Humbug Holiday Read online

Frankie sat up next to me. We looked at each other.

  “Um, sorry about the tussle for the cookies,” she said.

  “Me, too, for the book,” I said.

  We looked around at where we were.

  “Do you want to say it, or should I?” she asked.

  I groaned. “In the spirit of sharing, I have to say it’s probably your turn. Go ahead.”

  Frankie drew in a sharp breath, then said it.

  “We’re in a book—again!”

  Chapter 3

  I stood up and peered through the fog.

  The blue light had faded and the zapper gates were gone. So was the crack in the wall we’d come through.

  “Well, so far, so weird,” I grumbled. “We’re totally in the book now. I hope it’s a good one.”

  Frankie scooped the thin red book up from the street. “And I hope it’s not too dark to read.”

  It nearly was.

  The street we were in was narrow, but the fog was so thick that we barely saw the buildings on the other side.

  “Okay, we’re in some city, probably at night,” I said. “An old city, with lots of old stone buildings. We’re definitely not in Palmdale anymore.”

  “Not likely,” she said, flipping open to the title page. “It says here the book was published in London. That’s in England.”

  “The birthplace of English class,” I mumbled. “It’s not present day, either. They have old-fashioned streetlights, which means they don’t light up much at all. All in all, it’s sort of a cold, gloomy place to put a Christmas story. I mean, hey. Where are the reindeer and snowmen and elves and presents for me?”

  In the distance, a clock was sounding out the hour.

  Bong! Bong! Bong!

  “Three o’clock? Is that right?” wondered Frankie. “It’s so dark.”

  “Dark or not, three o’clock definitely makes it snack time!” I said, reaching around to my backpack.

  But even as I did, a hand—a pale, white, very thin hand—darted out of the fog, grabbed my backpack right off my shoulder, and snatched it away.

  “Hey, you!” I yelled. “Lay off the chocolaty goodness of my cookies! Give that back—”

  But even as I tried to wrestle my pack free of the strange white hand—whoosh!—an icy wind swept around me and the hand was gone, and with it— fwit!—my entire backpack!

  I freaked out. “Frankie, it’s gone! Someone stole my backpack! I saw a hand! My cookies are in there! Who would steal cookies from a kid? Especially a kid who’s me? And especially at snack time—”

  The fog closed around us, leaving no trace of the thief.

  “Maybe the book tells us!” said Frankie “Keep looking while I read!”

  I scrambled up and down the cobblestone street, but it was so dark and the fog so thick I couldn’t see anything. I had to face it. Whoever took my backpack had escaped.

  I straggled back to Frankie. “Nope, he’s gone. Weird creepy hand. I didn’t even see the rest of him.”

  “If it even was a him,” she said.

  “Right. Huh? What do you mean?”

  Frankie was standing under a street lamp whose yellowy light cast a dull glow onto the book’s pages. “Devin, look at this. The actual title of the book is, A Christmas Carol in Prose, Being a Ghost Story of Christmas.”

  “A g-g-ghost story?” I said. “Are you saying that hand was … a … ghost hand? Mrs. Figglehopper and Mr. Wexler never said anything about ghosts.”

  “This story says something about ghosts,” said Frankie, looking up. “Devin, we’re in an actual ghost story.”

  I shivered. “I didn’t sign on for ghosts. A Christmas story, maybe, but no ghosts. I’m not a fan of ghosts. Ghosts haunt people. Which means they’ll probably want to haunt me. No, no, this is crazy. Who mixes ghosts and Christmas anyway?”

  “Charles Dickens does. He’s the guy who wrote it. Good thing it’s a skinny book. Maybe your backpack won’t be too hard to find.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Even a short book in this time and place didn’t seem all that inviting. The weather, for instance, was going to be a problem for California kids like us. It was cold, bleak, and biting everywhere we turned. We could hear people on the other side of the street go wheezing up and down the sidewalk, beating their hands together and stamping their feet on the pavement to keep warm.

  “I don’t like this,” I said, shivering. “Let’s read until we get to a good part. Preferably, the part where we find my pack, snarf down my cookies, jump through the zapper gates, and get back to Palmdale in time for a normal, ghost-free Christmas. You read first.”

  Frankie snorted a snort at me. “Good luck. The fog is too thick to make out the words. And you know what happens when we skip ahead.”

  I nodded. I knew.

  It’s one of the major rules of being in a book. If you try to cheat and skip ahead—even a few pages—everything goes kablooey. A big rip appears in the sky over your head and a huge lightning storm starts and you get tossed around until you crash-land in another part of the story. It’s not something you want to mess with.

  “Okay,” I said. “So if we can’t read, where do we go? And don’t tell me we go ghost hunting—”

  Frankie chuckled suddenly. “We go right there!”

  I peered through the darkness at what she was pointing at. Hanging not far away was a small sign.

  On it were the words SCROOGE AND MARLEY.

  “Ebenezer Scrooge is the funny name Mrs. Figglehopper told us about,” she said. “Devin, I think we found our main character. Come on. Let’s go listen to some English accents.”

  We made our way through the thick fog and up to the door. It was old and wooden, with a grimy pane of glass in it. I put my hand on the knob and turned it, sounding a small door chime—ding!—as we entered.

  Inside were two rooms. The tiny front room had a high desk in one corner. Behind the desk sat a small man in a faded coat, scribbling by candlelight in a book.

  When we entered, he lifted his face in a surprised sort of way. “May I help you?”

  “Hey,” I said. “I’m Devin. This is Frankie. We’re looking for a guy named Mr. Scrooge. Are you Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Marley?”

  The man’s expression turned puzzled. “Oh, I’m afraid Mr. Marley is dead.”

  Frankie and I looked at each other. We were thinking the same thing. Ghosts. Eeew.

  “In fact Jacob Marley died seven years ago this very night,” the man said. “Such a pity to die on Christmas Eve, of all days!”

  “It’s Christmas Eve? Already?” I asked. “Wow, zero shopping days left. The local mall must be crammed with people—”

  “Devin,” said Frankie, giving me a nudge.

  Then I remembered. People in the books we drop into don’t know anything outside their own stories. This guy had never heard of a mall. But looking at his faded clothes, I wondered if he did much shopping anyway.

  The man nodded kindly. “My name is Bob Cratchit, by the way.”

  “So,” said Frankie. “If you aren’t Scrooge, then who is—”

  “Cratchit!” a sharp voice shouted behind us. “What’s going on out there!”

  We whirled around and stared into the inner room.

  A thin old man sat at a large black desk. His features were sharp. He had a long, pointed nose and a narrow, wiry chin. His cheeks were all shriveled up, his eyes were red, his lips were thin and blue, and his voice was sharp and grating.

  When he saw us standing there, he jumped around his desk, growled like a bear, grabbed a ruler as if it were a sword, and charged at us!

  “Yikes!” I cried.

  “That,” whispered Bob Cratchit, “is Mr. Scrooge!”

  Chapter 4

  “Who are you two?” Scrooge demanded.

  “Frankie!” said Frankie, huddling on the floor.

  “Devin!” said me, huddling right next to her, “We’re here to—”

  “To steal my money!” said Scrooge, his eyes blazing.

  Bu
t before Scrooge could hack away at Frankie and me with that scary ruler of his, the outside door blew open and a voice called out cheerfully.

  “A merry Christmas, Uncle Ebenezer! God save you!”

  Scrooge screeched to a halt as a young man in a long bright coat, his face all in a glow, his cheeks all red, his eyes all sparkling, swept into the office with us.

  “Merry Christmas, Uncle!” he boomed again.

  Forgetting that Frankie and I were huddling on the floor, Scrooge stomped back to his desk, snarling, “Bah! Humbug!”

  Scrooge’s nephew laughed as he closed the door behind him. “Christmas, a humbug, Uncle? You don’t mean that, I’m sure.”

  “I sort of think he does,” I said. “He came at us with a very big ruler just now.”

  “I certainly do mean it!” said Scrooge, seating himself again. “Merry Christmas, bah! What reason have you to be merry? You’re poor enough.”

  “What reason have you to be so glum?” said his nephew. “You’re rich enough!”

  Scrooge didn’t seem to have an answer for that, so he just said, “Bah!” and followed it up with “Humbug!”

  Frankie turned to me. “Well, someone’s rude.”

  “That’s enough out of you!” Scrooge growled at her.

  But his nephew just laughed, helped us up, then pulled us both into Scrooge’s office with him.

  The old man narrowed his eyes at Frankie and me, then pursed his lips as if he’d just eaten something sour. “I’ve got my eye on you two, you know,” he grumbled.

  “It’s Christmas Eve,” said the nephew, pacing before Scrooge’s giant desk. “Don’t be angry—”

  “What else can I be,” replied his uncle, “when I live in such a world of nincompoops? What’s Christmas, but a time for paying bills without money? A time for finding yourself a year poorer? A time for—”

  “Presents!” I interrupted. “Christmas is a time for presents. And good food. And bunches of people cramming your house. And presents! And decorations and stuff all around. And did I mention presents—”

  The nephew laughed suddenly, but Scrooge’s eyes dwindled down to these beady black pinpoints and his fingers reached for the ruler again.

  “Okay, keeping quiet now,” I mumbled.

  Scrooge turned to his nephew. “If I had my way, every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips should be boiled in his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart!”

  “Brutal,” muttered Frankie.

  “Uncle!” pleaded the nephew.

  “Nephew!” returned the uncle sternly. “Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine!”

  “Ha!” Frankie blurted out. “But you don’t keep it.”

  Scrooge’s eyes flashed. “Let me leave it alone, then!”

  But his nephew wouldn’t give up. “Uncle, I have always thought of Christmas as a good time, a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time. It is the only time I know when people open their hearts freely to one another. It has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, but I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good, and I say, God bless it!”

  In the front room, Bob Cratchit leaped immediately from his stool and began to applaud. “Hear, hear!”

  Scrooge jumped up, too. But he didn’t start clapping. “You!” he shouted at Cratchit. “Let me hear another sound from you and you’ll keep Christmas by losing your job!”

  Cratchit shrank back to his desk and went silent.

  “Whoa, this guy just gets harsher and harsher,” I said.

  Frankie shivered. “No kidding. What a meanie—”

  “Don’t be angry, Uncle,” the nephew continued. “Come and have dinner with my wife and me tomorrow. We’re having a small party—”

  “Never,” said Scrooge, waving his nephew away as if he were a fly. “You’re wasting my time. Good afternoon.”

  “Please come,” pleaded the nephew.

  “Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.

  “Why can’t we be friends?”

  “Good afternoon!” said Scrooge.

  The nephew shook his head, but kept his smile. “Well, I’ll keep my holiday spirit to the last. So … a Merry Christmas, Uncle!”

  “Good afternoon!” said Scrooge.

  “And a Happy New Year!”

  “Good afternoon!” shouted Scrooge.

  His nephew left the room, and we followed him into Cratchit’s little cell, while Scrooge slammed his office door—blam!

  “Ah, well,” said the nephew, “I came here on a mission to my Uncle Scrooge, but it seems I’ve failed. Still, I may wish you all a good Christmas anyway. My name is Fred, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” said Frankie, shaking his hand and telling him our names. “Scrooge does seem like a sourpuss.”

  Fred nodded. “Ah, yes, but let’s not lessen our own spirits this Christmas Eve.” He turned to Cratchit. “How is Mrs. Cratchit and all the small, assorted Cratchits?”

  “Very well, sir,” said Bob.

  “And the littlest boy, which one is he?”

  “Tiny Tim, sir.”

  “Cute name,” said Frankie. “So I guess he’s small?”

  “Quite little, our Tim is,” said Cratchit.

  “And how is Tim?” asked the nephew.

  “We have hope he’s getting better, sir,” said Bob.

  I didn’t get what the problem was with the boy, but I could tell just by the way that Cratchit said that, that Tim wasn’t too well.

  The look on Frankie’s face told me she caught it, too.

  I had a sudden burning desire to read ahead in the book to see if we get to meet Tim, but I didn’t want to risk a story meltdown by flipping pages. Besides, my missing backpack might turn up at any second. I needed to be there when it did.

  Ding! The doorbell chimed when Scrooge’s nephew left, letting in the cold and, at the same time, two other men.

  “Merry Christmas!” one of them piped up.

  Blam! We turned around to see that Scrooge had opened his office door just to slam it again.

  “Is it something I said?” asked the man.

  “But all you said,” said the other, “was Merry Christmas—”

  Blam!

  I sighed. “Yep, it was something you said!”

  Chapter 5

  The two men were dressed in what I guessed were nice business suits of the time, much nicer than Bob Cratchit’s. They took off twin top hats and set them on his desk.

  While Frankie and I secretly scanned around for traces of my backpack, Bob meekly opened the door to Scrooge’s office, and the gentlemen entered.

  The first one glanced at a list he was carrying. “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Marley?”

  “Jacob Marley is dead,” said Scrooge, clutching his ruler again. “What do you want?”

  “Yes, well, Mr. Scrooge,” the second gentleman said, “at this festive time of year, a few of us are gathering some money to help the poor. Many thousands of people do not have proper food or shelter, you know.”

  What the man said sounded familiar. It was almost exactly what Mr. Wexler had said about the Christmas Banquet. I stopped searching for my backpack and listened at the door.

  Scrooge growled. “Are there no prisons?”

  The first gentleman sighed. “Oh, plenty of prisons.”

  “And the workhouses?” said Scrooge. “They are still open for business, I hope?”

  “Yes. But I wish I could say they were not.”

  “Good, good!” said Scrooge. “I give money to keep the prisons and workhouses in good order. Those who have no money or a place to live must go there.”

  I was shocked. Not only by the things Scrooge said, but by the way he looked when he said them. He had a smile on his lips. A cold, creepy smile.

  I realized then that I didn’t like him much.

  And he was the main character!

  “Many can’t go to the prisons and workhouses,” said t
he second gentleman. “And many would rather die.”

  “If they would rather die,” said Scrooge, “they should go ahead and do it! There are far too many people as it is. Now, gentlemen, I am busy. You know the way out!”

  The two men shook their heads, picked themselves up, and left the office without another word.

  “That was horrible!” said Frankie, storming into Scrooge’s office. “How could you talk that way?”

  “Horrible?” snapped Scrooge, that cruel smile still stuck to his lips. “On the contrary, it was excellent! I don’t know who you two are, but you might learn from me how it’s done!”

  “How what’s done?” I asked.

  “How you hold on to your money!” said Scrooge. “You see, you can’t share money. Once you give it away, you don’t have it anymore. It’s like … like …”

  Frankie whirled around to me. “It’s like cookies!”

  “Yes, cookies!” said Scrooge. “Once you eat one, it’s gone. Now, I suggest you be gone!”

  Blam! He slammed the door on us again.

  “Cookies?” I said. “You had to say that? So you think I’m like Scrooge?”

  “You’re not as grumpy,” said Frankie. “Or as stingy. But it is Christmas. And you didn’t share the cookies.”

  “It’s the chocolate,” I said. “It makes me crazy. Okay. I guess I should have shared my cookies with you, or given them to the school banquet thingy. I don’t know. But until we find my backpack, none of that is going to be possible. It’s not anywhere in this office. So what happens now?”

  Frankie didn’t have to answer. The clock did.

  Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! A deep, resounding bell rang seven times outside. If I know my math, seven chimes on a clock means seven o’clock. Somehow several hours had passed since we entered Scrooge’s office. It was now the end of the long workday.

  Bob Cratchit snapped down his feather pen, shut the giant book on his desk, and sprang up from his stool.

  “We’re closing now!” he whispered to us. “I get to go home! It’s Christmas Eve!”

  “Cratchit!” growled Scrooge as he snuffed the candles on his desk and came out to Bob’s office. “You’ll want the whole day off tomorrow, I suppose?”

  “If it’s convenient, sir—”