Disclaimer: I don't own A Christmas Carol (a story everyone should read at least once), and I own none of the cartoon characters in the story.

Author's Note: This was an idea I had for a long while. Those reading in this section might expect another "Muppet Christmas Carol" redux (admittedly a wonderful movie), but that is not the case; I want this one to be quite faithful to the original book, while still keeping the characters' personality. For an excellent example of this, I suggest you read Super Hyper Mario 128 III's Mario Christmas Carol story—it's the best one I've seen on the site.

Although this story uses text from the original book, there is one line I'm using from the movie "Scrooge" (another excellent movie). See if you can find it—and while I'm on that note, see if you can guess the characters playing the parts the book doesn't name yet (Scrooge's nephew and Bob Cratchit).

A * means I used text exactly from the book. I'll try not to do that a lot.

Enjoy!

Stave I

Brain's Ghost

The Brain was dead, to begin with. There's no doubt at all about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Zim signed it, and no one questioned Zim, least they be devoured by giant mutant rats. The Brain was as dead as a doornail

…

You know, that phrase doesn't really make much sense when you think about it. A doornail can't be dead, nor can it be alive. It'd be much more accurate to say "as dead as a corpse", or "as dead as…um…another guy who's dead." Then again, those don't really fit well. Hmm…about "as dead as—"

"GET ON WITH IT!!!!"

Right, right, sorry. Anyway, for simplicity's sake, we'll just say that the Brain was as dead as a doornail.

Zim knew he was dead? Well, how couldn't he? The Brain and Zim were partners for I don't know how many years. Zim was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Zim didn't particularly care about the event, merely stating that he had been "a good businessman for an inferior stink-beast rodent."

This brings me back to the beginning. There's no doubt whatsoever that the Brain was dead. I know you're probably sick of hearing that by now, but it's one fact that must be made clear, or nothing will seem wondrous about the story I'm going to tell. If we didn't know that Hamlet's father was dead before the play began, we'd think that he was either playing a very dark joke on his son, or trying to drive him cuckoo. And if we didn't know that Son Goku's grandpa was dead, we wouldn't understand anything about the Four Star Dragon Ball's meaning to him. And if we didn't know that nearly every Disney hero or heroine had a single parent…

"GET ON WITH IT!!!!!"

Right, sorry again.

Zim never painted out the Brain's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: ZIM AND BRAIN. Some called Zim Zim and some called Zim Brain—until they were chased out by robot squids. That gave some motivation to remember who was who.

Oh, but he was a tightfisted hand at the grindstone, Zim—a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, maniacal, and mentally unbalanced sinner. Hard and sharp as flint; secret and self-contained, as solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his green Irken features, nipped the space where his nose would have been, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, and spoke out in his grating (some called it obnoxious) high-pitched voice. He always spread his own low temperature around him by icing his office and barely using any coal, even on Christmas. It didn't matter to him—temperature had little effect on Zim. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him.

Rich and poor people alike all avoided him—except the occasional idiot, who would invite him for tea, and receive a flamethrower as a response. No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, not of Zim.* Even the blind men's dogs seemed to know him, and would pull their owners out of the alien's path.

But what did Zim care? Let the earth stink avoid him! He liked being alone, with the only person worthy of his magnificent intelligence, charm, good looks, and modesty—himself.

Once upon a time—it was Christmas Eve, how about that?—Zim sat busy in his counting house. It was cold, bleak biting weather with fog coming in—but one would be colder upon coming into the counting house.

Zim had kept his door open to keep his eye on his clerk, a big brown dog, who sat trying to both copy letters, and warm himself at his feeble fire. Zim had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But as much as he wanted more, the coal-box was in Zim's room, and every time the clerk would try to sneak in for more, Zim would mutter some remark about "cutting down on my expenses by firing useless stink-beast clerks." Thus, the clerk put on his scarf and tried to warm himself at the candle; a futile effort.

"Merry Christmas Uncle Zim!" It was the voice of Zim's nephew, a chubby Irken only a little taller than Zim himself, who had come in so quickly that this was Zim's first knowledge of his entrance.

"BAH HUMBUG!" Zim shouted out of nowhere. Nonplussed (having knowledge of his uncle's behavior) Zim's nephew nonetheless continued the conversation carefully; the last time he'd aroused his uncle's temper, he had been on the receiving end of a rocket launcher.

"Christmas a humbug uncle? Now really, you can't mean that…"

"Do not tell Zim what he does and does not mean!" snapped Zim.

"Do you even know what a 'humbug' is?"

"Ummm…" After thinking for a few seconds, Zim decided to do what he always did when he couldn't think—shout.

"SILENCE!! Merry Christmas—pah! Why are you so 'merry?' You have no right to be, considering the status of your wealth!"

Un-offended, Zim's nephew simply replied with a small smile, "By that logic, you should be the happiest man in the world—but you're clearly not. Care to explain?"

Zim opened his mouth—and then realized he couldn't think of an answer. After having his mouth open for a minute or two, he closed it and merely responded with another "BAH HUMBUG!"

"Oh, don't be such a grouch, Uncle."

Zim scowled. "You expect me to be anything else when I live on a planet of idiotic Earth stink? Merry Christmas—poopies to Merry Christmas! What's Christmas but a time for paying bills without moneys, a time for finding yourself a year older and not an hour richer? If ZIM ruled the world," and here he paused to admire that lovely mental image, "every stupid Earthling who said 'Merry Christmas' would be boiled with his pudding, buried with a steak of holly through his heart—and fed to a MOOSE!"

"Uncle, really…"

Zim stopped him. "I have an excellent idea to solve this argument. Keep Christmas your way, and let me keep it in mine."

His nephew blinked in confusion. "But…you don't keep it…"

Realizing his mistake, Zim quickly replied, "That's what I said—let me…um…don't keep it."

"No it wasn't, you said…"

"DO NOT QUESTION ZIM!!! Bottom line: Christmas hasn't done me any good at all! It won't do you any good either!"

"That's not true Uncle. I may not have profited from Christmas, but I've always thought of it as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time. It's the only time I know of when Earthlings open up their hearts to others and to think of those below them as their equals. So, Uncle, while Christmas might not have put a single piece of money in my lap, I know Christmas has done me a world of good, and I say, God bless it!"

From the other room there was clapping. "Good speech, Mister Zim's Nephew! That was a good speech, definitely, definitely a good speech." Quickly, however, he silenced his noise, as his employer leered over, with a sinister smirk snaking onto his face.

"Tell me, clerk drone," he said quietly, "do you think you can enjoy Christmas without a job?"

The clerk gulped. "Um…I don't know sir. Definitely don't know."

"Well, make one more sound, and you'll find out! Understand?" The clerk nodded quickly and returned to his copying. Zim turned back to his nephew. "As for you, why don't you go into Earth politics, with the other empty headed blowhards?"

"Don't be like that, Uncle. Come and have dinner with us."

Zim rolled his eyes. "No."

"Oh come on! Why not?"

"Perhaps I'll answer that question when you tell me why you married that disgusting Earth woman."

His nephew shrugged. "I fell in love." Zim stared at him…and burst into maniacal laughter.

"HA HA HA HA!!! Love! The Earth term for sexual attraction! The one thing more ridiculous than a Merry Christmas!" Chuckling, he returned to counting his money. "Good afternoon."

"You said you'd answer my question if I answered yours."

"I changed my mind. Good afternoon."

"Uncle, you never came to my house before. Why use my wife as an excuse?

"Good afternoon!" Zim replied for the third time, his good humor evaporating into irritation.

"But I don't want anything from you. Why can't we be friends?"

"Good afternoon!"

"I'm sorry you're so adamant about this. I don't recall us ever having an argument--well, except for all those times you've hurt me. But I invited you in the spirit of Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas spirit to the last. Merry Christmas, Uncle!"

"GOOD AFTERNOON!"

"And a Happy New Year!"

Before Zim could rise to throttle him, his nephew had left the room, stopping to bestow the same greetings upon the clerk, who returned them eagerly.

"They're all mad," Zim muttered to himself. "My clerk, a working man with fifteen shillings a week, a wife and children, and still he talks of a Merry Christmas. Madness! MADNESS!"

"Uh, Mister Zim?" His clerk leaned his head forward. "There's three people to see ya. Says it's important, definitely, definitely important."

Zim waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, yes. Send them in." But no sooner had he given his permission, than a large cloud of smoke suddenly burst forth. Coughing, Zim said, "W-what's going on?"

"Prepare for trouble—and social worker calls!" A woman's voice called from the smoke.

"Make it double—and give the poor a ball!" A man's voice answered her.

"To protect the world from economic strife!"

"To unite our cause and make it our life!"

"To give those less fortunate a place to eat!"

"And fashionable clothing for their body and feet!"

"JESSIE!"

"JAMES!"

"Team Rocket, blast off at the speed of light!"

"Surrender your donations now, or prepare to fight, fight, fight!"

A bizarre cat like creature dropped down. "Meowth! Dat's right!"

"Wobbuffet!"

Zim stared at the people before him, for once at a complete loss for words.

Jessie laughed. "Another spectacular entrance boys! It always leaves them speechless!"

Zim finally recovered. "And WHAT, pray tell, do you…whatever you are…want?"

James stepped forward. "I apologize for our sudden entrance. Do we have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Zim, or Mr. Brain?"

Zim glared at him. Just my luck the robot squids are undergoing maintenance. "As Mr. Brain died seven years this day, I highly doubt that you're speaking to him."

"Dat's a shame," Meowth replied. "But I'm sure his heart lives on in your business."

It certainly did, for they had been two kindred spirits. Zim, however, merely snorted, and returned to counting his money. The three looked at each other uncertainly.

"Well, Mr. Zim," Jessie said, "We represent TRAP-- the Team Rocket Association for Poor. At this time of the year, it's usual for us to make extra effort in our quest to find the poor some relief. Hundreds are in poverty, and thousands are forced to live out on the street, without a roof over their heads."

Zim looked up. "Are there none of your human prisons?"

James nodded. "Lots of those, sir."

"And the Union workhouses—they're still in operation, aren't there?

Jessie shuddered. "Yes. But I wish they weren't; they make the prisons look like hotels."

"Good! From what you'd said, I thought that something had happened to impede their functions." He then returned to his business, and the three looked at each other again. Clearly, this was not the response they had been expecting.

"Well Mistah Zim," Meowth continued, "since da poor don't have a happy Christmas most o' the time, some of us planned to raise a fund to buy them meat and cheer for the holidays. What should we put you down for?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing," Jessie repeated. "Oh—you want to make an anonymous donation?"

"No." A close look would have shown it to be wise to cease the conversation, as the alien's clutching fist showed rising temper.

Unfortunately, Jessie, James and Meowth were not known for their intelligence.

"I see!" James said brightly. "You want to pay in credit!"

"No."

"You wanna use Debit?"

"NO."

"You want to—"

"NO!!" Zim shouted, his short temper finally snapping. "I do not now, nor do I ever plan, to give my moneys to filthy homeless stink-beasts!!! My moneys go towards the establishments I mentioned, and they cost too much as it is! Those badly off should go there!"

Jessie's mouth opened in horror. "But they can't go there! Those places are brutal—many would rather die!"

"Good! This planet is already overpopulated with filthy putrid Earth scum! Now then, good afternoon!"

Jessie's horror turned to anger. "You little—I'm gonna tear your—"but she was grabbed by James and Meowth.

"We'll be seeing ourselves out then," James replied pleasantly, as he dragged the thrashing woman out, trying to calm her. Zim returned to his labors, with an improved opinion of himself.

Outside, the cold grew sharper and more piercing, as the fog grew in effect as well, providing a chilling, blind sighted view of the streets. Those in rich manors, and even those in average looking homes, were able to enjoy the fascinating sight in front of a warm fire—those on the street were front row witnesses, and had no such commodity.

One of the street's occupants, a young boy with two very large front teeth and a pink hat, stepped up to Zim's warehouse, in hopes of earning some money. But at the first sound of his squeaky

"God bless ye merry gentlemen!
May nothing you dismay—

Zim pushed a button and the boy's singing turned to screams, as the security lawn gnomes suddenly blasted forth lasers from their eyes.

Finally, it was seven o' clock. Begrudgingly, Zim arose and informed the clerk of this fact, who excitedly rose from his desk, his tongue panting.

"You'll want the entire day off, I suppose," Zim said in a bored tone.

"Um…if it's okay with you Mister Zim."

"Okay?! Not only is it not 'okay', it's downright maddening! Were I to pay you an extra half-crown for the day, you would doubtless think yourself abused. Yet you don't seem to think the same of ZIM when I pay a day's wages for no work!"

"Um…" The clerk didn't quite know how to respond—Zim had used a lot of big words. "Um…well it's Christmas! Definitely, definitely Christmas."

Zim snorted. "A poor excuse for picking Zim's pocket every December the 25th." Nonetheless, he took the clerk's wages from his money, including those for tomorrow.

The clerk smiled. "Thanks Mister Zim. You're real nice, definitely nice."

"Yes, it's my one weakness. I'm a martyr to my own generosity." Seeing the clerk's blank look, Zim groaned. "Never mind, just get out! And be here all the earlier the next morning!"

Promising that he would (with many a "definitely") both men walked out; one in a happy gallop, the other in a cold strut. The clerk galloped out, and stopping at a slide in Cornhill, with a lane of boys, went down it twenty times, in honor of it being Christmas. Then he ran home to Camden Town, as fast as his four legs could carry him.

Zim took his usual gloomy dinner in his usual gloomy tavern (Irkens could not normally eat Earth food, but Zim had lived on Earth long enough to adapt), and having already counted his "moneys" went home. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but Zim, the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Zim, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if some wind demon sat in mournful meditation on the threshold.*

Now, before we continue, I must remark that there was nothing out of the ordinary about Zim's knocker. I must also remark that Zim had seen it night and day, every time he went out and went in, and also, that he had as little imagination as possible (except for his images of ruling the world). And I must also say that Zim hadn't thought once about the Brain, not since those morons had mentioned him.

So, let any man explain why, as Zim pulled out his keys, he saw not a knocker, but the Brain's face!

Brain's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar.* It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Zim as the Brain always looked—that perfectly cold, logical expression. Its white fur seemed curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid color, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part or its own expression.*

As Zim stared perplexedly, it was a knocker again.

To say that Zim was not startled, or even terrified, would be untrue. Still, he put his key in the door, turned it, and walked inside, holding a candle. As he went in, he couldn't help looking behind the knocker, half expecting to see the Brain's tiny body—but there were only screws and bolts. "Pah!" Zim responded and closed the door with a bang.

Now Zim's staircase was large enough for a hearse—a horse wagon for funerals—to get up and gallop back down again. That might have been the reason why, as Zim walked upwards, he thought he saw one going on before him in the gloom. The darkness was too heavy for him to make sure.

Up Zim went, not caring at all for that—darkness is cheap, and Zim liked it. But before he shut his door, he walked through his doors to check for anything. He had just enough memory of the face to do that.

Satisfied with his search, Zim took his little saucepan of gruel, closed his door, locked and double-locked his door (something he didn't usually do). Secured against surprise, he put on his dressing gown and nightcap, and sat down towards his fire.

It was a very low fire, hardly useful on such a bitter night, and Zim was obliged to sit close and brood over it, before extracting the least amount of warmth. The fireplace was an old one, built by Avery, Clampett, McKimson, and Jones. Its tiles showed various figures—rabbits, ducks, mice, chickens; and yet that image of the Brain's head came back to swallow them all up. If each tile had been blank at first, there would have been a picture of the Brain's head on each one.

"BAH HUMBUG!" Zim shouted, as he walked across the hall.

His eyes than wandered to a bell, hanging on the top of the hall, hanging with some forgotten purpose. It was with great astonishment, that he saw the bell begin to ring—softly at first, than loudly, along with every other bell in the house.

The sound might have lasted a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells stopped together. Quickly following them, however, was a clanking noise, deep below, as though chains were being dragged over the wine caskets in the cellar. Zim than remembered hearing that ghosts in haunted houses were known to drag chains.

The cellar-door opened, and the noise became much louder—on the floors, up the stairs, straight towards his door.

"BAH HUMBUG AGAIN!" Zim shouted. "I will not believe it!"

But he grew quiet and pale when, without a warning, it came through his door and right in front of his eyes. The fire leaped out, as if crying "The Brain's ghost!" and died out.

It was the Brain. The same white mouse, with a large head, and red eyes. The one difference was his size—Brain had been a regular sized mouse, but the ghost was large enough to come up to Zim's waist. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel.* His body was transparent, so that Zim could see straight through him.

But Zim did not believe it. Though he stared the phantom directly in the face, though he felt the chilling influence of its eyes, and observed the texture of the handkerchief around his head, still he fought against his senses.

"Well!" Zim remarked, attempting to summon his haughty tone of voice. "What do you want?"

"Much." The Brain's voice, no mistake.

"Who are you?"

The ghost rolled its eyes. "I no longer am, you green dolt. Ask me who I was."

"Fine—who were you?"

"In life, I was your partner, and world-renowned genius—the Brain." He shuddered. "Though some gave me the nickname 'Noodle Noggin'".

Zim stared at him doubtfully. "Can you sit down?"

"I can."

"Then do it!" He asked the question because it might have been embarrassing if the ghost had been unable to do such a thing (ordinarily he didn't care for such a thing as "manners", but this was quite a different situation). But the spirit sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, as though it were quite used to it.

"You don't believe in me." It was not a question—a cold observation.

The ghost stating it seemed to give Zim confidence. "No I don't! Zim does not believe in ridiculous things like ghosts!"

"Understandable. I myself showed a disdain towards the supernatural in life. Yet, here I am, right in front of you, able to be seen and heard. What other evidence do you need?"

"I—I don't know."

"Why do you doubt your senses?"

"Because," said Zim, "even superior Irken senses like mine can be fooled so easily. Some disorder in the squeedly spooch can make them—um, not good! You might be an undigested bit of beef, a blob of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato! There's more of gravy than of grave about you! HA! What do you say to Zim's razor sharp wit?!"

"I'd say it needs some sharpening," the Brain replied dryly.

Disturbed by this response (for it was so very like the Brain), Zim leapt to the fireplace and grabbed a toothpick. "You see this pick of teeth?"

"Yes."

"Well, all I have to do is swallow it, and be tormented by ghosts like you for the rest of my life! BAH HUMBUG I SAY!! BAH HUM"—

But he was interrupted as the ghost suddenly rose and began a horrible moan, clanking its chain together with such a horrible noise, that Zim could barely keep himself from fainting. Then, to his horror, the ghost removed its handkerchief atop its head, and its lower jaw dropped to its chest!

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Zim dropt to his knees, all his bravado gone. "Please stop, STOP!"

"Man of the worldly mind," replied the Ghost, speaking even through its extended mouth, "do you believe in me or not?!"

"Yesss, yesss! Zim believes! But why does your spirit walk the earth, and why come to me?!"

"It is required of every man," the ghost replied, grabbing its mouth and tying its handkerchief again, "that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men. If not in life, that spirit is condemned to do so after death! Oh Yes! It is doomed to wander through the world and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth and turned to happiness!" Again the spirit gave a dreadful moan.

Zim looked at the phantom in horror. "W-why do you wear that bondage? Are you—a prisoner of some kind?"

"A prisoner of my own design! I wear the chain I forged in life; link by link, yard by yard, I made and wore it of my own free will! Is its pattern strange to you?" The ghost suddenly came very close to Zim. "Or...can you guess the weight of the strong coil you bear yourself?"

Zim's face went the color of bad porridge. "I—have a chain like that?"

"Hardly. Yours was as big and as long as this seven Christmas Eves ago—and you have labored on it since. It is a ponderous chain!"

Zim's eyes darted nervously around the room, as though expecting to find himself bound by fifty feet of strong coil. "B-but I don't want to wear a chain! T-this is a very dark joke, isn't it Brain? Yes—just like my friend to joke with me." There was no reply. "Please, speak comfort to me Brain! COMFORT I SAY!"

"If you want comfort, go talk to Oprah," the ghost snapped. "Comfort comes from other regions, Zim, and is conveyed by other messengers, to other kinds of men. Nor can I tell you all I would. I have little time—I cannot rest, I cannot stay anywhere! When I walked this earth, my spirit never walked beyond the walls of our money-changing hole and now, I pay the price! Weary journeys lie ahead of me!"

Zim glanced upwards nervously, and quickly put them downward again. "You—must walk very slowly."

"Slow?"

"W-well—you haven't rested for seven years?"

"Always traveling. Always suffering."

"You travel fast?"

"Like the wind."

"Well, I think you could cover this planet in seven years." But he instantly regretted his words, as the spirit again began to moan and clank its chain together. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please stop!"

"Oh captive bound and double-ironed," cried the phantom. "Not to know, that ages of incessant labor, by immortal creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed. Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused! Yet such was I! Oh, Yes! Such was I!"

"B-but, you weren't bad, Brain! You were a good man of business!"

"Business!" The ghost wringed its hands, as if in pain. "Mankind was my business! Kindness, mercy, charity, good will towards my fellow men—that was my business! My trade was but a drop in the ocean of my business!"

It held its chain up, and glared at it, as though it were responsible for all the spirit's pain.

"At this time of the year, I suffer most. Why, why did I walk among crowds of people with my eyes always turned down, never up, up towards that star which lead the Wise Men to their destination?! Was there no blessed sanctuary it might have guided me to?!" At this point, Zim was little more than a pile of green quivering goo.

"Hear me. My time is almost gone. I came back, out of pity, to warn you—you still have a chance to avoid my fate."

"Oh thank you, Brain!" Zim leapt upward in delight. "I knew you wouldn't do this to me, no, not to ZIM! How can I ever—"

"You will be haunted by three more ghosts."

Zim's grateful blubbering halted. "Um…is this the chance you talked of?"

"Yes."

"I see." Zim nodded. "Then, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll pass."

"I'm afraid that's not an option—without these spirits, you have no chance of avoiding my fate. Expect the first ghost tomorrow when the bell tolls one."

"The first ghost? Can't they all come to Zim at once, and get it over with?"

"Not unless you want to cut this story to an inordinately short length."

"…What?"

"Expect the second ghost the next night, at the same hour," said the ghost, as if it had said nothing. "The third, the next night, when the last stroke of twelve passes. Look no more for me, and, for your sake, remember what has passed between us!"

The spirit rose, and walked over the window, which, at the spirit's beckoning, opened. It rose, and Zim, in surprise, followed it. Suddenly, it halted, and pointed out the window. Zim looked—and his eyes widened in horror.

The air was awash in ghosts. All were bound in chains, like the Brain. Some had smaller ones, some had larger, but all had the same expression of misery—and all moaned. The Brain's ghost hesitated, than floated out to join them, its moaning joining in the terrifying cacophony that chilled Zim to the bone. Then, as suddenly as they appeared, they disappeared—and the sky was calm again.

Zim looked out, and closed the window, his heart racing. Examining his door, he found it locked and double-locked, as he had left it. He tried to shout, "BAH HUMBUG!" but the words were stuck in his throat at the first syllable. Instead, without a word, he ran to his bed, and without undressing, went to sleep.

Sorry it was so long. The other chapters will be shorter. Read and review please!