Author's Note: Originally published in A Small Circle of Friends 4. The premise of this zine is to take a plot from one TV series and rewrite it with the characters of another. I didn't use a series this time, but I used a Christmas animated special based on the For Better or For Worse newspaper comic strip. Very loose usage of that story line. I'm posting this in the middle of an August heat wave, so a Christmas story is something a little bit different.

'Twas the season to be jolly and for the first time in years, Peter Venkman wasn't. Ever since he, Egon, and Ray had founded the Ghostbusters business, since Winston joined the team, since their first Christmas busting ghosts, Peter had discovered the holiday wasn't so bad after all. Okay, so it had taken the help of the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Christmas Yet To Come and a visit back to Victorian England to shake him out of his traditional grinchness, but for the past few years, the holiday had meant a lot to him.

When Peter was a boy, his father had rendered the season melancholy by being away four Christmases out of every five, usually after vows and promises that 'this year will be different'. By the time he was ten or eleven, Peter had realized that he had two choices: to believe Christmas was not important or believe himself unloved by his adored father. He hadn't understood his motives as well back then, but he had courted a fine cynicism over the holidays, usually mellowing out only when his Mom produced his presents. As he grew older, he realized he was not the only one disappointed, but she carried on like a trouper and did the best she could for him. It was never enough for either of them.

Nearly losing Christmas had changed Peter's attitude, but it would never have been enough without the presence of his friends who went out of their way, just as his Mom had done, to make sure his holiday was the best possible. Ray, in particular, loved the Yuletide with his whole heart, even though his own holidays hadn't been as joyful after his parents had died. He'd spent the rest of his childhood alternating between relatives and foster homes. The experience had not dampened Ray's spirit, and Peter had watched him enviously in college, although he had never admitted it.

Egon in particular had gone out of his way to help Peter enjoy the holidays and Peter had tried for his sake and Ray's. The past few years had been so good they almost made the old ones seem a distant dream.

Until this year, when Peter's father had phoned Peter at the start of December and promised to come for the holidays.

"Can you and your Ghostbuster buddies put me up for the week of Christmas, Peter?"

Peter had lit up like the candles on a birthday cake. "You bet we can, Pop. When are you going to be in town?" Thrilled with his father's upcoming arrival, he had thrown himself into the decoration of headquarters with an eager delight, out-Raying Ray in his excitement about the upcoming holiday. Even Janine had been heard to remark that Dr. Venkman was much nicer than ever before, although she didn't say it to Peter himself. He didn't care. Fighting with Melnitz didn't even have as much appeal as usual. He loved mankind, even his secretary.

Then, a week before Christmas, Peter had returned from an afternoon's shopping expedition, his arms loaded with presents, to find Egon waiting for him at Janine's desk. It was past her quitting time, so she wasn't there, but something about the look on Egon's face stopped Peter in his tracks. He deposited his bag of gifts on the hood of Ecto-1 and advanced cautiously.

"Who's hurt?"

"No one, Peter, I assure you." The reassurance was hasty and automatic but Venkman could tell from the sound of his friend's voice that all was not well.

"What's wrong?"

"Peter, your father called."

Those four words hit like the snowballs kids had been flinging down the street, pelting against his chest with equal force. The lilt went out of Peter's walk and a ten-ton weight descended upon his shoulders, bringing back all the old bitter feelings he'd sloughed off since his first holiday as Ghostbuster. "He's not coming, is he?" he demanded in a small, tight voice, avoiding Egon's eyes.

Egon got up and walked around the desk, stopping when Peter held up a restraining hand. "No, I'm sorry, Peter. He's well, he's not hurt. But he won't be here for Christmas."

"Dreamed up a new scam, huh?" That had happened to Peter so many times before he had believed himself finally inured against it, but the pain proved he wasn't. How many times before had he faced the same anticipation, the same letdown? He couldn't even blame Christmas any longer. He'd had great Christmases the last five years. It wasn't the fault of the holiday, except that it was a great time for a con man to tempt the marks with new plots and schemes. What bugged him was his own stupid gullibility. His father had him thoroughly conned, all right. He fell for the old man's routines every single time. Pop had always said it was easier to run a con if the mark wanted to be conned.

"I suspect as much," Egon admitted. He had always been honest about his distrust of the older Venkman. "Peter, I am very sorry. I know how much his coming meant to you."

The psychologist felt his heart hardening, not against Egon in particular, but against everything. "No, Spengs," he said wryly. "I don't think you do."

But Egon proved he did. "This was the year he would make up for it all, wasn't it?" he suggested gently, concern, caring, and comprehension shining in his eyes.

"How do you do that?" Peter asked softly. Egon could always disarm him when he was hurt or angry, even more than Ray, who had a heart as big as the World Trade Center. For a moment, Peter reveled in Egon's understanding, then he felt the bitterness crowd in and push away any kinder feelings. "Thanks, but it's done," he said tightly. "Gonna go up and have a shower. The kids down the block got me with a couple of snowballs." He gestured at his arm and chest, where the remnants of their attacks had begun to melt. Abandoning the bag of presents on Ecto, he trudged up the steps, averting his eyes from the decorations he'd helped put up. The joy had gone out of Christmas this year.

The guys tried to help, of course. They rallied round him, walking a fine line between supporting Peter and not criticizing his father too viciously in his hearing. He knew they cared, that they resented his father's actions for his sake. He knew he was putting a damper on their own enjoyment of the holidays. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pull himself out of his funk. The guys were trying hard not to lose their tempers, impatient with his attitude in spite of their sympathy.

He didn't want sympathy. He didn't want to be pitied because his old man didn't think him worth keeping a promise. Egon's father might not have been a candidate for Mr. Warmth but he had loved his son and always treated him with honor. Winston's dad had been annoyed at his son's choice of career but there was little else to stand between them. And Ray's adored father had died but Ray had only good memories of him. On the Christmas day after the visit to Scrooge's place, he'd talked to Peter for an hour about his childhood Christmases and traditions, his eyes glowing with fond memories and an old sadness that didn't hurt as much anymore.

God, Venkman, grow up, he told himself two days later as he stood with the other three Ghostbusters on a hillside about a hundred miles north of the city. You've been through this before. You're just making sure you have another bad Christmas, and you don't have to. How great were Ray's Christmases after his folks died in the crash? He glanced over at Stantz, bundled up in his parka against the snow that fell gently in huge, plump flakes, a bright green cap on his head that was an early Christmas present from the girlfriend he'd met last month at Forbidden Planet. Ray had been trying so hard to make Peter feel better. No matter what curves life pitched at Ray, he found the heart to enjoy himself. Usually Peter envied that ability but, today, he resented it, too.

The ghost had appeared two days ago on the sledding slopes near the town of Jessup's Mill, popping out of a snowbank to frighten the children who hurried out after school to enjoy the wintry weather. It had been big and nasty looking, scattering the children who had fled in terror, and the town had hastened to contact the Ghostbusters for help. The snow had not begun to fall until they arrived in town, and Winston had muttered darkly about the trip back to New York. Jessup's Mill was little more than an hour north of the City but none of them liked the idea of an hour's drive home on snow-packed roads.

Egon stood at the crest of the hill, P.K.E. meter in hand, one mitten removed to adjust the dials. He wore a stocking cap that Ray's Aunt Lois had knitted for him last year, his twist of fair hair protruding from the front of it like the prow of a ship.. "I'm not getting anything yet, just residuals," he announced. "It's not here right now."

"Gosh, isn't this a great spot for sledding," enthused Ray, beaming at the sight of the snowpacked hill. "I wish I had a sled or a toboggan right now. We could have a few quick runs before the ghost comes. Wouldn't it be great?"

"That's not what they're paying us for, Ray." Winston's grin proved he wouldn't object to some sledding himself. There was a little kid inside most men. Egon had reminded Peter of it just last week when Peter had announced his plans to set up his electric train set and village to show off for his father.

He grimaced at the reminder. "Forget the sledding," he growled. "We're here to make money."

"We're here to make sure none of the kids get hurt," Ray chided gently. "Besides, I think it would be fun to go down the hill on a sled. Look at the way it curves. What a great run you'd get." He waved his hand away from the main side of the hill to a twisting path that disappeared between the dark evergreens. It was probably the path the older kids used, too dangerous for the younger children.

"I think you're supposed to go down this way, Ray." Egon pointed to the packed slope in front of him. Someone had left a sled standing on end, its runners jammed into the snow, near the easier slope.

"Where's the ghost?" Peter cut in impatiently. "Figures we'd have to come out here and stand around in a blizzard. Typical."

Egon waved a hand at the thick flakes that drifted soundlessly to the ground. "This is hardly a blizzard, Peter. In order for a snowstorm to be classified a blizzard, the wind chill must reach--"

"Can the meteorology lecture, Egon," Peter responded tightly. "Maybe it's not a blizzard but it's going down my neck. I'm cold, I'm getting wet, and it'll be dark in an hour. I want to bust the stupid ghost and get out of here, not turn into the Abominable Snowman."

"You know, Pete, you're already halfway there," Winston muttered sourly, at the end of his patience. "Why don't you rain--or snow--on somebody else's parade for a change. I've watched these guys bend over backward for the past two days trying to make it up to you because your dad isn't coming after all. I'm sorry for it; it would have been great for you. But you're not a kid. Live with it. Okay, you're disappointed, but don't kill Christmas for the rest of us."

Winston's common sense usually worked out but, this time, Peter just wasn't ready for it. "Thanks for your understanding, Zeddemore," he snapped. "When we get back to the city, I'll take my annoying self away to a hotel or something until it's over so I won't contaminate the magic day with my presence." Getting in waaaay over your head, Venkman, he thought, but the words wouldn't stop pouring out. Go to a hotel? He didn't want that. Talk about stupid. But he went right on backing himself into a corner.

"No, Peter," Ray cried in distress. "That's not what Winston meant. I know you feel bad about your dad, but you've liked Christmas the past few years. He never comes anyway. But we're here. You don't have to hate Christmas again."

"I don't hate Christmas," Peter replied automatically. "It's not Christmas that's the problem, it's me." No sooner had he spoken the final word than he would have given a fortune to take it back. He turned his head away so he wouldn't have to see the pity in their faces.

Egon didn't need another clue. "No, Peter, it's not you. You deserve a good Christmas as much as anyone. It's not your fault your father let you down. It doesn't mean you aren't worthy."

No, just that he never cared about me, Peter thought but managed to keep from blurting the words aloud.

"Egon's right, Peter," Ray said sympathetically. "I know you're disappointed in your dad, and I'd feel bad, too, but don't wreck Christmas for all of us. I'm sorry he couldn't come...."

"You never had to go through it, Ray," Peter snapped. This was crazy, taking his hurt feelings out on Ray. Heck of a way to clear the air. "You never had your father betray you."

Ray's eyes rounded with distress, and Peter saw a look there that he'd never seen there before. "Yes, I did, Peter," he whispered, lost in dark memories. Peter's mouth dropped open. That Ray would confess a moment from his own past to help him out meant a lot, but he didn't have to do it. If Peter wrecked Ray's Christmas he'd really feel like pond scum. All at once, his fuss seemed as childish and juvenile as he knew it to be. Time to bring this train to a halt before he derailed it entirely.

"I thought your parents were the greatest, Ray." Peter was completely shocked out of his own funk. "How did he betray you?" he ventured cautiously.

Ray lifted his head, his eyes too bright. "They died," he cried, the long-repressed unhappiness spilling out. Then, before Peter could move, he unfastened his proton pack and slipped out of it, passing it to Winston, who took it automatically. Grabbing up the abandoned sled, Ray pointed it at the steeper side of the hill. "I'll be back later," he said and flung himself onto the sled, swooping away before anyone could find the words to stop him.

"Wait, Ray, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." Peter started to go after him but Egon caught his arm.

"Let him go, Peter. He needs a little time alone."

"God, I'm a jerk," Peter groaned, feeling lower than an earthworm. "Going on and on like a baby just because Pop is acting like Pop. Probably reminding Ray with every word that he didn't have a dad to let him down. I deserve a good, hard kick." He shook his head, sending flying the snow that had begun to collect on his knit cap. "Kids tend to think that in the heat of the moment," he said. "Well, anybody does, really, that when somebody dies, that they've hurt you almost on purpose. It's a defense mechanism, in a way, but a tough one to live with. Mostly we grow out of it or work past it but there are still times when the memories get to you and it hits all over again. I ought to be neutronized for bugging Ray like that."

"You genuinely felt bad, Peter," Egon consoled him. "And with excellent reason. But you've come to your senses. We all saw it, even Ray. I think you'll be all right now, won't you?"

Peter bowed his head, ashamed. How many times had he forced the guys to deal with his own stupid hurt feelings? He hated that. He owed them all an apology. "Once I talk to Ray, if he's okay. I better go down after him. By the time I catch up with him, he'll have had a chance to unwind. Guys, I'm really sorry. I know it's the wrong time of year, but that's no excuse for laying all this crap on the three of you." He glanced sideways at Zeddemore. "I should have listened to you, Winston. You were right."

"And still am." Winston gave Peter's shoulder a companionable clout. "It's okay, Peter. You didn't hurt Ray, he just remembered those old days. But just--"

The ghost materialized without warning directly in front of them, cutting off Winston's words. "Yikes, there it is," yelped Peter, waving a hand at it, dislodging more of the snow that covered him.

With perfect synchronization, the three men drew their throwers and fired. The spirit was vaguely human, a Class 3, resembling an old farmer in bib overalls and a plaid flannel shirt. He made angry gestures at them to go away, waving his arms menacingly, his face full of furious resentment. "Clear out of here, go on, get off!" he shouted in a hollow voice. "You've got no right here. This is my property."

"Not any more, it's not," Peter challenged in return. "Hate to break it to you, bunky, but the dead can't own property in this state. This is where the kids come to play. You gonna be a Grinch and mess up their Christmas vacations?"

"Mine! Mine! Mine!" The specter loomed over them, ducking the streams. "Get away, get away. Mine!"

"So okay, he won't listen to reason," Peter called. "Blast him, guys." His stream shot out and caught the grumpy ghost, pinning him, struggling, in midair.

"Yahoo!" hollered Winston in triumph, adding his proton stream to Peter's. Egon threw out a trap beneath the ghost, since the two streams seemed to be confining Farmer Friendly, stomped on the trigger pedal, and sucked him in. The ghost screeched and protested all the way, his angry yells only ceasing when the trap snapped shut, sealing him inside.

"Well, that wasn't so hard," Peter remarked, buffing the front of his parka with his mitten-covered nails. "I hate to break it to Ray that he missed it. You know how the kid loves a good bust--or even an easy bust." He squared his shoulders for the task ahead of him. "Better let me do it on my own," he offered.

"No, I think we'll all go," Egon decided. "The snow is getting thicker. I don't want anyone else wandering off on his own. It would be all too easy to wander away from the group and get lost in the forest." He gestured at the air around them, so heavy with falling snow that trees a mere twenty feet away were ghostly shadows, nearly invisible. "We can stow our packs and then go after him."

"Won't be as much fun without a sled," Winston remarked. He cast a measuring glance at Peter. "You okay now, Pete? Level with us, all right?" Shrugging out of his pack, he led the way to the parking area and opened the back of the hearse.

"Disappointed in Dad," Peter admitted with some difficulty. "Mad as heck at myself for being so stupid to fall for him every time." He glanced over at Egon who was engaged in stowing his pack in Ecto. Sensing Peter's eyes on him, he glanced up gravely. Peter continued, "I just keep hoping one day he'll finally do something that proves he cares."

Egon took Peter's pack and laid it in the back of the car. "Peter, you know your father cares. What you want is for him to care according to your own terms. He loves you very much but he will never be what you want him to be, because it is simply not in him. I understand that. My father was...disappointing in a different way. I knew I was loved and valued but my expectations and his were too different. Be very glad of what you do have, what Ray and I would be very glad of, a living father, who, while not perfect, does care as much as his nature allows."

In a way, that broke Peter's heart, the knowledge, long accepted, constantly denied, that his father would never be what Peter wanted him to be. But in another way he knew he was lucky. Charlie Venkman was no Ward Cleaver but he did love his son as much as it was possible for him to love anyone but himself. To be loved to the ultimate peak of someone's abilities--even if the abilities were lower than desired--had to be worth a lot. How often, at the holidays, did Egon think with longing of his stiffly formal father, gone forever? How often did Ray remember the childhood Christmases, every time he used one of his old family ornaments to decorate the tree?

"Thanks, Spengs." This time, Peter's smile was genuine. He could always count on Egon when the chips were down, just like he could count on Ray and Winston. He'd been crazy to think that the status quo--no dad for the holidays--meant the guys would allow him a crummy Christmas. He clapped Egon affectionately on the shoulder before he turned and started for the hill after Ray.

The trail was a wild one, a steep, twisting run that led downhill in a series of abrupt switchbacks. The tracks of Ray's sled, swinging to the edges of the path and back again to indicate his reckless ride, were filling in even as they followed them, snow drifting as the wind picked up. Peter cupped his hands around his mouth and raised his voice. "Ray! Come on, Tex, time to get out of the snow."

When Ray didn't answer, he bellowed louder, "Come on, Ray, Uncle Peter's sorry. I'll grovel all you like, but let's get out of here before we turn into Frosty's cousins."

No answer. Peter exchanged a worried glance with Egon and Winston. "Guys, this trail's not exactly safe. Think he's okay?"

"We'd better hurry," Egon decided. He brushed off his glasses; the snow had made the lenses wet and he was having trouble seeing.

"Next time, bring your Blue Jays hat," Peter instructed with a grim. "Don't go walking into a tree, now." He took hold of Egon's arm to steer him along the trail.

Abruptly, Winston gave a sudden, alarmed yell. "I think he went through here. This snow drift looks like somebody blew it up." Wading through the knee-deep snow, he jerked to a stop, every line of his body radiating horror. "Ray!" The cry was torn from him, so stark and appalled it must have hurt his throat.

Peter's stomach clenched up and he waded clumsily through the drift to jerk to a halt at Winston's side, conscious of Egon pressing close behind him. Through the wall of falling snow he could see the shattered ice of the river below, a landscape so still and grey with the fall of twilight that the vivid green of Ray's abandoned cap stood out against the darkness of the river that rushed by, inches from the broken ice. Of Ray Stantz there was no trace, only that black water, already icing over around the edges in the chill December air.

"Ray." The word was a mere breath. Peter couldn't force out a louder sound. Then, with a desperate, protesting yell, he started down the slope, skidding and stumbling, coming up against a tree so hard it bruised his right arm. He stood, half-leaning against the thick trunk, looking for evidence that Ray had walked away. But only his cap lay there, half covered with the rapidly falling snow.

"We've gotta get him out," Peter yelled and made a dash for the ice.

Arms caught him around the chest and Winston shook his head. "You can't go out there, Peter. That ice won't hold you."

"But Ray's in there. We have to get him out." He craned his neck to stare at Winston as if he'd lost his mind,. "Let me go to him. Come on, Winston." Struggling wildly, he tried to pull away.

Egon caught one flailing arm. "No, Peter. It's been too long. We fought the ghost and put away our equipment before we even started down the hill. If Ray...went into the river, we-we're too late." The last two words were a mere breath. Egon's eyes were stunned and blank behind his wet lenses.

Peter stood, shocked and breathless, limp in Winston's hold. Green eyes locked with blue ones, the same misery spelled out in both. "If I hadn't been such a jerk..." Peter's lips had stiffened; he had to enunciate carefully to get those words out.

"No, Peter," Winston said sharply. "You didn't..."

"Ray chose..." Egon began, but he couldn't finish the words. He stood there, so unhappy that Peter reached out automatically for him and pulled him back against him, Winston holding onto both of them with one arm, the other sweeping the bank with his belt flashlight for traces of Ray.

Raising his head to the rush of snowflakes, Peter screamed at the top of his lungs, "Raaaaayyyy!"

Only the wind answered.

The crisp, cold air cut through Ray's heavy parka to the jumpsuit beneath it, snow stung his face, and the swoop and glide of the sled down the winding trail made his blood surge in his veins, helping to block out the memory of his bitter words to Peter. Secret words, never spoken aloud, they had hurt Ray because he was afraid he'd always felt an element of them, and that was wrong. He'd adored his parents, had been crushed by their unexpected deaths in that long-ago car crash. Like any child with an unexplainable loss, he'd worried that he'd done something bad, something wicked, to drive them away, but Aunt Lois hadn't let him think that for long, once she'd understood the feeling. He'd learned to live with his loss, had found happiness and joy again because his nature was cheerful and optimistic. But now, hearing Peter complaining about his father's desertion, Ray had spoken words he hadn't realized he meant to say.

Peter had looked so shocked. Ray knew he'd tell him that was a natural feeling, part of the grieving process. Everything came in its own time, and sometimes feelings lay dormant for a long, long time. Sometimes they never came out into the open. But Ray was sad, not only because Peter's words had picked at the scabbed over wound from long ago but also because they'd all been so at odds. It wasn't only Peter's Christmas Charlie Venkman had ruined.

The trail was steep and twisting, and suddenly Ray realized he shouldn't have come this way. Thick undergrowth abutted the narrow trail, and the further he went the fewer sled tracks he saw ahead of him. When he spotted the sign that read, "Closed for sledding," he was going too fast to stop, short of steering off into a snowbank. A wild recklessness filled him, an urge to go on and on into the thick snow until everything was lost, was buried under its gentle covering. But that was crazy. He had to stop. He steered the sled away from a copse of trees, barely avoiding a head-on collision. Shaken by the near miss, he tried to steer for a fat drift to halt his mad race downhill only to burst through the pile of snow and become airborn, soaring out over a small, frozen river.

Before he could even open his mouth to yell, Ray found his sled hitting the ice so hard it cracked ominously. His hat flew off. The sled carried him over the splintering ice, pitched him onto the far bank, spurted from under him, and crashed into a tree. Free of its burden, it shot up the trunk, performed an astonishing loop over his head, and hit the fragmented ice. It struck between two bobbing floes, then vanished beneath the water into the strong, dark current.

Ray landed hard in a pile of snow, ice trickling down the back of his neck and saturating his hair. He didn't see the stone that rose to meet the back of his head and carried him down, down, down, into confused darkness.

"Shhh, there, there, it's all right."

The voice had been speaking for some time, but everything was confusion, the snow that hit his face and made him blink every time he tried to open his eyes, the swish, swish, swish of runners as the sled on which he lay glided along the trail to stop before a strange house that looked like a log cabin. He didn't know where he was or understand why he had to get up and go into the place where light was a yellow, dancing glow, and the warmth came from the roar of a fire in a giant fireplace. His wet clothes were stripped away with deft ease and blankets replaced them. He found himself lying on a sofa under a Navajo-patterned blanket, curled on his side away from the fire while gentle fingers probed the tender place on the back of his head.

"Ow," he muttered, wincing.

"I'm sorry, my lad, but it's bleeding. I need to clean and bandage it. I'm going to have to cut away some of your hair."

"It hurts," he muttered fretfully, not quite awake. "Where am I?"

"You're in my home. I found you out there in the snow and brought you here, where it's warm and safe. Shhh now, easy, lie still." Her fingers probed and he could feel the cold touch of a razor as she shaved away hair from around the injury. "Ah, there, that's not so bad. Tell me," she continued as she worked, "Can you see clearly? Do you have any double vision?"

Ray stared up at the wall beyond the couch, where a shelf gave house room to books and knickknacks. "I can see just fine," he told her. "I'm just sore. You should have seen my sled. It went up the trunk of a tree and did a perfect flip into the river." He was waking up, making more sense to her and to himself.

"Sleds, is it? On such a snowy day?" She dropped a hand on his shoulder for a second. "This will sting now. Hold on."

Ray was of the firm opinion that she was given to great understatement. For a second, whatever disinfectant she put on the cut burned like boiling lava, and he drew a hissing breath through his teeth, his muscles locking up. Then it eased and she said smoothly, "There, it's done, and you're fine. I'll pop a dressing over it and then you can rest." He heard the tape unwinding, and a tearing sound as she bit strips of it with her teeth. When she was done, she helped him to turn over to face the dancing flames, and lowered herself to a small settee, where she sat facing him.

It was the first time Ray had seen his rescuer and his immediate thought was that she would make a good candidate for a portrayal of Mrs. Santa Claus. Neat white hair tucked into a bun, she had round, rosy cheeks, a cris-cross of wrinkles doing nothing to detract from the bone-deep loveliness of her face. Clad in a sweater of a nubby weave and a faded pair of blue jeans, she was probably ten years older than Aunt Lois, but she was spry and fit. She'd brought him home on her sled without effort, without even breathing very fast. Her eyes were a clear, warm brown and very wise. Anyone could find comfort in the easy reassurance of her gaze. She smiled at him, revealing dimples in the lined skin. "I'm Jenny," she said. "And I'm pleased to meet you."

"Hi, Jenny, I'm Ray."

"Good, you know your name. Sometimes a whack like that makes a body confused. But you remember the accident and who you are. That's a good thing. You don't have to do anything else quite yet. I'm going to make you a cup of nice, hot cider, get some warmth into those chilly bones of yours. After you have that, we'll see how you feel."

Ray was still shaky enough to let himself drift. It didn't occur to him yet that his friends would worry. He knew he was safe, and he wasn't quite tracking fully. Lazy and comfortable, except for his aching head, he smiled at her. "Okay."

Tucking the Navajo blanket around his shoulders, she went over to the kitchen. Ray saw that her house was one big room, one corner fitted with cabinets, a sink, stove, and refrigerator. She bustled about busily, and presently the wonderful, spicy odor of hot cider permeated the air. Ray sucked in a deep breath of it. "That smells nice."

"It should. It's made from my own apples. Now, while that steams a bit more, let's see if you feel well enough to sit up."

Ray did. He realized that he was only wearing his tee shirt and shorts under the blanket, and blushed hotly, but Jenny noticed and helped him tuck the blanket around him. "Don't fret, Ray. You've got nothing I haven't seen before time out of mind. I'm old enough to be your grandmother, remember? I've set your clothes to drying." She waved a hand at a ladderback chair positioned near the fire, his coat draped over it. His jumpsuit, jeans and shirt hung nearby on a clothesline that cut across one corner of the cabin. He really was in was a log cabin, Ray realized. It was very cozy, rag rugs decorating the floor, ruffled drapes at the windows, and books everywhere. Among the tomes on the many shelves were bottles of colored liquid, all neatly labeled, but too far away for Ray to read. Suspended over the fire was a small black cauldron, and fat candles everywhere provided a dancing, flickering light since the house did not seem to have electricity. The stove was old, of the wood-burning variety. And maybe that wasn't a refrigerator but an old-fashioned icebox. Wow, this was great. Fascinated, Ray stared around, jumping when he felt something touch his foot.

"And here's my Bessie to welcome you. Now that says a lot for you, Ray. She's a shy one with strangers. Some folks who come here have never seen her."

Ray smiled and stretched out a hand to the cat that wove its way between his feet, rubbing up against his legs. "Hi, Bessie."

Leaving Ray to make friends with her cat, Jenny went for the cider and poured it into a thick, white mug. When she turned, Ray had Bessie in his lap, stroking her back with long, slow strokes.

"Well, I never! Look at that. She's not sat in a lap but mine in all the years I've had her. Bessie, you like this one?"

The cat meowed and made purring, prrping sounds at her, arching her back under Ray's hand.

"She says you have a good heart," Jenny told Ray, passing him the cup. "She likes you."

"She's beautiful." Ray took a sip of the cider. "And this is perfect. This is just like my mom's." At the reminder, his face darkened and his hand stilled on Bessie's head. "Oh, gosh."

"You're troubled, Ray? Is your head hurting?" She dropped down on the settee again and put her hand on his blanket-clad knee.

"No, I just remembered something." He lowered his eyes to gaze down into his cup.

"Something bad?"

"Something sad," Ray admitted shamefacedly. "Something I haven't thought about for years. I..."

"Bessie and I don't make judgments, Ray. Talk if you want to. I'm going to heat some stew. I think you need a hot meal." She put her hand over the one that lay in the cat's fur and squeezed it. "Your mom isn't with you any more?" she asked sympathetically as she went over to the kitchen again and tied on an apron.

"She and my dad died when I was little. It was a car accident."

"That's a tragedy, and so hard for a little boy. But surely the cider didn't make you think of it so sadly, not after so long." She opened a cupboard and withdrew a pan.

"No, it isn't that." Ray sucked in his breath. Bessie curled up against him and began to purr, paws kneading his leg. "It's just, Peter was so disappointed because his dad told him he'd come for Christmas and then he called and canceled. Peter had been so happy; it's the one thing he's always wanted, to be with his dad at Christmas." He caught himself and shook his head. "No, the one thing he's always wanted is for his father to love him enough to be there at the important times."

"And does his father not love him, then?" she prompted, popping ingredients into her pan. Even though she wasn't watching him, he knew she was listening, and maybe even hearing more than he'd actually said. She was that kind of lady.

"Yes, and he's proud of him, too. But he's a con man, a shady kind of guy, and if he has a chance to make a quick buck, then he forgets all about Peter unless he can use him. Peter's honest; he doesn't want to be part of anything crooked. And it breaks his heart sometimes, when his dad tries to use us all."

"So he meant to come and then found the thrill of dishonest money more appealing? I can see why your Peter would be sad. In a way, his father was telling him he was second rate. A cruel act on his father's part, all the worse because he probably did not even know he was cruel."

"But Peter's not second rate," Ray cried. "He's great. Okay, he was being really a pain about it, but I guess I can see why. We wanted to help. Only Winston finally told him he needed to live with it. And it's true, but gosh, it's only a couple days till Christmas."

"A hard season for those who are alone or in pain, Ray. But you know that."

Ray nodded, then winced at his headache. It didn't hurt enough to cause him alarm, but he'd know better than to move so quickly next time. "I do. I was trying to help, and Peter said that at least my dad had never betrayed me. And I lied to him, Jenny." His hands twisted in the Navajo blanket. Bessie mewed at him and nudged one of his hands with her head.

"You lied?" She turned and stared at him, eyebrows lifting in surprise, but not in condemnation. "How did you lie?"

"I said my dad had betrayed me--by dying."

"But there is an element of the truth in that statement, Ray. He left you behind, even though it wasn't meant. A child will believe such a thing. You're not a child now, but at the time you must have felt like that."

Ray nodded again before he could stop himself. "A little. My Aunt Lois helped me with it." He took a swallow of the cider and let it trace a warm path all the way down to his stomach, then he looked up earnestly and let the words spill out, words he'd never before dared to speak. "It wasn't that way, though. It was the other way around. I betrayed them."

"Your parents? How could you have done that? You were only a little boy."

"Because they wanted me to come with them and I wanted to stay behind and play ball with the guys. Jimmy Rafferty had asked me to stay all night--we were gonna camp out behind his barn--and I wanted to do that instead of going so I told Mom and Dad I wouldn't go. They let me stay but I think they were disappointed. And then they died." He had never told that story to anyone before, had refused to let himself think of it. But when he had challenged Peter on the hilltop, all the memories had crowded back. That was why he had grabbed the sled and fled.

"And would it have helped anything in the whole world for you to have died with them?" she countered, no judgment in her voice or her eyes.

"Well, no, but..."

"And did staying with Jimmy mean you didn't love them?"

"No, but I should have..."

"Should have what? Died, too? Worn sackcloth and ashes? Do you think they would ever have blamed you? They loved you. They were probably so very glad you lived. Had they forced you to come and you had died, too, think what a burden they would have felt for all eternity. But they gave you your choice and encouraged you to be with your friend--and you survived. Don't burden them because you did what was natural for a child. You did nothing wrong, and you know well you did nothing wrong. And to bottle up such a feeling and never face it is not a good thing. Your Peter will be glad that what happened let you face up to it at last and to know that your parents' death was not your fault. It was an accident, pure and simple, and they would have wanted more than anything for you to live."

Ray knew that was true. He'd needed to hear someone say it, only he'd never dared to even think about it or confess his doubts until now. He'd even forgotten, until Peter threw the question at him about betrayal. He wasn't to blame, he hadn't betrayed them. It made him feel suddenly free, and the tears ran down his face, easy, healing tears. Bessie curled against him and purred.

Jenny came over and sat beside him on the sofa, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "There, there, that's a good lad," she soothed. "You're all right, you're fine, aren't you?"

Ray nodded again, and this time it scarcely hurt. "I just wish I...I'd said I loved them before they went."

"They knew. They always knew. There's so much love inside you to give, they couldn't help knowing. I can imagine how proud they are of you, to have a son who has helped to save the entire world. If you had gone with them that day, perhaps you could not have helped to do that. And what might have happened to the rest of us?"

"What?" Ray blinked at her in dazed surprise, knuckling away his tears. "You know who I am?"

"I know you are Ray Stantz. Just because I live in a cabin in the woods without television, radios, and newspapers does not mean that I am ignorant of the world. I know who you are, I know what you do. I was almost sure who you were before you mentioned your friend Peter. That made me positive. The world needs you and your fellow Ghostbusters, Ray."

"Gosh," he blurted out, his eyes widening in new distress. "They must be looking for me now."

"I'm sure they are. As soon as your clothes are dry, I'll take you back to town. We can't cross the river here, the ice is too thin. But there is a little bridge about a mile away, a footbridge. It leads right into town. You can meet your friends again there." She left her pot simmering on the stove, gentle steam rising, and went to finger his clothes. "Your shirt is dry even now. And your jeans are only a wee bit damp around the pant legs. They should be fine soon." She slid the chair that held his coat closer to the fire.

"But the guys will be worried about me."

"Then maybe they'll find you before it is time to go." She turned back to the stove. "Put on your shirt and wrap the blanket around you, then come over to the table and have your stew." Picking up a loaf of crusty bread, she began to cut slices from it. "I made this earlier today. You'll have to tell me how well I did."

Ray put on his shirt and buttoned it up. The Navajo rug made a weird garment, somewhere between a kilt and a lavalava. He could imagine Peter's remarks about the fashion statement he must be making and grinned faintly. He would make it right with Peter. It wouldn't even be hard, he knew that. He'd seen in Peter's face that he'd found something more important than his own hurt feelings and knew that Peter would probably throw himself into the holidays again, if only to make sure Ray enjoyed them. And Ray would. He might also send a nasty letter to Mr. Venkman, but that could wait. Seating himself at the dining table, he smiled as Jenny put a plate of savory stew beside him and set a tub of butter into place.

"It all looks great," he praised and fell upon the meal with a real appetite.

Peter sat huddled on a fallen log, a blanket flung over his shoulders, as volunteers from the town and uniformed sheriff's deputies paced along the bank of the small river, looking for evidence that Ray might have fallen from the sled before it hit the river and wandered off. The wind had picked up, slicing nastily through Peter's coat, tugging at Egon's blond hair, whipping the legs of Winston's jumpsuit, and worst of all, blowing the light snow into drifts and eradicating any trace of footprints. When Winston returned with the rescue party from Jessup's Mill, he told Egon and Peter that Ray's sled tracks had vanished.

Men with long poles poked and prodded at the edges of the ice, breaking up the new formations and trying, Peter knew, to probe for Ray, in case he had gone into the river. This long after the fact, there were no plans to send divers down, at least before morning, but Peter had heard one of the deputies saying that the river had a strong current and if anyone had gone in right there, he'd probably have been carried downstream under the ice and might not be found before spring, if ever. Realizing Peter and Egon could hear him, he had moved off hastily, conferring with his teammate in lowered tones. Peter shivered and leaned closer to Egon, his gloved fingers twisted tightly into Ray's green cap.

He was numb with more than cold. How could such a silly little exchange have led to this? Such a stupid, pointless way for Ray to-to die. Peter forced himself to look at the word. Ray was dead, drowned, carried away by the dark waters, and there was no way to bring him back, to apologize to him for their hasty words, to ask his forgiveness. He could hear distant voices yelling Ray's name, but it had been more than an hour. One of the sheriff's men had said there were no houses or shelters nearby for Ray to take refuge in. If he hadn't gone into the water, the increasing cold and wind were bound to get him. And if he'd gone in and somehow scrambled out, soaking wet...

"Peter?" Egon's voice was rigid with enforced control.

"He's dead, Egon."

"Yes." The word cracked in the middle and Peter put his arm around Egon's shoulders. Winston, on Egon's other side, did the same, and for a moment they simply huddled together in their grief.

"I pushed him to it," Peter's lips were numb; the words didn't want to come out, but they did. They had to.

"You did not push him to fall into the river," Egon said sternly. "Peter, this is not your responsibility. Only if you thought it would lead to this would you be guilty."

"So, what, then, Egon? I'm just unlucky--and Ray is the most unlucky of all, because he died of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oh, god, guys, he's dead...."

"You didn't choose this hill either, Pete," Winston said. The pain was thick in his voice. All of them were hurting, the only warmth they felt from each other's presence. "None of us did. We didn't stop him or even try. God, Pete..."

Egon shook his head. "None of that matters, either of you. What does is...imagining life without him."

"Imagining all those presents for him, sitting under the tree," Peter murmured. "What my dad did doesn't seem important now. He never would've come anyway. He's just what he is and I can't change it. But Ray..." It hurt too much to go on. He leaned harder against Egon.

A flurry of activity from the riverbank made them all lift tired heads. Several of the men with the long poles were working on something, drawing it up from the river bottom. Peter felt his muscles slam into automatic lock. He couldn't look--but he couldn't tear his eyes away. If they'd found Ray...

It was the sled, dripping with river water, already glazing over with ice. The snow had let up a little, so that they could see more clearly through the thick flakes. It was Ray's sled and it had been in the icy water....

All hope in Peter died. He felt Egon's shoulders stiffen under his arm, heard Winston suck in a shaken breath. Then the three of them turned, facing each other, holding on in a fierce, desperate hug. Ray was dead. In the light from the spotlights the Sheriff's men had set up, Peter saw the tears that glistened in Egon's eyes, the hard, bitter line of Winston's mouth, and he held on as hard as he could. This couldn't be happening.

That was when Sheriff Rudolph himself came. "We didn't find him, only the sled," he said, averting his eyes from their grief. "But it's late, and it's cold, and I'm gonna send you three back to town. We've arranged rooms for you at the Inn, a suite. On the town, of course. They'll provide you a hot meal and you'll be in constant contact with us here at the site. But we're removing all civilians now. I don't think anything more is going to happen tonight."

"No!" Peter didn't let go of Egon or Winston. "We can't go. Ray might need us."

"I'm sorry. I understand that you want to stay, but I have to send you back."

"We won't leave the town, Peter," Egon said. His voice was fainter than usual and laced with pain. He was shivering. Peter chomped down on his bottom lip so hard he tasted blood. Ray was--he couldn't help Ray now. But Egon was shaking. They had to get warm. He couldn't lose another friend tonight. He couldn't bear it.

Turning his back on the river was one of the hardest tasks he'd ever had to perform. Holding onto Egon's arm, he let the volunteer searchers help them up the slope and back to Ecto, where the three men crammed into the front seat, all of them together, for their lonely drive back to town.

Jessup's Mill looked like a Christmas card under its new layer of twinkling snow. The town square was aglow with a multitude of gleaming lights in many colors, a huge tree maybe thirty feet high the centerpiece of the decorations in the town square. All the storefronts were illuminated with strings of lights and a manger scene in front of the Methodist church on one corner of the square was lit by a spotlight with a plate of revolving colors in front of it, decorating the scene blue, green, red, and yellow.

Ray stood at the end of the footbridge and smiled back at Jenny. "Gee, it's pretty, isn't it? Are you going to come with me, to find the guys?"

"No, I must return. Do you feel all right?"

"I've still got a little headache, but I feel great after that dinner. That was the best stew I ever tasted, and that bread was super. I don't know what I'd have ever done without you. And thanks for the hat," he added, patting the stocking cap she had loaned him. "I'll leave it at the hotel desk for you to pick up in the morning."

"I was glad to have a guest so close to Christmas, especially one Bessie liked so much. Go and find your friends, Ray. May you have a wonderful Yuletide."

"Merry Christmas to you." He gave the little lady a fond hug and kissed her plump cheek, then turned to walk across the square. He didn't see Ecto-1 anywhere. Not sure where the guys were--gosh, what if they were back in the woods looking for him--he walked across the street to the square and stood gazing up at the huge Christmas tree. Up close, he could see that it was decorated with homemade ornaments, probably designed by local schoolchildren: chains and popsicle stick creations and designs made with aluminum foil, spray painted in Christmas colors. There were hundreds of glowing lights, and the snow that weighted the branches only made the tree seem more right for the season.

That was when he heard the familiar sound of Ecto's engine making its way down the street, and he whirled and hurried out to meet them. This was so great. He could hardly wait.

Winston was at the wheel, going slowly because the roads were slick in spite of the efforts of local snow plows. The flakes had thickened again so the wipers beat back and forth, back and forth, streaking the ice while the heater struggled to keep pace. If they hadn't been going so slowly, the figure who emerged from the snow, silhouetted against the giant Christmas tree might have been too close to avoid hitting, but Winston brought Ecto to a stop with ease as the man caught the glow of the headlights. He raised an eager hand to wave at them, a huge smile spreading across his face.

"Ray!" Peter's stomach gave an elevator-dropping lurch and he tore the door open before Ecto had completely stopped. Shaking with excitement, he raced through the snow, skidded spectacularly, and went down in an explosion of ice and slush, fetching up neatly at Ray's feet. He didn't even feel the chill of his saturated clothes.

"Peter! Wow, what a skid! Are you okay?" Ray was there in an instant, brushing him off, checking to make sure he wasn't hurt, hauling him to his feet. "It's slick here," he warned. "Gosh, I'm glad to see you."

Peter couldn't speak or he would have bawled like a baby. Instead he wrapped his arms around Ray, buried his face in Stantz's hair and hung on for all he was worth. Behind him, he could hear the slushy, splashy footsteps of Egon and Winston as they raced to join them.

"You're alive, Ray." Egon's voice shook as he joined them. Peter felt him grabbing Ray, too, clinging for dear life.

Then Winston was there, too, illuminated in the headlights, his eyes glistening with joy and relief. He pounded Ray on the back. "I am so glad to see you, homeboy."

Ray's head came up and he stared at Peter from about three inches away. "Peter--oh, gosh, you guys are crying. What... Oh, no, the sled! The ice! You thought..." Horror twisted his features. "You thought I went into the river. I didn't know. I... Oh, gee, I'm so sorry."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for, Ray," Peter assured him. "I was going on like a jerk, and I didn't mean to hurt you like that. I'm sorry. We're just so glad..." He squeezed Ray's shoulders. "Where have you been? We've been--they've been looking in the river."

"We thought you were dead, Raymond," Egon said unnecessarily. "They found the sled in the river, but they couldn't find you. We were so sure..." Egon's voice trailed off, and he, too, had tears in his eyes.

Ray looked humbled by their worry and terribly ashamed for not realizing how his absence might be taken. "Oh, no. I was warm and safe and I was a little groggy. I bumped my head when the sled threw me and Jenny rescued me. Gosh, guys, she's the greatest lady."

"You mean you found a beautiful woman to rescue you?" Peter wailed. He was still shaky but feeling better by the minute in spite of the icy saturation of his pant legs. "And we were out there in the cold, trying to find you. Ray, Ray, Ray. Is this any way to treat your best friends?" It took an effort to get the words out, but he was so happy he couldn't hold back.

Ray grinned. "She was about as old as Mrs. Faversham, Peter, but she was beautiful. She had the greatest log cabin and a cat, and I think she might be a witch, you know, the good kind. She had all sorts of great books and potions and stuff. She made homemade bread and some great stew for me, and dried my clothes, well, except my boots--they're still damp. She gave me plastic bags to wear over my feet inside them. Tomorrow I'll take you to meet her."

"A great cook? We'll look forward to that," Winston grinned.

"Ray, I'm sorry," Peter dragged the words out, barely able to meet his friend's gaze. "I went on and on about Dad and pushed you and then you went..."

"No, Peter." Ray held up his hand. "That's all right. That wasn't you, it was me. But I'm okay now. Jenny talked to me, I'll tell you all about it after you get warm. You three look like snowmen, especially you, Peter, you're soaking wet, and you're all shivering. Is there a hotel or anything? I don't think we can drive back to the city until the roads are cleared."

"The Inn. They have rooms for us there," Peter said. "They're giving us a suite. No charge, either. Isn't it great?"

"I better call the sheriff's office and have them radio the guys out by the river," Winston decided practically. He looked around for the office, and made his way across the street, mindful of Peter's spectacular slide and determined to avoid one of his own.

Peter and Egon each grabbed one of Ray's arms and bore him off to The Inn like a trophy.

"And then she said it wasn't my fault and I knew it wasn't," Ray explained. He paused to sip the hot cocoa that the hotel had provided them. Wearing pajamas and robes also furnished by the Inn, the four of them sat in the living room of their suite, while a fire roared in the fireplace. They had all taken hot showers to warm themselves, and then they had gathered in the suite's living room near the Christmas tree they'd found already decorated in the suite. The cocoa was good, warm and tasty, if not as delicious as Egon's specialty.

"You bet it wasn't, Tiger," Peter told him, stretching out a lazy hand to rumple his hair. "And don't you forget it. What you thought was natural. Kids always tend to think it's their fault when something goes wrong. Divorce and parents not being around, all that stuff. I did a lot of that myself when I was a kid; Dad wasn't there because I wasn't good enough. It's natural. Just so you know now that it wasn't true."

Ray nodded. "Gosh, Jenny was great. She just had to say it wasn't my fault and I knew she was right. She was so reasonable about it. I can't wait for you guys to meet her." He grinned. "Peter, I'm sorry about your dad not coming. But please don't hate Christmas because of it."

"I think I'm past that, Ray." Peter clicked his cocoa mug against Ray's. "Because, when we thought you were drowned, I realized how crazy I'd been to fuss over something I'd never had before anyway. It wasn't my dad who made Christmas great the last few years. It was all of us. Christmas without you there would have been the ultimate bad holiday. Now that you're back, it's gonna be one fabulous party!"

Ray beamed at Peter. He was glad to see his friend's spirits had returned. Sharing a quick, delighted grin with Egon and Winston, he nodded. "Okay, Peter. If you want a part, you get one, the best Christmas party we've ever had."

There was a knock on the door, and when Winston padded over in his slippers to answer it, the sheriff, Tom Rudolph, came in. He was a tall, lean man in his mid-forties, with the leathery skin of an outdoorsman and many wrinkles around his eyes that came from laughter and from squinting into the sun. Peter dragged Ray up and introduced him. "He never went into the river after all," he proclaimed. "The sled hit a tree, did a flip, and dumped him before it went into the water."

"Yeah, after Zeddemore called, we circled around to the other side and found the place. What'd you do, Stantz, walk back to town?"

"No, I got rescued by Jenny. I don't know her last name. She's a really nice elderly lady. She has a great log cabin on the other side of the river."

Rudolph's eyes narrowed in a considering frown. "Couldn't be. There aren't any cabins--there's nothing on the other side of the river, not for a good ten miles. It's rough country back there. Oh, there's houses on the other side of it, and a lot of truck farms, but you'd have had to wade through some pretty heavy brush to get there and you still wouldn't be back if you'd gone so far."

"No, it was only about a mile from the bridge," Ray insisted stubbornly. The sheriff had to be wrong.

"There's a cabin there, all right," Rudolph admitted, scratching his grizzled head. "But it's a ruin. No one has lived there for around thirty years. There was a woman there then, a Jenny MacMillan. She'd lost her husband in World War I and lived alone out there with her cat until she died, back in, what was it? 1961. The people here in town said she was a witch."

"But her name was Jenny, and maybe she really was a witch," Ray burst out, shocked. "She had a lot of ritual stuff, but I didn't get to look at it. She was a good witch, though and a really nice lady. And the cabin wasn't a ruin. It was intact and lived in, with a huge fire in the fireplace. Her cat sat in my lap, and we had cider and stew. It was real. I was warm and cozy and I could taste the food. I couldn't have imagined it."

"I'll take you out there tomorrow and show her," the sheriff offered, doubt creeping into his eyes at Ray's description. "Maybe you were delirious. The doc says you took a bump on your head."

"Yeah, we had the doctor look at him and take an x-ray before we settled in," Peter admitted, frowning. "He said he'd been groggy and we wanted to make sure he was all right. He doesn't even have a concussion. But somebody bandaged his head before we met him in the town square and he said this Jenny did. The bandage was real. The doctor took it off and put on his own official one. We all saw him do it."

Egon reached out a long arm and plucked out his P.K.E. meter, running it over Ray, his brow puckering. Playing with the dials, he muttered, "Hmmmmm," a wealth of fascination in the sound. Lifting his eyes, he considered Ray thoughtfully.

"What does that mean?" asked the sheriff suspiciously, eyeing the detection device as if he feared it would explode before his eyes. He edged a step nearer to the door.

"It means that Ray has been in close proximity to a ghost, and within the last few hours. He wasn't there when we busted the ghost on the sledding hill, and we had such a brief contact with that one that I can't even get residuals from the rest of us on it. So this must be a separate spirit."

Ray stared at Egon in disbelief. "You mean she was a ghost? But she couldn't be, Egon. She fed me and I could taste it, and she bandaged my head and she gave me my stocking cap." He plunged over to the closet and pulled it out, displaying it. "It's real. Feel it."

Egon took it out of Ray's hand and examined it. "Definitely real." He looked inside it. "Hmm, this is interesting, Ray."

"What is it?" Peter leaned in to look.

"A label. 'Hand knitted by Jenny MacMillan.' See."

Peter hummed the Twilight Zone theme. "Ray, this is major weird, even for you."

"Do you know what I think, Ray," Egon said suddenly. "I think that somehow, a doorway opened into the past. You went back to her time, although I don't know how. You needed help and there was no one to help you. Maybe it was even a bit like the vortex that opened to take us back to Victorian England when we met Scrooge and the three Christmas ghosts. Otherwise, she could hardly have fed and bandaged you and given you the hat."

"MacMillan, Ray?" Egon lifted a sudden eyebrow. "Wasn't your mother's maiden name MacMillan? And your uncle in Scotland..."

"You think she might have been a relative, a great aunt or distant cousin or something?" Winston asked, sharing a doubtful grimace with Peter.

"Another of Ray's weird relatives," Peter offered, ducking the mock punch Ray threw at him. It was true, he did have a lot of strange relations.

"I don't know. I never heard of her, but then if she died in 1961, she died when I was only two, and maybe I wouldn't have. When I was growing up, I mostly knew my dad's side of the family, except for Uncle Andrew in Scotland." He heaved a sigh. "She was such a nice lady."

Peter understood his change of mood without the slightest prompting, and he slung a comforting arm over Ray's shoulder. "It's okay, Tex. She was there when you needed her, and I, for one, am grateful, even if she was a ghost. We've got our Super Stantz back, and that's what's important."

"But she was so nice." Ray leaned wistfully into the circle of Peter's arm.

"Why wouldn't she be, if she was part of your family?" Peter told him. His face darkened momentarily, remembering how a member of his own family had let him down, then he squeezed Ray's shoulders and brightened again. "Anybody related to you has got to be the greatest, though the guy who left you that joke shop..."

Ray elbowed him in the ribs, but not very hard because Peter had to know that none of the guys could ever say to Peter, 'anybody related to you has got to be the greatest,' not as long as Charlie Venkman was out there scamming. He could feel Peter's rueful silence and he was sorry for it.

Peter collected himself and brightened. "Anyway, Ray, we know your Jenny was the greatest--because she gave you back to us. I think we ought to put up a memorial plaque in her honor for keeping the team intact." He added so softly that Ray almost couldn't hear him, "And that's the most important thing of all."

Egon's face changed subtly; he had heard or, if he hadn't heard, he'd understood. "I would vote for that with you, Peter," he concurred. "And, if she is family to you, Ray, then she is family to all of us."

"Just like Aunt Lois," Winston agreed. He gave Ray a comradely poke.

"Teamwork," Peter said, and if his smile wasn't as brilliant as usual, at least it was real.

"Gosh," breathed Ray as he and the other three Ghostbusters stood in front of the ruined cabin. How could he have left a cozy cottage last night and returned to this? It struck home all the harder that Jenny McMillan was dead, had been dead for many years.

"So was she a ghost?" Peter asked. "Come on, Egon, did Ray go back in time?"

"I think perhaps she came forward, because of Ray's need. After all, she was his second cousin once removed." They had made some telephone calls and tracked down Jenny McMillan. She had definitely been part of Ray's family, even if he hadn't been able to remember her. A distant cousin in Dekatur, Illinois had confirmed that Jenny was indeed Ray's kin, and he thought she had even met Ray when he was a baby.

"You wanna run past me again how that once-removed bit works, Egon?" Peter asked.

"No, I seldom waste my time with pointless explanations," Egon responded, grinning.

"Oh yeah? Well, next time you call a staff meeting at eight in the morning to tell us how some mystical gizmo works, I'll remind you of that," Peter teased, reaching around Ray to jab him in the arm.

Winston chortled gleefully. "He's got you there, homeboy."

Their banter helped to cheer Ray. Just seeing Peter relaxed and normal did wonders for his own spirits. Maybe Jenny was long gone, but at least Ray had been given a special Christmas gift, a chance to know her. And the crisis had given Peter a present, too. It had given Christmas back to him and, as a result, to all of them.

Ray took a step closer and pushed open the door that hung brokenly on its hinges, then he jumped hastily backward. He didn't want to see the ghost image of that cozy room. Better to remember it as it had been. Instead he rested his hand on the door frame for a second and murmured quietly, "Good-bye, Jenny. And...thanks."

He never was sure later if he had imagined the faint, 'You're welcome, Ray.' The other guys' faces didn't change, so maybe it was one last gift, especially for him.

He turned to face his friends. "We can go now," he said. "I've said good-bye."

They gazed at him fondly, checking to make sure he was really all right. Then Peter grinned. "Merry Christmas, Ray," he cried, the words ringing on the frosty air. "Merry Christmas, guys."

He slung his arm around Ray's shoulders, Egon fell in beside Peter, and Winston took his place at Ray's other side. As one and at peace with the world around them, the four men turned to go home.

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