sounded like normal grumbling, without any underlying bitterness. Peter knew he'd still be a little disappointed when Christmas day arrived and his folks were on the high seas instead of New Jersey, but that was normal. Peter was determined this would be the best Christmas the guys had ever had. He was sure that would help. He could hardly wait.

*****

Celeste was still a beautiful woman though her hair was white now. She had the kind of bone structure that would keep her beautiful until the day she died, elegant high cheekbones and a firm chin. Her eyes were vivid blue, all the more dramatic against the snowy white of her hair. She must have been nearly seventy, but she was straight and upright and not even very wrinkled. She ushered them in, an eager expression on her face that faded when she saw no trace of Barney.

"You said you'd bring Barney," she reminded them when Peter had introduced them to her. She gestured them in and took their coats. The apartment was bright and modern with a big Christmas tree in one corner of the living room, beautifully decorated, with many presents under it. Perhaps her husband had decorated it. He wasn't in evidence though.

"We did." Ray held up the ghost trap. "But we wanted to talk to you first and explain what happened. Do you know much about ghosts?"

"No, of course I don't. I have never seen one, except occasionally on television when one of your, busts is it? is covered. Will he be...frightening?"

"I don't think so," Egon replied. "He was not frightening to us, though of course we're accustomed to ghosts."

Peter elbowed Egon in the ribs before he gave her a lecture about people's attitudes toward ghosts, and urged her to a chair. "You waited for Barney that Christmas long ago," he reminded her. "You thought he'd decided not to come home, but that was wrong." He sat beside her on the sofa and reached out to pat her hand. "This is going to be hard for you to hear. Would you rather wait for your husband to be here before we told you?"

"He's gone out to LaGuardia to pick up our daughter Cheryl and her two boys. He won't be back for an hour or so. Besides, I'd rather hear it when he isn't here. He knew about Barney, but it was before I met Mike and doesn't really involve him. I want to know now."

Peter nodded. Catching the other guys' eyes, he saw them give their tacit approval. Egon gestured for him to go on. So Peter braced himself for the difficult task and plunged in. "Barney tried to come to you that Christmas. But he was killed on his way to your house. He was hit by a car. Maybe they didn't see him in the snow or maybe they panicked and left him there. Somebody came along and stole his wallet, so when he was found, he wasn't identified. I don't know if it was in the newspapers or not, but you weren't thinking in terms of a missing person. You were thinking of someone making a conscious choice not to come to you. So even if you saw an article about an unidentified person, you probably wouldn't have thought of Barney."

Tears ran down her face and she clutched her hands together, her knuckles whitening. "Oh, how terrible. All this time I've been so bitter, and he couldn't come. Poor Barney, so young, and it was all cut short." She hid her face in her hands and wept.

Peter had been afraid of this, and he felt like a creep for upsetting her. He'd always had a fondness for little old ladies; he still visited Mrs. Faversham on a fairly regular basis and had dropped by her place yesterday to take her a big box of candy for Christmas, and a box of other goodies, including a lot of extras for a nice dinner. Sharing an unhappy look with the guys, he put his hand on her shoulder. "He always meant to come home to you," he assured her. "He's still trying. He's been going to your old home every year at Christmas, knocking on the door and wanting to come in. Looking for you. Some ghosts who die with something unfinished can't rest. They try over and over to do what they feel they have to do. Barney has been doing that. He didn't understand how many years had gone by. But every year at Christmas time he zipped over to your old apartment and tried to find you. He loved you very much and still does."

She lifted her head at that, her eyes reddened. "It's so sad. Oh, poor Barney." She sniffled and took the kleenex Winston passed her quickly from a box on the table. "All these years," she said, "I've tried to hate him for leaving me, though I never quite managed it."

"You chose to hate Christmas instead," Peter said quietly with certain understanding given to him because of his own bad experiences. "It was easier for you than hating him, and you didn't have to wonder if it was your fault or if he'd found someone else. You could say Christmas was only another day and it didn't matter."

"How did you know?" she blurted out, staring at him in astonishment. "I thought I hated Christmas because he didn't come, but all these years, I've hated Christmas, so I wouldn't have to hate Barney. I didn't even try to change until my grandchildren started coming for the holidays and I wanted to enjoy it with them. Something always held me back. I finally realized what I had done to myself, but I didn't believe I could ever do anything about it." She gazed at Peter in disbelief though her eyes flashed with gratitude at his understanding. "I still don't know if I can."

"Do you think you can bear to see Barney?" Peter asked her. "He can't rest until he sees you. He has to tell you he always meant to come home to you. He needs it for completion."

Egon stepped in. "We've found that certain ghosts must have a resolution of their problems in order to disperse to a higher realm," he explained. "Without it, they are doomed to wander the earth. When we find ghosts like this, we try to help them, and in Barney's case, seeing you might make the difference. But you might find it difficult."

She shivered. "I'm afraid of seeing him. But I can't deny him his eternal rest." Her eyes glittered with more tears, but she wiped them away. "I wouldn't do that to an enemy, and I loved Barney very much. Please, let me see him."

"Okay," said Ray, holding up the trap. "He's in here. This is how we capture ghosts. But he can come out again. I'll open it now. Just remember, we're here if you want us to stop."

"I won't," she said. "Please. Do it."

Ray keyed the trap open and Barney appeared, suspended in the trap's field, then the doors slid closed and he hovered there, his feet inches above Celeste's thick carpet, his package clutched under one arm. He blinked, looked around in a daze and raised his hand as if to knock.

"Barney!"

Celeste's voice cut through the motion and stopped it. The ghost stiffened as if he had been struck and whirled, turning his regard upon the elderly woman. For a moment, he didn't seem to recognize her at all, then his eyes widened and his face glowed. "Celeste," he breathed. "Still beautiful. I knew you would be." Seeing her made him sound more coherent than he had in the lab.

"Barney! You're just the same, just as I remembered you." She struggled to her feet and walked toward him, holding out her hand, but at the last moment, she pulled it back. "Can I touch..." Her voice was doubtful, afraid.

"Yes, of course," Egon said promptly. "We ran tests. He will not feel quite solid, but you can touch him. It's all right."

Her hand came forward again. The ghost watched it, his eyes enormous. Very slowly he raised his free hand, the one not holding the package, and took her slender fingers in his own. She gasped, but instead of pulling free, she raised her other hand and put it over his. "Barney, I didn't know.... No one ever found out who you were. I thought--I was afraid you didn't want me any more."

"I always wanted you," he said gently. "I never stopped. I was coming to you; it was the day before Christmas Eve. I had your present. See?" He freed his hand gently and held up the package. As if he realized for the first time that what he held was ectoplasmic, a gift he could never give, he heaved a vast sigh. "I'll show it to you. I bought it for you on Okinawa when I was stationed there." He tore aside the paper eagerly, revealing a smaller package, gift wrapped, and displaying a glimpse of the eager young ex-G.I. who had hurried home to his girlfriend nearly fifty years ago. "See? They didn't have any Christmas paper, but this paper is made from rice, they said. I thought you'd think it was pretty."

"It is," she said, tracing her fingers along the paper with designs of soaring cranes upon it. "I would have saved it all my life."

Barney opened the gift carefully as if to preserve the paper for her. The box underneath was plain and brown, but when he opened it, a necklace lay there, a golden apple charm upon a golden chain. "See, it's an apple," he said. "Remember how we would sing 'Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree With Anyone Else But Me'? I wanted to show you I remembered. It's real gold."

"It's beautiful, Barney. I would have worn it always." She traced her fingers along the ghostly length of chain and stroked the tiny golden apple, then she lifted her head and looked him full in the eye. "I waited five years," she said. "I didn't know what had happened. All that time I was so sure you weren't coming. I must have known, in my heart."

"I came. I looked for you," he said. "Christmas. Every Christmas."

"Oh, Barney, no. We moved. We were there the year you...died. Did you try to come then? Someone kept knocking on the door but no one was ever there. We couldn't see you. Was that you?"

"I don't know. I just remember coming to the door. I wanted to come in, but they never let me. I didn't know what I'd done wrong. But I kept coming back. Then there were strangers, always strangers, and I couldn't find you. I didn't know where else to go."

"Oh, poor Barney." She put her arms around him and held him, not like someone greeting an old lover but the way she might hug her own grandchildren. "It's all right. You found me. I understand. And I never stopped loving you. I want you to know that."

He returned the embrace, then he let her go and backed away. "You weren't alone?" he asked, worried. "I hope you were happy."

She nodded. "I married Mike. You didn't know him. He lived in the new neighborhood. He's a good man, Barney and he gave me three fine children. He even said I could name our first son Barney after you, but I didn't think I should. I didn't want to take away from the memory of you." She captured his hands in both of hers. "Oh, Barney, I'm so glad you came. I'm so glad to know."

"I looked for you. I always looked for you." He squeezed her hands tightly, then he backed away, looking mistier than he had before. "Now I must go," he said. "I can feel the pull. I love you, Celeste." He thinned still further, turned into smoke, and vanished.

"Oh, Barney," she sobbed, and Peter put his arms around her, holding her when she cried while the other three gathered around her helplessly. After a moment, though, she caught herself and drew away, smiling at the Ghostbusters. "Thank you," she said shakily, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "You don't know what this has meant to me. An old ache I always felt is gone now. I'm so sorry for what happened to Barney and I can't help wondering what would have happened if it hadn't been like this. But it was." She reached out and took each of their hands in turn. "Thank you. And now, I've got to pull myself together. Mike will be here soon with Cheryl and the children, and I don't want them to see me like this." Suddenly her face lit up and they had a flash of the vivid young girl Barney had sought for so many years. "Besides," she said briskly, "it's nearly Christmas and I haven't baked a single cookie. I don't know what Cheryl will think of me."

"Then you'll be busy," Winston told her. "But hey. If you want to talk about this later, don't hesitate to call us. We're used to this kind of thing."

"I just might," she said. Then, turning to Peter, "You've been so understanding, such a fine young man. I imagine your mother is very proud of you."

Peter kept his face level, remembering his mother suddenly and the way she had tried so hard, all those Christmases ago to make it mean something for him, and the way he still missed her. None of the others said anything but Egon's hand came out and curled itself around Peter's wrist and Ray shifted closer and leaned against his other arm. All at once, Peter found himself smiling. "I hope she is," he said quietly. "I hope she is."

*****

"That was really nice," said Ray as they headed back to the car. "She was a great lady. And now Barney can rest. I kinda wish we could find his golden apple on a chain though. I wonder what happened to it."

"Somebody snatched it, or else it's stored in a room someplace with unclaimed stuff," Winston theorized. "I wonder how long the police keep things like that, personal effects. They never found out who Barney was. You know what. I bet after Christmas we can find out where he was buried and see his name is put on the stone. I'd really like to do that."

"Yeah, and see if they still have the necklace," Peter agreed. "If it got snatched with his wallet or some official pocketed it along the way, how about we chip in and get one like it and send it to Celeste? I bet she'd like it."

"Peter Venkman spending money for someone other than himself?" Egon asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Gee, Egon, maybe I should take back those presents I got you," Peter threatened with a grin. "I mean if you don't expect me to spend money on you or Ray or Winston...."

"But you gave me empty boxes, Peter," Ray reminded him with a grin.

"Yeah, but the paper's pretty," Peter defended himself. "Besides, I had to put something under there or you would've taken back the things you got me, and I didn't want that to happen."

Ray bent hastily, scooped up a glove-full of snow and flung it at Peter. It exploded against his chest.

"Snowball fight!" whooped Winston, snagging some snow from the nearest parked car and lobbing it at Egon, who stared at it in total disbelief as it whacked him in the arm.

"They'll never grow up," he muttered to himself.

Peter grabbed up snow as fast as he could, throwing his first snowball at Ray and jumping Egon, laughing delightedly as he shoved the next one down the neck of the physicist's coat.

Egon didn't yell or argue. He just started making snowballs of his own. In moments they were plastered with snow from head to toe.

Laughing and triumphant, they flung themselves into Ecto-1 and headed south for home.

*****

The gift exchange on Christmas Eve proved a stunning success. The guys teased and laughed when Peter retrieved from beneath his bed the Santa hat he'd rescued from Winston's locker the other day and announced himself to be, "Santa Venkman, dispenser of goodies."

"Yeah, right, grabbing your own first," Winston objected, snatching at the hat, though Peter ducked away from him.

"No fair, Winston. I get to be Santa this year. I've had all those years watching the rest of you do it. Now it's my turn." He settled the hat more firmly upon his head then paused before the mirror on the back of the door and studied his reflection, tilting his head from side to side and grinning at the image he presented. "You know, I look pretty good in this thing."

"Quite vain, Peter," Egon chided, coming up behind him.

Ray pushed past with a grin. "I think we should go check the punch. Knowing you, Pete, it's pretty lethal."

"I'll do it," Winston volunteered, good-humoredly. He'd been a lot happier since they'd reunited Barney and Celeste, and even happier when a few phone calls had given them a lead in tracking down where Barney was buried. Given somebody sympathetic, they might even get his name on the stone. Peter decided if they could do that, they'd invite Celeste along to see it. As for now, he simply grinned at Winston's more cheerful mien. He'd probably miss his parents on Christmas Day, but Peter had big plans for the day, plans he'd secretly made more than a week earlier, plans he was looking forward to. He wasn't ready to tell Winston, though.

Unaware of Peter's thoughts, Winston slapped the occultist on the shoulder and steered him toward the stairs. "Come on, Ray, you can be guinea pig. Then once we're sure its safe we can go down and get Janine."

Peter had prepared his punch an hour ago and left it to sit and settle--and ferment. It wasn't as lethal as last year; Egon would probably feed him to one of the nastiest ghosts in the containment unit if he hadn't diluted it. He grinned as the two of them hurried down the spiral staircase, then he turned to Egon. "Ready, Spengs? I'm not sure how long we can keep Ray off the presents, and the only reason Slimer hasn't been at the punch yet is because he's hitting every Christmas party in the neighborhood and helping himself. Besides, I think Janine's got you something special and is dying to give it to you. Young love--it's great."

Egon made a face at him, then he sobered. "I think Winston is himself again," he observed. He reached out and grabbed the tassel of Peter's hat and tugged it lightly. "And I must say you've certainly entered into the spirit of the holidays this year, Peter. I don't think I've ever seen you so enthusiastic."

Peter dropped his gaze, a little embarrassed. "Come on, Egon, you know I like Christmas now. Besides Dad sent me something. On time for Christmas. That's gotta be a record."

"I think there's more to it than that," Egon said, quite serious, though his eyes were full of warmth. "I think it's because this year no one had to do something to encourage your Christmas spirit. This time, you've been helping other people. Trying to make sure Winston enjoyed the holiday, and of course we all enjoyed helping Barney yesterday. It's quite different when you can do something for someone else."

Peter didn't often let his more serious side show, but he did now. He reached out and clapped Egon on the shoulder. "It's a strange thing, Spengs. It's a lot more fun doing something for somebody else. Maybe it is better to give than to receive." He shrugged, waited a beat. "Nah. Not if you're gonna take back those presents."

Egon's eyes sparkled with unalloyed delight. "I wouldn't do that, Peter. I should hate to see a grown man cry."

Peter reached out and deliberately rumpled the blond man's elaborate coif. Egon promptly snatched off the Santa hat and returned the favor. Then, grinning at each other like a pair of idiots, the two of them spent five minutes side by side in front of the mirror, restoring their hairstyles to their satisfaction before Peter snatched up the Santa hat again and led the way downstairs. It was time for presents.

Everyone slept late the next morning, but Peter managed to sleep later than the other three. Not too surprising. He'd perfected the habit. When he finally roused enough to consider himself awake for the day, he lay there comfortably in the warmth of his blankets, listening to the rattle of still more sleet against the windows, glad he didn't have to venture out in the storm because it would take wild horses--or major bucks--to make him go on a bust on Christmas. He stretched and sat up slowly, savoring the aroma of cooking turkey and starting to hum along with the Christmas music that was playing softly in the background.

He grinned as he thought about last night's gift exchange, the four of them and Janine having a great time together, drinking the (just barely) non-lethal punch and eating the cookies that Ray and Winston had baked. Peter still remembered his amazement when he opened Egon's main present to him and found a leather-bound volume containing all of Peter's published psychology articles, his name embossed in gold on the cover. Egon had even tracked down the really obscure ones. The volume was thick and professional and would look really great on Peter's desk where clients could see it. He was really grateful for the trouble Egon had taken. Ray had been thrilled to find none of Peter's boxes for him were empty and several of them contained rare and out of print back issues of his favorite comics. Peter had sorted through all the collections when Ray was out, noting the numbers of the missing ones, and then he'd sent off letters to dealers all over the country. From the way Ray's face had shone, it had been the right gift. Winston had been thrilled to death to find himself signed up for a very prestigious and elaborate murder mystery weekend in upstate New York, the place that was booked well over a year in advance. It had taken all the guys pulling strings to squeeze him in, helped by the fact that Winston had written a few short mystery stories of his own and one of them had even been printed in the Ellery Queen Magazine. Ray had found a copy of The Physicist's Guide to the Afterlife, a rare book from the 20s that Egon had wanted for a long time. Though a lot of the material was dated, there was still useful information in it and Egon had read much of it in bed last night, alternately chuckling over something he had personally proven wrong, or sharing a bit of useful data with the others. Janine had loved all her gifts, especially the matching necklace and earrings Egon had given her, and old Spengs had professed himself delighted with the sweater Janine had knitted for him that was the exact shade of blue as his eyes. There had been a great many presents, every one personally planned, ever one appreciated.

Peter's father had given him a tee shirt he'd bought in Florida. It said, "My father went to Fort Lauderdale and he didn't even send me any ghosts to bust!" The shirt was a lurid purple with the letters in a vivid turquoise, and from the expressions of the other three, they weren't particularly taken with it except for Ray who proclaimed it 'really spiffy', but Peter loved it because his dad had taken the trouble to have it made up specially for him. He vowed to wear it around the firehouse, knowing he would enjoy it all the more because Egon would wince at the sight of it each time he saw it.

He put it on after his shower, slid into his sweat pants and stuck his feet in the new slippers Ray had given him. They had dinosaur faces, but at least they were the Jurassic Park version and not Barney. If there had to be a Barney for Christmas, Peter preferred the one they'd trapped two days ago.

The other guys were gathered around Egon's ectoplasmic monitor in the lab, while Egon read off long lists of figures that meant nothing to Peter but that evidently impressed Ray. "Wow," he exclaimed as Peter wandered in. "This is great, Egon."

"What's great?" asked Peter hopefully. "Does it involve breakfast or money?"

"No such luck, homeboy." Winston had been hanging over Egon's shoulder, studying the screen, and now he straightened up, bracing himself with a hand against Egon's back. "The turkey's in the oven but it won't be ready for another three hours, and nobody's offering to pay us for Egon's experiment. These are the test results on Barney."

"Yes, Peter," Egon said, turning. "It implies a ghost may have some say over its actual structure. Slimer eats all the time so he has developed the ectoplasmic equivalent of a stomach. Barney was determined to find Celeste and have her know him. His main form was concentrated on appearance, which is why he could appear so solid. I've long reasoned class threes and fours had some say over their appearance, even if it was a subconscious say. It depends on their perceptions and motivations. I think this will require intensive study."

"Motivations?" Peter asked. "That sounds like you want to put me to work. Ghost psychology. They didn't teach that class at Columbia."

"Maybe not," said Ray. "But you could teach it now."

The telephone rang. Four faces turned toward the nearest window where the sleet rattled away, then three faces fell. Peter brightened. "I'll get it," he volunteered and headed over there with a surreptitious glance at Winston. The black man had turned his attention back to Egon's notes. He was wearing the sweater his mother had knitted for him and seemed to have shed the dark humor that had dominated until Barney and Celeste had been reunited. Peter smiled fondly and snatched up the receiver. "Ghostbuster Central. Merry Christmas."

"Peter? Ed Zeddemore. This is the soonest we could get to a telephone. Myra's here with me. Can you call Winston?"

"You bet. He's right here." Peter had called Winston's parents before they had departed for the Caribbean and suggested they call on Christmas day if they had a chance. Peter had explained to Winston's father his feelings on the subject during that earlier conversation. "I think it'd really mean a lot to him if you gave him a call on the big day," Peter had told the older man. Big Ed had agreed instantly.

"As much as we're looking forward to sunshine and beaches, it's going to feel strange without our three boys on Christmas," Ed Zeddemore had replied. "We'll call each of them. But don't tell Winston about this call. It'll be one last present," Winston's father had concluded.

Now Peter passed the phone to Winston, careful to keep his knowledge from showing on his face. "Yo, Zed. Call for you."

Winston took it. "Hello? DAD!" His face lit like the sun.

Peter gathered the other two and led them out of the room."Come on, team. Petey wants breakfast. Let's let Winston have his Christmas call."

"You arranged that, didn't you?" Egon asked knowingly. "You thought it would cheer him up to talk to his parents today."

Peter nodded. "I knew it would. I didn't know we'd get to reunite lost lovers and all that. Let him have his call. But I've gotta have my breakfast or I'll keel over before the turkey is ready."

"Dinner is in three hours, Peter," Ray reminded him. "Don't spoil your appetite."

"You forgot to whom you were talking, Raymond," Egon reminded him. "I can't imagine anything short of Slimer sitting on his plate spoiling his appetite."

"Unless you cooked, Spengs," Peter teased, ducking when Egon pretended to swat him.

Winston joined them while Peter was consuming bacon and eggs and fending off Slimer and snatched a slice of toast before Peter or Slimer could get it. The little ghost cried, "Aw," and reached hopefully for the next one. Ray edged it closer to him and he gobbled it in one gulp.

Spreading butter on his toast, Winston dropped into the chair next to Peter, beaming in delight. "Dad said you reminded him he ought to call, Pete. Thanks."

"Any time," Peter said. "What's a buddy for."

The telephone rang again. Again the four men looked at the nearest window. "I'll get it," Ray said. "I'll tell 'em we don't take calls on Christmas and they can make an appointment for tomorrow." He headed for the TV area and the nearest phone. They could hear him talking eagerly for a minute, then he came back, and his face was suffused with delight.

"Aunt Lois?" Peter asked.

"No, she called yesterday afternoon when you were at the grocery store, and Egon's mom called last night, remember? It's for you, Peter."

"Me?" He was surprised. Maybe it was Marilyn, his latest girlfriend. She'd gone out of town for the holidays but maybe she was in a festive mood. He snatched up the receiver. "Hello."

"Peter, my boy. Merry Christmas."

"Dad?" he faltered, stunned. Spinning around he spotted Egon and Ray grinning knowingly and realized he wasn't the only one who'd done some conspiring about long distance phone calls for the holidays. He wondered what they'd done to make Charlie remember, and then he realized he didn't care. They'd done it, and his dad was on the line. "So what new scheme have you got running this Christmas?" he asked, sprawling in the nearest chair and preparing to be entertained. As his dad recounted a scam of monumental proportions Peter felt his smile spread across his face. Listening to Charlie Venkman's gravelly voice and watching the other three sitting around the table while Christmas music played on the CD player, Peter Venkman was a happy man. It didn't get much better than this.

Even when he returned to the dining room and discovered Slimer had scarfed down the remainder of his breakfast, he didn't really mind. Sure he chased the spud around the second floor a few times to keep his hand in, but he couldn't help grinning so broadly that even Slimer noticed and stopped trying to escape.

The little ghost circled back, flung his arms around Peter's neck and gave him a messy smooch full on the mouth. While Peter was spitting out slime and grimacing in disgust, the little ghost backed away again and said in his squeaky voice, "Merry Christm's, Peeeterrr."

Peter scrubbed his sleeve against his mouth then lifted his head, his smile a mile wide. "Merry Christmas everybody."

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