The ghosts of Christmas crack
Dr. Gregory House is spending Christmas alone. He is sitting in front of his piano, playing a little Christmas ditty as his rat, Steve McQueen, sits quietly in his cage on the stuffed chair beside the piano. There is a large bottle of scotch on the piano bench next to House's butt, the rich golden liquid half-gone and going gone as House pauses to take another swig from the bottle.
While he was in the middle of his rendition of "Baby, Its Cold Outside", his phone rang. He didn't pay any attention to it, letting the answering machine pick it up.
"If I don't pick up, it means that I'm not here, I don't care, or Jenna Jameson is giving me the best lap dance of my life. If you leave a message, don't expect me to care enough to call back. Merry Christmas."
Beep!
"Very funny, House," Wilson's deep voice came out of the machine. "Just wanted to say Merry Christmas—and I'm coming over there to get my DVD player back tomorrow."
Click!
House paused in the middle of his piano playing in order to pop two Vicodin in his mouth, rubbing his bad thigh as he waited for the painkillers to do their magic. He turns his head to the window; the snow storm is getting stronger.
The cold was doing nothing for his leg pain except magnify it. He popped another Vicodin into his mouth and took another swig of Scotch to speed up its progress to his stomach.
Steve squeaked sharply, bobbing his head sideways. House turned to look at his furry companion.
"Relax, Steve," he slurred, raising the bottle of Scotch in salute. "I'm a doctor; I know what I'm doing."
The pain began to recede from his leg, and all was right in his world.
The phone rang again. While the message played, he checked his watch. The hands told him that the time is 11:32 PM.
"Uh—okay," Cameron's husky voice chimed from the answering machine after the beep. "Just wanted to greet you a Merry Christmas. Bye."
Click!
House cracked a goofy grin. It disappeared as he picked up his cane and stood up carefully, turning to the direction of the bathroom.
"Guard the fort, Steve," House muttered as he passed the rat's cage. "Merry Christmas."
While House took a quick, hot shower, the phone rang again for a third time.
After the beep, only silence could be heard from the machine for fifteen seconds before the unknown caller hung up.
The digital alarm clock let loose a shrill tone for fifteen seconds before its grouchy owner moved close enough to slam a hand down on it.
Lying on his stomach, House raised a heavy head and looked at the time. Something was wrong, yet his brain was still poaching in Scotch and Vicodin.
11:59 PM.
"Stupid clock," House grumbled, pushing the offending timepiece off his night table. He winced when it hit the floor. He turned around to lie on his good side and placed a fluffy pillow on his head.
That was when he realized what the something was: he didn't set the alarm.
The moment he made this realization, someone yanked the comforter off his prone body. House pulled the pillow off his face when a pair of strong hands grabbed both his ankles and turned him to his left
"What the hell?" House roared.
His assailant pulled him until both his legs were off the bed before they were released. House sat up abruptly, the alcoholic haze of the past thirty minutes momentarily lifted. He was now holding his pillow like a club as he lifted blue eyes up to view the intruder.
It was Ezra Powell as House last saw him—alive. Ezra is wearing the hospital robe he died in, which pretty much wasn't doing much to improve the man's gaunt appearance. On the old man's wrists and ankles are what first appeared to be white fluffy bands.
"Good evening, Dr. House," Ezra said in a wheezy voice.
"Evening, Ezra," House said. "Nice muffs."
Ezra grinned—the effect made him more ghoulish.
"I'm not here for compliments, House," the old man wheezed. "I've been sent here to warn you that you're about to have company."
"Oh, wow," House said sarcastically, leaning backwards back into his bed. "Tell the 'visitors' to take it to the hospital—I'm not in the mood, its way past my bedtime and this is all a fucking side-effect of the pills and booze, which I intend to sleep off. Buzz off, Ezra"
House lay down on his back. When he turned his head to his left, he made a high-pitched yell and jumped; Ezra has somehow managed to end up on the other side of the bed!
"Listen to me, you ass," Ezra snarled, raising himself on his elbows and stretching out a long, thin arm out to House. "I've been sentenced to purgatory and manacled to the lab rats I sacrificed in the name of science. Look!"
House looked—what he thought was a white fluffy band turned out to be a stretched out white lab rat. The creature's entire body was wrapped around Ezra's delicate-looking wrist and clung on to its victim by sinking its teeth into the flesh.
"The only reason I wasn't sent to Hell was because I also treated the sick," Ezra said as he turned to get off House's four-poster bed. "They tell me I'm this close to getting a one-way pass to Hell if I don't succeed in making a better person out of somebody who's kind of similar to me."
"So, what happened to Kevorkian?" House asked sarcastically. Ezra just smirked; there was no humor in that smirk.
"Believe me, I'd rather try saving him than you," Ezra wheezed. "But, here we are, and we have to make the best of it. Anyway, you're about to have three visitors tonight. They arrive within 25 minutes of each other; your first visitor arrives in ten minutes. For once in your miserable life, listen!"
With that, Ezra leaned forward, stretched out a wrinkly arm and pulled a whisker off House's face.
"Gah!"
House woke up with a start. He was lying in the middle of his bed. The comforter was still wrapped around him and the pillow was still on his face.
"I knew it was a dream," he grumbled as he pulled the pillow off his face.
House didn't notice that his alarm clock was not on his night table.
Should I continue?