It was just their luck they got stuck in the Pullman that happened to be haunted. It was a rather old Pullman, Mike had gotten the tickets at a bargain, 'cause no one else wanted the car. Hoping for a good night's sleep, they had all got settled in fairly quickly. That was when the moaning started.
"Gee Peter, you must really be feeling badly," Micky said worriedly.
"That was't be," Peter said with a sniff.
"Really?" Micky asked, baffled. "Mike, was it you?"
"Nope, wasn't me," The Texan replied. "Davy, was it you?"
"No way, man," Davy said. "Micky, was it you?"
"Of course it wasn't me, I started this whole thing," Micky said.
"Well, then, who was it?" Mike asked sitting up.
"I don't know," Micky said. "But I hope they don't do it again. That was one creepy sound."
"OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo ..."
"You're right," Davy said, as he, Micky and Peter all sat up in their beds, looking at each other fearfully. "That was really creepy."
"Yeah, you said it!" Micky said.
Peter nodded and sneezed. "Wha'd'ya thik it is?" he asked.
"I don't know," Micky said, chuckling nervously. "Maybe a friendly spirit, or a nice little ghost, who can tell at this time of night?"
Suddenly a ghostly figure in a white robe materialized out of nowhere.
"I am the ghost of Christmas past," she said in a singsong voice, silvery hair flowing down past her waist.
"Christmas Past?" Davy asked in disbelief. "You must be joking! Christmas isn't for months yet!"
"Oh, really?" The ghost asked, looking around. "Whoops, this wasn't my stop. Where is this?"
"You're in a Pullman sleeping car, on a train heading for Emerson," Mike told her.
"Oh," the ghost said. "You don't say? Well, I'd better be going then. Goodbye, boys!"
With that, she disappeared.
"Well, that takes care of that problem," Mike told the others. "Now, let's try and get some sleep."
"Alright," Davy said. "Goodnight, everybody."
"Yeah, goodnight," Micky said.
They all got settled back into their beds. Peter sneezed.
"Bless you," four voices chorused. Everyone sat back up slightly and froze. They all looked at Mike, who pointed at Davy, Micky, and himself and counted. "One, two three..." He said, eyes wide.
"Who's number four?" Micky asked nervously.
"I'm right here, my boy, don't you see me?" Said a strange voice, coming from nowhere, or, everywhere.
"Oh boy," Mike said. "It's another ghost."
"Of course I am," said the voice. "What else would I be, after becoming dead? That's the way it works, you know."
"Any chance you're the ghost of Christmas Present?" Micky asked nervously.
"Of course not! Why would I be the ghost of Christmas Present, pray tell? No, I am the ghost of Charles Forthwright," said the voice, as another figure materialized in the air. It was a man, about sixty years of age, and he was wearing a pompous sort of brown suit and he had a funny little mustache. "I have haunted this car for twenty years!"
"Twenty years?" Davy asked. "Why twenty years?"
"Because that's how long I've been dead, nitwit!" Charles said.
"Hey, that's a rotten thing to say!" Micky exclaimed.
"I'm a rotten person!" Charles said with a snicker. "Twenty years of decomposing isn't exactly good for your health, you know!"
"So, why are you haunting this car?" Mike asked, fearing he already knew the answer.
"I died in this car, twenty years ago!" Charles said proudly.
"You died in this car!?" Micky asked, his eyes wide. "Yealch! That means one of us is sleeping on the bed you died on!"
Peter let out a low moan. "I do't wadda sleep od a deathbed!"
"It's okay, Peter, calm down," Mike said. "It might not've been your bed. Besides, if it was twenty years ago, the bed's been cleaned, the sheets have been replaced, maybe they even replaced the bed entirely. It doesn't matter which bed he died on."
"It was yours," Charles said to Mike.
"Oh, sweet mother of mercy," Mike said, jumping off of his bed in disgust. "You died on this bed? That's sick, man!"
"You think you have it rough," Charles said defensively. "Imagine what it was like for me!"
"Well, what do you want with us," Davy asked. "Why're you talking to us anyway?"
"It's been so long since I had visitors," Charles said with a sigh. "I just wanted to have someone to talk to, maybe listen to my story."
"Oh, well, that's alright," Micky said. "We can listen to his story, right guys?"
Mike hesitated. "I don't know, Micky," he said. "I mean... He's dead. He shouldn't be able to tell us his story."
"Yeah, dead men tell no tales," Davy said.
"Exactly!" Charles said. "I think that's why they killed me. Only it didn't work, because here I am, talking as if I never died! Hee hee, it's really quite amusing, when you think about it."
"So, wait a minute," Mike said. "Who's "they," and what did they kill you for?"
"Perhaps 'twould be best if I started from the beginning," Charles said.
"Yeah, perhaps it 'twould be," Mike said, sitting on the edge of Davy's bed.
"It all started twenty years ago," Charles said. "I was a prosperous lawyer returning to New York, where my law firm, Locke and Forthwright, was becoming quite profitable."
"Oh, it makes sense now," Mike said. "You were a lawyer. I get it."
Charles sputtered indignantly. "Why," he said. "The impudence! I have never heard the like!"
"Anyway, go on with your story," Micky said.
"Well," Charles went on. "There were two young men traveling with me, my assistant and a client who had been accused of embezzlement."
"Bless you," Micky interrupted.
"I said embezzlement," Charles explained.
"Bless you again," Mike told him.
"I said- Oh never mind," Charles said. "My client had been accused of stealing money from his company."
"Why, that's dreadful!" Davy exclaimed.
"Yes, yes, he thought so too," Charles said. "At any rate, I fell asleep there, in that bed." He pointed at Mike's bed. Mike looked at it and shuddered.
"And then," Charles said. "In the middle of the night, I was rudely awoken by a man wearing a dark hood over his face! He had a rag with him, and he tried to hold it up to my nose. I tried to stop him, but he had the element of surprise, you see, and he held the rag up against my nose. It smelled sweet, and then I got very tired, and the next thing I know, I'm floating around up here, and nobody can see me!"
"But I cad see you dow," Peter pointed out.
"Yes, well, I've had a lot of practice at this sort of thing now," Charles said. "But for the first five years, all I could do was moan a little bit every now and again. That's beside the point, however. The police decided I'd died in my sleep, of old age. Ha! I was merely sixty-two at the time of my death. I was at my prime!"
"If this is what his prime looked like, I'd hate to see when he was down on his luck," Micky muttered to Davy, who chuckled.
"But I know better," Charles said, not having heard the insult. "I was murdered!"
"I'll bet it was that guy who stole money from the bank," Micky said.
"You know, I have a feeling you're right," Charles said. "I just can't prove anything, because the rag was never found."
"Well, what about your testimony?" Micky asked. "You were an eye-witness!"
"My testimony!" The lawyer exclaimed with a guffaw. "My boy, I'm a ghost! I can't leave the place of my death, believe me, I've tried. Besides, without solid evidence, it would be my word against his. And even then, I can't say for certain who it was that killed me. The defense attorney would use that tidbit of information as the basis for his entire case! No, my testimony is good for nothing, I'm afraid."
"You mean whoever the murderer is is still at large?" Mike asked.
"Yes, and he always will be, at this rate," Charles said with a sigh. "But, who are you to be weighed down by the troubles of an old man? Thank you boys for listening to my tale. It was nice to have visitors one last time."
"Wait a minute," Davy said. "What do you mean, one last time?"
"Why, this car is scheduled to be disassembled in the morning. It's on it's way to a factory in Emerson where it will be taken apart, from top to bottom."
"Well, no wonder the tickets were cheap," Mike said.
"I have a question, Charles," Micky said.
"Yes, my boy, what is it?" Charles asked.
"You said the rag was never found," Micky said. "Do you know if the murderer hid it in this car?"
"I believe he did, yes," Charles said. "Why do you ask?"
"Well," Micky said. "If this car is going to be disassembled tomorrow, and the rag is still in this car, wouldn't the murderer want to come and get it before it reaches Emerson?"
Everyone looked at him.
"Okay," Mike said. "We've gotta get out of here."
"Not so fast," said a voice. Everyone turned to see a man standing in the doorway, holding a gun and glaring at everyone in the car.
"Donaldson!" Charles said with a gasp. "What are you doing here?"
"Donaldson?" Micky asked. "Is he the bank thief?"
"Not even close," Donaldson said. "I'm Frederick H. Donaldson, Lawyer and head of the prosperous law firm, Locke and Forthwright. But twenty years ago, I was only a lowly assistant, always running errands for this pompous old fool."
"Pompous!?" Charles sputtered. "Fool!? How dare you, Donaldson! You insolent pup! I taught you everything you know!"
"Ha!" Donaldson said. "Hardly! I know quite a bit more than you do, old man! For one, I know that Locke died in a mysterious accident only a year after your death here. For another, I know that I inherited your law firm, and became quite the rich lawyer! And finally, I know that once this car is demolished, you won't be a threat anymore. You'll hit the rock bottom of all the ghosts, you'll become a homeless ghost! Ha! The great and mighty Charles Forthwright, haunting a junk heap!"
Donaldson laughed, and then he settled back down. "Now then," he said. "Let's get down to business. I'm going to get that rag before this car reaches Emerson, and then I'm going to kill the four of you."
"What!?" The Monkees exclaimed.
"Why would you kill us, man?" Mike asked.
"Yeah," said Micky. "What'd we ever do to you?"
"You all know who I am and what I've done," Donaldson said. "It doesn't matter if I'm the greatest, most crooked lawyer in the world. With four live witnesses, I'd never be able to snake my way out of a murder charge. But if I kill the four of you, you'll go straight to being homeless ghosts along with your new neighbor, Mr. Forthwright over here. Now then, all of you, up against the wall."
The four Monkees stood up and walked over to the wall, Peter coughing as he did so.
"Peter, you alright?" Mike asked quietly as Donaldson began to dismantle Peter's bed.
"Yeah," Peter said with a sniff. "Hey Bike?" He said, turning to Mike. "If I die whed I have the flu, do you thik by ghost'll have the flu too?"
"Don't worry about that," Mike said. "Nobody's dying on my watch. I'll figure out a way out of this, don't worry."
"Hey!" Donaldson exclaimed, standing up from where he'd been examining the wall. "Hey, the rag's not here!"
"What!?" Mike asked. "It's not there!?"
"Yeah, I know I left it there," Donaldson said, looking wildly around the room. "Folded up really tight, stuffed in a tiny crack in the wall. But it's not there anymore!"
"Oh..." Peter said, paling slightly.
Donaldson stared at him. "You found it?" He asked in bewilderment. "How did you find it? It's been hidden for twenty years!"
"Well, I doticed the crack id the wall," Peter said. "Ad I woddered what id was doig there, so I looked, ad I foud the handkerchief, ad I deeded to sneeze, so..."
Donaldson looked livid. "Hand it over!" He said, reaching out his hand to Peter. "Hand it over now, or I swear-" He pointed his gun at Peter, but that was as far as he got, because as soon as the gun was raised to point at the blonde, the other three Monkees yelled angrily and moved to defend him.
While the Monkees were usually chicken when it came to situations involving dangerous weapons like guns, all bets were off when it came to defending one of their own. Micky pulled Peter out of the line of fire as Mike wrestled the gun out of Donaldson's hands and Davy tackled him to the ground.
"Let's go," Mike said, pulling Davy to his feet before Donaldson had a chance to figure out what happened, let alone get back up to fight. The four of them ran out of the car as behind them, Donaldson let out an angry roar and Charles yelled for them to run, run, and don't look back.
That's exactly what the Monkees did, running from car to car, trying to get as much distance between Donaldson and themselves that they possibly could.
Finally, they stopped running and moved to hide. Mike found an empty bed in one of the more public sleeper cars, and the four of them climbed up and hid, drawing the curtains closed behind them.
"Hey, Peter doesn't look so good," Micky whispered worriedly. Mike looked over at Peter, who was panting and slightly red faced. He put his hand up to feel Peter's forehead.
"Yeah, he's got a fever," Mike said. "Let's just hope Donaldson doesn't find us."
They heard the car door open, and Donaldson came stomping in. Davy peeked out of the curtains. "He's not really searching," he whispered. "He's just going on to the next car."
Mike and Micky breathed a sigh of relief. Peter sneezed. All four of them froze.
"He's coming!" Davy whispered, backing away from the curtain.
"I'b sorry," Peter whispered in horror as Donaldson's footsteps grew louder.
"It's all right, Pete," Mike whispered. "You couldn't help it."
"Aha!" Donaldson cried, pulling back the curtain. "I've found you!"
"Don't murder us, please!" Micky begged. "I want to live! I want to live! I don't wanna be a homeless ghost! Oh, cruel world!"
"Shut up, kid," Donaldson hissed. "You wanna wake up the whole car!?"
The Monkees looked at each other.
"Hey! There's a murderer over here," Davy yelled, leaning out of the bed and pointing at Donaldson. "He's got a gun, and he's trying to kill us!"
"He's a lawyer," Micky called out at the same time. "He's a lawyer with a gun, and he's gonna kill us all!"
"Help us, help us, gun, pointing," Mike said, almost disinterestedly, barely heard over the sound of Davy and Micky.
"He's gonna shoot us, if you don't call for security," Davy was yelling.
"He's a dangerous criminal, he's already murdered before," Micky called out.
"Shoot, kill, he's gonna shoot, he's got a gun, it's pointing, at us, oh help us," Mike kept rambling, sounding almost bored.
"Hey, what's going on here?" Demanded a guard, coming in at the sounds of the shouting people, for the boys had been joined in their efforts by a few other people who had woken at the sound and began screaming when they saw the guy with the gun.
"Officer, officer," Davy said as everyone quieted down. "It's this guy, his name is Frederick Donaldson and he's a murderer!"
"The famous lawyer?" The guard asked in surprise. "Are you sure you boys caught the right man?"
"Yeah, he's the right man alright," Mike said. "He admitted it to us and then he chased us all the way here with a gun, threatening to kill us."
"Ad I'b got the handkerchief right here," Peter added, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and handing it to the officer.
"Well, what do you know," the guard said, examining the handkerchief. "This has your initials on it, Mr. Donaldson. F. H. D. embroidered on the corner, right here."
"Oh," Donaldson cringed. "I knew I should have come back years ago. That's what you get for procrastinating."
"Mr. Donaldson, you're under arrest," the guard said, handcuffing the lawyer's hands behind his back. "You're gonna need a good lawyer."
He turned to the Monkees before leading Donaldson away. "Thank you boys," he said. "You've helped catch a crooked lawyer and you solved a twenty year old train mystery."
"Oh, it was no trouble at all," Davy said. "We're just glad we were able to help."
"You said it," Mike said. "Now, let's go back to bed. All this excitement's tired me out, and I'm sure Peter needs all the rest he can get."
Turning to Peter, they saw that the blonde had fallen asleep right where he was, exhausted from the chase and the fright, and still sick to boot. Mike hated to wake him up, but they had to get back to their car.
Once they got there, Charles let out a long sigh of relief and wiped his forehead with his hand. "Oh, thank goodness you're safe," he said. "I tried to stall him when he got up, but he just ran right through me! It was quite a strange sensation, let me tell you!"
"Yeah, well, the police caught him," Mike said. "He'll be going straight to jail the moment this train pulls into the station."
"Oh, what a relief!" Charles said. "After twenty years, to know that my killer is getting justice, why, I feel like a live man again!"
"Hey, sorry about your car getting dismantled in the morning," Micky said. "What are you going to do once you get to that junkyard?"
"Oh, I won't be going there," Charles said. "Now that you've caught my murderer, I can finally move on to the next life. In fact, I only stuck around this long to thank you boys. So, thank you!"
With that, the ghost of Charles Forthwright disappeared, never to haunt the sleeping car again.
"Boy, I'm glad that's over," Davy said. "How's Peter?"
Mike looked over at Peter, who had fallen asleep on his bed the moment they got in the car.
"He's asleep now," Mike said. "So, providing we don't have any more mishaps on the rest of this trip, he should be feeling much better in the morning."
"That's good," Micky said. "Now, I don't know about you guys, but I feel like I could sleep for hours. Goodnight!"
"Goodnight, Micky," Davy said with a yawn. "I'm pretty tired myself. Good night, Mike."
The two boys climbed into their beds and fell asleep almost instantly.
Mike sighed and looked at his bed. He just couldn't get over the fact that Charles had died in it, despite the fact that they weren't the same sheets, or possibly even the same bunk.
Taking his pillow, he laid down on the ground of the car. He was so tired, it didn't even feel that uncomfortable.
"Good night, guys," He said to the sleeping Monkees around him. Then he drifted off to sleep himself.