Boo Humbug

by Rene Gutteridge

  Praise for

  Boo Humbug

  “Move over Dickens, there’s a new Scrooge in town. Of course, this one may be heading for a straitjacket. With Boo Humbug, Rene Gutteridge serves up a romping good read that alternately had me scratching my head and chuckling. And just when I thought the tale had reached its peak—a surprise ending that delivers the Christmas message with feeling.”

  —TAMARA LEIGH, author of Splitting Harriet

  “A touch of eccentric, a measure of Dickens, and a generous dollop of love, and you have the perfect recipe for Christmas. Boo Humbug!”

  —DIANN MILLS, author of When the Nile Runs Red

  “What fun! I enjoyed Boo Humbug from the first page to the last. With characters that come alive and a storyline full of clever turns, it had me chuckling, cheering, and even reaching for a tissue at the end. I think I’ll have to start a new Christmas tradition—reading Rene Gutteridge’s Boo Humbug I loved it!”

  —MARLO SCHALESKY, author of five books, including Veil of Fire

  “Only in Skary, Indiana, would a simple production of The Christmas Carol devolve into a hilarious disaster. With her trademark blend of insight and wit, Rene Gutteridge’s return to Skary is funny, heartwarming, and an absolute delight to read.”

  —MELANIE DOBSON, author of Together for Good and Going for Broke

  “In Boo Humbug, Rene Gutteridge and her lovable cast of characters present a story of Christmas unlike any other. Charming, witty, and fun, this tale promises to delight readers for years to come.”

  —DIANN HUNT, author of fourteen novels, including Be Sweet

  NOVELS BY RENE GUTTERIDGE

  My Life as a Doormat

  THE BOO SERIES

  Boo

  Boo Who

  Boo Hiss

  Boo Humbug

  THE OCCUPATIONAL HAZARDS SERIES

  Scoop

  Snitch

  THE STORM SERIES

  The Splitting Storm

  Storm Gathering

  Storm Surge

  TO ALL THOSE WHO LOVE SKARY, INDIANA,

  AS MUCH AS I DO.

  CHAPTER 1

  “What’s Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in ‘em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will,” said Scrooge indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.”

  “THINK OUTSIDE the box,” Mr. Watson implored as his gaze fell over his students, all clustered together on the stage floor, their backs erect with enthusiasm. Lois Stepaphanolopolis was the only one not sitting on the floor. She’d tried it once, but her hips hurt for a solid seven days afterward, so now she used a chair and a comfortable slump. She watched Mr. Watson gesture toward an imaginary audience. “Give them something they’re not expecting!”

  His voice held an authoritative nobility, and he looked down his nose at his students. Lois was the oldest by at least thirty years. The rest were barely out of high school, had somehow missed out on college for one reason or another, and now bet their dreams on one community college class.

  Lois wasn’t that naive. She didn’t dream of going to New York and starring on Broadway. She was too old for that kind of grand self-deception. But she did have her little theater company, and they’d had quite a nice summer producing one-acts.

  Yet something was tugging at her creative conscience. She couldn’t really identify it, but it kept her awake at night, dreaming of bigger and better. She knew she had it in her to do more—to rise higher—but with what? Which story needed to be told?

  Mr. Watson’s sparkling blue eyes studied each face with great dramatic pause, just like he’d taught them. “Don’t be afraid of silence on the stage. Embrace it. Use it to its full benefit. Sometimes silence is more powerful than words. Don’t let it linger too long. But if you use it just right, it can be the perfect punctuation to a piece of dialogue that was meant to change the world.”

  Lois smiled at the thought. Never had she imagined theater could change the world, but the more she did it, the more she understood how much people craved entertainment and the enlightenment that often came from it.

  Lois’s hand popped up right as Mr. Watson started to describe the finest moment in his stage career. He blinked a couple of times, as if a bright light were aimed at him. “Yes, Ms. Stepaphanolopolis? What is it?”

  “I’m going to do it!”

  “Do what?” Mr. Watson asked.

  “Conceive! Outside the box!”

  Mr. Watson glanced around at all the students, then back at Lois. “I’m assuming we’re not talking about in vitro fertilization here?”

  Lois laughed. Mr. Watson was terribly witty. “That’s what you’ve been telling us all week. Don’t do it like everyone else does it. Bring something new to the table, right?”

  “You’ve been listening,” Mr. Watson said, with a mild smile. “Good for you.”

  “Not just listening, Mr. Watson. Obeying! I can hardly sleep at night. I think I have an idea. A really great idea. An idea that no one in the history of the world has ever thought of.”

  “Hmm.” Mr. Watson looked skeptical but amused. “Lois, I’m thankful you’re implementing what I’ve been teaching you. I encourage every student to think outside the box. It’s what makes great characters. When you’re tackling a role, remember to bring your own version to the table and—”

  “Bigger!” Lois spread her arms wide. “Not just the characters, but the story”. She closed her eyes, her face turned up toward the stage lights. “I’m going to do something that’s never been done before.”

  A few people snickered. Lois dropped her arms and looked at them. Jealous. The youngsters didn’t have the experience she had. They couldn’t go to the places she could.

  Mr. Watson cleared his throat. “That’s terrific, Lois.”

  Lois stood and gathered her things. “I have to go now.”

  “Class isn’t over,” Mr. Watson said.

  “I know, but I have a lot of work to do. You, of all people, Mr. Watson, understand that once…maybe twice…in a lifetime, brilliance strikes in such a way that everything must come to a stop until the vision has been fulfilled.”

  Mr. Watson raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, all right,” Lois said, smiling demurely. “If you must know.”

  “Must know what?”

  “I’m doing Dickens.” She paused, letting the silence do the talking. When it’d had its effect, she cut it off and said, “A Christmas Carol.”

  Mr. Watson hushed the sudden flurry of snickering.

  “What?” Lois asked with a frown.

  A bobble-headed blonde, otherwise known as Staci, said, “You’re kidding, right? I mean, if there’s ever been a Christmas play that’s overdone, it’s that. It’s been done thirteen billion times as a play, and at least a million times as a movie. It’s been done on television, on radio, in the park, off Broadway, on Broadway—”

  “Every way possible,” another student interrupted.

  Lois folded her arms together and narrowed her eyes. Poor Mr. Watson. No wonder he appeared so aggravated all the time. At first, it seemed like he didn’t want to be teaching at a community college, but upon further observation, surely the cause was the narrow-mindedness of today’s young people. She gave Mr. Watson a knowing glance. “They have a lot to learn, don’t they, Mr. Watson?”

  She threw her scarf around her neck. “I bid you farewell and lots of luck in your future careers as waiters and waitresses.”

  Staci smirked. “Please. You really think you can do theater
better than the rest of us? Give me a break. No offense, lady, but you’re from a small town, and you’re way over the hill—and in over your head. You’re the one person here who never seems to know what’s going on.”

  Lois looked at Mr. Watson, whose understanding expression tried to compensate for Bobblehead’s attitude. “Lois, I’m glad you’re trying to think outside the box. It’s a huge improvement. Wasn’t it just last week that you walked out of the improv lesson because you thought it was a waste of time, since actors always use scripts?”

  “Thank you for your confidence, Mr. Watson,” Lois said. “And I can assure you, A Christmas Carol has never been done like this.” She addressed the students. “Wait and see. It will be unforgettable.” She slid her arms through her coat sleeves, buttoned the front, and walked off the stage, her heels clicking loudly until she reached the carpet of the center aisle, where she marched forward. And with each step, one thought built onto another, forming a tower of brilliance. She stopped at the front doors of the auditorium and smiled to herself. Everything came together inside her head. She knew exactly what she wanted to do and how she would do it.

  Alfred Tennison strolled along the leafy path that wound through the woods just north of his rental house. It was actually the only house in Skary, Indiana, to rent. People either lived and died here or didn’t come at all. And he wasn’t sure why he always felt the need to return. Since crashing and burning in publishing, first as Wolfe Boone’s editor and later as his agent, Alfred’s career had improved slowly but steadily.

  Now he worked as a freelance editor, pulling in enough to afford a modest apartment in Manhattan. Sometimes, for no reason he could identify, he came back to Skary and stayed for indefinite periods of time.

  He’d started morning walks a while back when he was trying to get a grasp on the string of life that was quickly unwinding around him. Then he added one after lunch. Now he walked in the evenings too. It made him feel kind of old. Back in New York, he used to feel almost repelled by the sight of old people walking the sidewalks and the parks. He wondered if it was the most exciting part of their day and the only time that they were near other human beings before returning home to eat their dinner at four and turn in at seven.

  He also would’ve never guessed he’d be ambling through a forest at night. In New York, it could be risky even walking in a well-lit park during the day. But the woods seemed to be the only place in town where Christmas lights couldn’t be seen. The town had them strung up the flagpoles and down the light poles, around every government building, through the town hall, and over the roof of any building with access to electricity. They popped up overnight the day after Thanksgiving and would stay up until after the new year. It was no lie—on a moonless night in mid-December, if you walked down Main Street, you might think it was noon.

  But it wasn’t just the Christmas lights. If that were all he had to consider, maybe on some level, he might be able to tolerate it. However, Christmas cheer wasn’t confined to decorations. It was the attitude of the entire town, as if life weren’t fully lived until you wore a Santa sweater and joined a Christmas carol touring group. If you had no desire to gush about pumpkin pie and Aunt Betsy’s turkey, it was hard to find common ground.

  Even Wolfe, his longtime friend, seemed to have converted. Back in the normal days, when Wolfe was a famous horror novelist nicknamed Boo, Alfred was successful and wealthy by association. Christmas was a party, not a religious event, and there seemed to be little to worry about. Alfred recalled that even before Wolfe was struck down by religion, he wasn’t that into the festivities. But it didn’t much matter—Alfred carried on the festivities without him. There were corporate cocktail parties, VIP dinners, shopping for people he wanted to impress, and receiving gifts from people who were in desperate need of him in one form or another. Champagne and caviar, limos and fancy suits, mingling, laughing, toasting success and successes to come.

  But now he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a party in New York. And the only people he received gifts from were Wolfe and his wife, Ainsley. Champagne, the kind he would be caught dead drinking, was too expensive. And those friends who used to toast him were inaccessible until he regained his former status.

  Now he was in Skary, walking along a dirt path and trying his best to maintain his subgrade life in a manner that kept him from staying in bed all day long. He returned cheery greetings the best he could and tried to conduct himself in a way that didn’t raise suspicions about his dislike for a yearly holiday that seemed more like a global event.

  He came to a clearing where he had a nice view of the town below. The wind snapped through the trees and chilled his skin. There sat Skary in all its glory, encircled by a halo of light. Cars crept by like there was not a single important place to be. People greeted the cold like it was a warm friend, skating on the ponds, laughing on the street corners, window-shopping with barely a dollar to their names.

  Alfred put his hands deep inside the pockets of his coat and tried to remember what the town was like a few years ago, when tourists drove for miles to see the house on the hill at the opposite end of town. From where Alfred stood, he could see yellow light glowing from every window of that old house, the one that looked fit to regurgitate every terrible and horrifying tale that came from an imagination that never ended.

  Until one day it did. At least in a monetary sort of way. Wolfe Boone, horror novelist extraordinaire and the one success Alfred could take complete credit for, decided he needed more meaning in his life. At first, Alfred chalked it up to writer’s block, but he soon made the dreadful discovery that Wolfe had met Jesus. Suddenly the New York Times Best Seller List ceased to be important to Wolfe.

  But it never did cease to be important to Alfred.

  Sighing, Alfred pulled the collar up around his neck and turned back toward the rental house, plodding along, kicking dead leaves to either side of the path. December was a long month, and he would be glad when it ended. Except then a new year would begin, and he couldn’t help but wonder what part of his life he would lose next in another turn of bad luck.

  CHAPTER 2

  Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it.

  THE CLOCK READ 4:38 a.m., and the night was as frigid as her Frigidaire, but neither sleep nor cold could stop her. Lois had been writing nonstop, starting in the early afternoon and continuing into the evening, when she paused only to eat soup and drink milk. Then the writing resumed, and here she was, one arm wrapped along the top of the pad of paper while the other feverishly scribbled down every thought that popped into her head. Never had she experienced anything like it—her brain bubbled over with brilliance that couldn’t be contained.

  For a moment she stopped, rubbed her eyes, and rose to make a fresh pot of coffee. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone without sleep. She thought it impossible, since long ago she’d convinced herself that she was not fit for less than nine hours of sleep. Usually, her entire day revolved around making sure she got a good night’s sleep and if not, then at least a three-hour nap during the day.

  The coffee began to drip through the filter, filling the kitchen with an aroma that motivated Lois to return to her work. Something was driving her to finish. She must finish it! There was little time to waste. By sunrise, she would have it complete, and then—she knew deep in her heart—Skary, Indiana, would never be the same.

  With a heavy blanket and their comforter laid perfectly straight across his body, Wolfe stared at the ceiling, wondering why he was hallucinating. He’d only hallucinated one other time, when he’d accidentally taken too much cold medicine on an empty stomach. He’d lain on his couch, nursing his aching body with everything from soup to ginger tea, wondering how that bird had gotten into his house and why it liked to fly upside down. It wasn’t until the next day that he realized there was no bird, and the bottle said two teaspoons, not two tablespoons. That error, mixed with a high fever, had managed to conjure up some very strange images.

&
nbsp; But he hadn’t taken any cold medicine tonight, and as far as he could tell, he wasn’t sick. Exhausted, yes. Sick, no. He closed his eyes and listened again. There it was, soft but distinct.

  He couldn’t help but sigh. Loudly. Loudly enough that Ainsley moaned beside him and then put a gentle elbow in his ribs. He threw back the covers, sat up, slid his feet into his slippers, and willed himself to stand. But there he sat, hunched over and staring at a floor that went in and out of focus.

  “Wolfe,” Ainsley said, her voice full of grogginess, “what are you doing?”

  “Just making sure.”

  “Just making sure of what?”

  “Never mind.” Wolfe managed to stand. His knees actually felt a little weak, but then again, he wasn’t used to pacing so much. He plodded down the hallway toward the room on the other side of the house. It was a short walk, except at night, when it felt like miles.

  Through the crack of the slightly open door, he could see the moons light washing over the dark wood floors. And in the corner, a little movement. He wasn’t hallucinating. She was awake. For the third time in one hour.

  He eased the door open and walked to the crib. Abigail noticed him and stopped her crying for a moment. Wolfe reached down, and she tried to grab for his finger. When she couldn’t, she shut her eyes and cried as loud as a little person could cry.

  “Oh, now, come here,” Wolfe said gently, picking her up and then cradling her in his arms. Satisfied, she stopped crying, but her eyes popped open so wide Wolfe had to smile. Any time she had a chance of staying awake, she gave it her all. “How can you be awake? I just put you back to sleep twenty minutes ago.” Her wide eyes blinked at him through the darkness. “You’re not going back to sleep, are you?” Abigail cooed, and he wondered how he was even able to smile. He’d never felt so tired in his life. A few well-meaning locals had warned him of the sleep deprivation to come, but thinking back on it, they had understated it.