A Season For The Dead
A Christmas Ghost Story
Chapter One: The Trouble with Sherman McCauley
Baddeck, Nova Scotia — December 2026
There were two things the residents of Baddeck, Nova Scotia, took very seriously.
The first was Christmas.
The second was making absolutely certain their neighbours knew they took Christmas more seriously than anyone else.
By the first week of December, the little village on the shores of Bras d’Or Lake had transformed itself into something resembling an explosion at the North Pole.
Every lamppost wore a wreath. Every shop window glittered with lights. Enormous illuminated snowflakes hung above Chebucto Street, while garlands of spruce and red ribbon stretched between buildings in such quantities that one might reasonably suspect the entire province had run out of greenery.
The village Christmas committee, an organisation whose members approached holiday decorating with the strategic determination of military commanders, had spent eleven months preparing for the festivities.
There were illuminated reindeer.
There were singing snowmen.
There was a twelve-foot inflatable Father Christmas outside the village bakery, which had already broken free of its moorings twice and was now secured to the building with enough rope to restrain a fishing vessel.
And there were lights.
Good heavens, there were lights.
Thousands upon thousands of them.
Wrapped around trees, draped across fences, hanging from rooftops, and blinking in elaborate patterns that made driving through the village after dark an experience not entirely unlike being interrogated by an exceptionally festive police officer.
The electricity company was undoubtedly delighted.
The local wildlife was considerably less enthusiastic.
One unfortunate raccoon had already been discovered sleeping inside a hollow plastic snowman, while a family of squirrels had taken up residence in a decorative sleigh outside the post office.
But the crowning achievement was the village Christmas tree.
Standing proudly near the waterfront, it was a magnificent spruce decorated with enormous red baubles, silver ribbons, and nearly ten thousand tiny lights.
At its summit sat a golden star.
A very expensive golden star.
A star that had required three committee meetings, two fundraising events, and one spectacular argument over whether it should be gold or silver.
And on the morning of 5 December, that star disappeared.
Not fell.
Not broke.
Disappeared.
In its place, someone had installed a large pair of red woollen underpants.
‘I’m telling you, it was deliberate!’
Mrs Beatrice MacIntyre stood beneath the village Christmas tree, her cheeks almost as red as the offending garment fluttering above her.
Beatrice was seventy-eight years old, president of the Christmas committee, and a woman who had never knowingly allowed a situation to remain under her control when she could exercise considerably more control over it.
She pointed upwards.
‘Look at them!’
Constable Daniel Fraser looked.
He had been looking for the better part of twenty minutes.
‘Yes, Mrs MacIntyre. I can see them.’
‘They’re enormous!’
‘They certainly are.’
‘And they’re on my Christmas tree!’
Daniel considered pointing out that the tree technically belonged to the village.
He decided against it.
‘We’ll make enquiries.’
‘Enquiries? I want an investigation!’
‘We are investigating.’
‘Then investigate harder!’
Daniel sighed.
He had joined the local RCMP detachment because he enjoyed helping people.
He had not anticipated spending his Saturday morning investigating the unlawful placement of oversized underwear on a Christmas tree.
‘Has anyone seen anything suspicious?’
Beatrice folded her arms.
‘Well, that’s just it.’
‘What’s just it?’
‘There have been other incidents.’
Daniel looked at her.
‘What sort of incidents?’
She leaned closer.
‘Someone rearranged the reindeer outside the pharmacy.’
‘Rearranged them?’
‘In a most inappropriate manner.’
Daniel closed his eyes briefly.
‘Right.’
‘And the snowman outside the bakery has been turning round every night.’
‘Turning round?’
‘Facing the other way in the morning. Every morning.’
‘Perhaps the wind—’
‘Snowmen do not rotate in the wind, Constable.’
Daniel thought that depended rather heavily on the snowman.
But he said nothing.
Beatrice lowered her voice.
‘And somebody keeps changing the Christmas music in the square.’
Daniel frowned.
‘Changing it?’
‘Yesterday morning we were playing traditional carols. By lunchtime it was some dreadful Scottish drinking song.’
Daniel looked towards the loudspeakers mounted along the street.
‘Perhaps someone connected to the system.’
‘At six o’clock this morning it played a recording of someone snoring.’
Daniel stared.
Beatrice nodded grimly.
‘For forty-three minutes.’
A gust of wind swept across the waterfront.
High above them, the red underpants fluttered magnificently.
Daniel rubbed his forehead.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Beatrice looked upwards again.
‘And get those things down before the tourists arrive!’
Three streets away, Sherman McCauley was having the most splendid morning he’d enjoyed in thirty-seven years.
‘Oh, that was magnificent!’
He stood outside the bakery, bent nearly double with laughter.
‘Did you see her face?’
A large black crow perched on the railing beside him.
It regarded Sherm with an expression of profound disapproval.
‘Don’t look at me like that, you miserable feathered undertaker. That woman has been terrorising Christmas committees since before I died.’
The crow gave a sharp call.
‘And frankly, the tree looks better.’
Sherm straightened his coat.
He was a tall, lean gentleman with a magnificent shock of dark hair, an impressive pair of eyebrows, and the sort of face that suggested he had never encountered a rule he couldn’t improve by ignoring.
He wore a dark wool overcoat, a red scarf tied rather extravagantly around his neck, and a battered brown pirates hat that sat at an angle no respectable hatmaker would have approved of.
His boots were polished.
His trousers were pressed.
And his expression was one of absolute satisfaction.
Sherman McCauley had been dead since Christmas Eve, 1989.
He regarded this as a minor inconvenience.
Being dead had certain disadvantages, of course.
He missed hot tea.
He missed buttered toast.
He missed the occasional whisky.
And he particularly missed being able to tell people what he thought of them and having them actually hear it.
But death also offered certain advantages.
One could walk through walls.
One never had to pay taxes.
And, under the right circumstances, one could interfere with Christmas decorations without being arrested.
Sherm considered this last benefit especially valuable.
‘Now,’ he announced, rubbing his hands together, ‘we have a rather important matter to attend to.’
The crow tilted its head.
‘Don’t give me that look.’
‘Caw.’
‘I’m perfectly aware of the rules.’
The bird called again.
Sherm looked around.
Then leaned closer.
‘And there’s absolutely no need to keep reminding me that I’m not supposed to be here.’
Because there was one small problem with Sherman McCauley’s delightful return to Baddeck.
He wasn’t supposed to be back.
Not yet.
Not for another nineteen days.
The rules governing the dead were remarkably straightforward.
Or at least they had been until Sherman McCauley became involved.
On Christmas Eve, when the clock struck midnight and Christmas Day began, certain departed souls were permitted to return to the places they had loved in life.
For twenty-four hours, they could walk among the living.
They could visit familiar streets, watch their families celebrate, and occasionally enjoy the small pleasures of a world they had left behind.
There were restrictions, naturally.
No frightening children.
No interfering with the living.
No stealing.
No revealing oneself.
And absolutely, under no circumstances, was anyone permitted to remain after Christmas ended.
Sherm had managed to violate four of these rules during his first permitted visit in 1990.
By 1994, he had been formally reprimanded.
By 2001, his name had become familiar to those responsible for supervising the annual Christmas return.
And by 2015, a special provision had reportedly been added to the regulations.
No deceased individual shall attempt to operate, relocate, dismantle, or otherwise interfere with mechanical Christmas decorations.
Sherm considered this a personal attack.
The incident involving the mechanical reindeer had been grossly exaggerated.
And the resulting fire had been very small.
Besides, nobody had been injured.
Except the reindeer.
And possibly Father Christmas.
But this year was different.
This year, Sherm had a problem.
A rather serious problem.
One he had created himself.
And one that required his immediate attention.
Unfortunately, solving it meant returning to the living world nineteen days before he was permitted to do so.
Sherm had therefore done what any reasonable gentleman would do under the circumstances.
He had found a loophole.
A small loophole.
A temporary loophole.
A loophole which, strictly speaking, wasn’t actually a loophole at all.
But he was here.
And that was what mattered.
‘Now then,’ he said to the crow. ‘Where did we leave the cat?’
The crow stared at him.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost him.’
‘Caw!’
‘Well, he was your responsibility.’
The bird launched itself from the railing and flew towards the waterfront.
Sherm hurried after it.
‘And don’t you dare tell anyone about the underpants!’
At approximately half past eleven that morning, three university students arrived in Baddeck.
They had driven from Sydney, hoping to spend the day photographing the village’s famously enthusiastic Christmas decorations.
There was twenty-one-year-old Sophie Campbell, a photography student with an expensive camera and an unfortunate tendency to investigate things that sensible people left alone.
Her friend Liam MacNeil was studying history and possessed a remarkable memory for obscure facts that nobody had asked him to remember.
And then there was Grace MacDonald, who had come along primarily because she had been promised lunch.
‘I’m freezing,’ Grace announced as they stepped out of the car.
‘We’ve been outside for thirty seconds,’ Sophie replied.
‘That’s thirty seconds too long.’
Liam looked towards the waterfront.
‘Good grief.’
The enormous Christmas tree stood before them.
Its lights twinkled.
Its silver ribbons glittered.
And at the very top, a pair of red underpants flapped merrily in the wind.
Grace stared.
‘Is that what I think it is?’
Sophie lifted her camera.
‘Oh, that’s brilliant.’
Liam squinted.
‘Are those underpants?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Why?’
Grace shrugged.
‘Maybe it’s a Canadian tradition.’
Liam gave her a look.
‘We’re Canadian.’
‘Then we should know better.’
Sophie began taking photographs.
The tree.
The waterfront.
The decorations.
The furious elderly woman arguing with a constable beneath the branches.
And then, quite by accident, she captured something else.
A man.
Standing beside the bakery.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Wearing a battered brown pirates hat and a red scarf.
He appeared to be laughing.
Sophie barely noticed him.
She lowered her camera.
‘Come on. Let’s get some pictures of the shops.’
They wandered towards Chebucto Street.
None of them noticed the crow following overhead.
And none of them noticed the man in the brown hat suddenly stop laughing when he saw Sophie’s camera.
‘Oh, bugger.’
Sherm stared after the students.
The crow landed on a nearby fence.
‘Caw.’
‘Yes, I saw it.’
‘Caw!’
‘Well, how was I supposed to know the blasted thing could photograph me?’
He looked towards the students disappearing down the street.
This was unfortunate.
Very unfortunate.
The dead were not supposed to appear in photographs.
Not under ordinary circumstances.
Not unless something had gone terribly wrong.
Sherm glanced towards the sky.
‘Now, before you become unnecessarily dramatic, I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.’
The crow spread its wings.
‘Don’t you start.’
A black-and-white cat emerged from beneath a parked vehicle.
It was a handsome creature, with a white chest, white paws, and a black face marked by a narrow white stripe.
Sherm pointed at it.
‘There you are!’
The cat sat.
‘Where have you been?’
It began washing its shoulder.
‘We’ve been looking everywhere.’
The cat continued washing.
Sherm looked towards the crow.
‘Honestly, the pair of you are utterly hopeless.’
The crow gave a furious squawk.
‘Oh, don’t be so sensitive.’
Sherm crouched beside the cat.
‘Now listen carefully, you furry little menace. We have a situation.’
The cat looked up.
‘A minor situation.’
The crow called.
‘All right, a moderately serious situation.’
Sherm glanced towards the students.
‘And if those young people discover what they’ve photographed, we’re going to have a considerably larger situation.’
He stood.
Straightened his scarf.
Adjusted his hat.
And smiled.
‘Fortunately, I have a plan.’
The crow immediately flew away.
The cat disappeared beneath the vehicle.
Sherm stared after them.
‘Oh, that’s charming!’
By early afternoon, Sophie, Liam, and Grace had settled into a small café overlooking the street.
Grace was halfway through a sandwich.
Liam was drinking coffee.
Sophie was reviewing her photographs.
‘Look at this one.’
She turned her camera towards them.
The Christmas tree filled the screen.
Grace laughed.
‘You have to send that to me.’
‘Wait until you see the next one.’
Sophie scrolled.
A photograph of the bakery.
A row of illuminated candy canes.
A snowman wearing a tartan scarf.
Then another photograph of the bakery.
She stopped.
‘That’s odd.’
Liam looked up.
‘What?’
‘This man.’
She zoomed in.
The dark-haired gentleman stood beside the bakery window, laughing at something outside the frame.
‘What about him?’ Grace asked.
Sophie frowned.
‘He wasn’t there.’
Liam leaned closer.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I don’t remember seeing him.’
Grace shrugged.
‘You were taking pictures of everything. You probably didn’t notice.’
Sophie studied the image.
The man’s clothing looked old-fashioned.
Not particularly strange.
Just unusual.
His hat was battered.
His scarf was absurdly long.
And there was something about his expression.
As though he knew a joke nobody else had heard.
Liam reached towards the camera.
‘Hang on.’
Sophie looked at him.
‘What?’
He leaned closer.
‘Zoom in on his face.’
She did.
Liam went very still.
Grace noticed.
‘What?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Liam?’
He took the camera.
Stared.
Then slowly lowered it.
‘That’s impossible.’
Sophie frowned.
‘What is?’
Liam looked towards the window.
Then back at the photograph.
‘I’ve seen him before.’
Grace smiled.
‘Well, maybe he’s famous.’
‘No.’
Liam shook his head.
‘Not famous.’
He hesitated.
‘Not exactly.’
Sophie leaned forwards.
‘Then who is he?’
Liam swallowed.
‘Sherman McCauley.’
Grace blinked.
‘Who?’
‘Sherm McCauley.’
He stared at the photograph.
‘My grandfather used to tell stories about him.’
Sophie laughed.
‘What sort of stories?’
Liam shook his head.
‘You wouldn’t believe half of them.’
‘Try us.’
Liam looked towards the street.
‘Apparently he once stole the village Christmas tree.’
Grace nearly choked on her coffee.
‘What?’
‘Not the decorations. The entire tree.’
Sophie grinned.
‘Why?’
‘He thought it was too small, so he took it home and replaced it with one from his own property.’
Grace burst out laughing.
‘That’s fantastic.’
‘He also released a dozen geese during a Christmas pageant because he thought the children looked bored.’
Sophie laughed.
‘What happened?’
‘The geese attacked Father Christmas.’
Grace put down her sandwich.
‘I’m beginning to like this man.’
Liam nodded.
‘Everyone did. That’s the thing. He drove people absolutely mad, but apparently nobody could stay angry with him.’
He looked at the photograph again.
‘My grandfather said Baddeck was never quite the same after Sherm died.’
The laughter stopped.
Sophie stared at him.
‘Died?’
Liam nodded.
‘Christmas Eve, 1989.’
Grace looked from Liam to the camera.
Then back again.
‘Hang on.’
Sophie slowly turned the screen towards herself.
The man in the photograph smiled back at her.
‘You’re telling me this man has been dead for thirty-seven years?’
Liam nodded.
Grace stared.
Then reached for her coffee.
‘Right.’
She took a long drink.
‘Well, that’s ruined Christmas.’
Across the street, Sherman McCauley was attempting to retrieve a camera from a café without anyone noticing.
It was not going particularly well.
‘Right,’ he whispered. ‘Simple enough.’
He stood beside the café’s front door.
The crow perched above him.
The cat sat beneath a bench.
‘We go inside, locate the photographic contraption, remove the offending picture, and leave.’
The crow tilted its head.
‘No complications.’
‘Caw.’
‘No unnecessary drama.’
‘Caw!’
‘And absolutely no improvisation.’
The cat yawned.
Sherm took a breath.
Then walked directly through the café door.
Unfortunately, he had forgotten one rather important detail.
He could pass through doors.
But he could not pick up cameras.
‘Ah.’
He stopped beside Sophie’s table.
The students were still examining the photograph.
Sherm leaned over Liam’s shoulder.
‘Oh, that’s a dreadful picture.’
Liam shivered.
‘Did someone open a window?’
Grace looked around.
‘No.’
Sherm studied the camera.
‘Honestly, look at my hair. I resemble a startled sheep.’
He reached towards it.
His fingers passed through the casing.
‘Blast.’
Sophie frowned.
‘Did you feel that?’
Liam looked up.
‘Feel what?’
‘Something cold.’
Sherm waved a hand in front of her face.
‘Yes, yes, very mysterious. Now would you kindly delete the photograph?’
Sophie shivered again.
Grace looked towards the window.
‘Maybe there’s a draught.’
Sherm sighed.
‘A draught. Wonderful. I’ve been reduced to a draught.’
Then he noticed something on the table.
A small paper napkin.
He reached towards it.
Nothing.
He tried again.
The napkin fluttered.
Sherm froze.
‘Oh.’
He concentrated.
The napkin lifted slightly.
‘Oh, now that’s interesting.’
The crow appeared outside the window.
It struck the glass with its beak.
Sherm looked towards it.
‘Not now. I’m experimenting.’
He concentrated harder.
The napkin rose from the table.
Grace stared.
‘Did that just move?’
Sophie looked down.
The napkin floated several inches into the air.
Liam’s mouth fell open.
Sherm grinned.
‘Ha!’
The napkin shot upwards.
Struck the ceiling.
And burst into a flurry of tiny white fragments.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Grace whispered, ‘What the hell was that?’
Sherm looked at the ceiling.
Then at his hands.
‘Well.’
He smiled.
‘That was rather impressive.’
Outside, the crow screamed.
And somewhere very far away, a bell began to ring.
Sherm stopped smiling.
He knew that bell.
It was not one of Baddeck’s church bells.
It was not a clock.
And it most certainly was not part of the Christmas festivities.
It was the sound of a rule being broken.
A serious rule.
The sort of rule that resulted in paperwork.
And Sherm had always despised paperwork.
The bell rang again.
He looked towards the window.
The crow was gone.
The cat had vanished.
And standing on the opposite pavement was a tall figure dressed entirely in black.
The figure wore a long coat.
A narrow-brimmed hat.
And carried a small leather case.
Sherm groaned.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’
The figure slowly turned towards the café.
Sherm recognised him immediately.
Mr Pritchard.
Senior Inspector of Seasonal Returns.
A man who had once informed Sherm that his conduct was ‘an embarrassment to the deceased community’.
Sherm had responded by putting a live lobster in his briefcase.
The inspector had never forgiven him.
And now he was standing outside the café.
Nineteen days before Christmas.
Looking directly at Sherm.
‘Well,’ Sherm muttered, adjusting his scarf, ‘this is awkward.’
Mr Pritchard raised one gloved hand.
And pointed.
Sherm smiled.
A broad, innocent smile.
The sort of smile that had preceded almost every disaster in his lifetime.
‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’
Pritchard did not smile.
He reached into his coat.
Removed a small black notebook.
And opened it.
Sherm’s expression changed.
‘Oh, no.’
The inspector began writing.
‘Not the notebook.’
Pritchard continued writing.
Sherm looked towards the students.
Then towards the rear of the café.
Then back at the inspector.
‘Right.’
He straightened his hat.
‘Time for Plan B.’
Unfortunately, Sherm had not yet invented Plan B.
This had never stopped him before.
He turned.
Marched confidently towards the kitchen.
And walked straight through the wall.
Outside, Mr Pritchard closed his notebook.
He looked towards the café.
Then towards the enormous Christmas tree standing near the waterfront.
The red underpants fluttered above the village.
The inspector sighed.
He had been responsible for Sherman McCauley for twenty-seven Christmases.
During that time, he had issued fourteen formal warnings, six temporary restrictions, and one permanent prohibition against allowing Sherm anywhere near livestock.
But this was different.
Sherman McCauley had returned to the living world before Christmas.
He had somehow made himself visible to a camera.
And now he was beginning to interact with physical objects.
Pritchard looked down at his notebook.
Beside Sherm’s name, a small red mark had appeared.
He stared at it.
Then opened the leather case.
Inside lay a collection of official documents, a silver pocket watch, and a sealed envelope.
The envelope bore three words.
UNAUTHORISED EARLY RETURN
Pritchard broke the seal.
He read the first line.
His expression hardened.
Then he read the second.
For the first time in more than a century, the inspector looked genuinely alarmed.
‘Oh, McCauley.’
He closed his eyes.
‘What have you done?’
At the rear of the café, Sherm emerged through the kitchen wall directly into a tray of freshly baked mince pies.
He could not eat them.
He could not touch them.
But he could smell them.
And that, frankly, seemed unnecessarily cruel.
‘Oh, magnificent.’
He inhaled deeply.
‘Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Butter.’
A young kitchen assistant walked through him carrying a tray of mugs.
She shivered.
‘Bloody cold in here.’
Sherm stepped aside.
‘You should try being dead, love.’
He peered through the kitchen window.
Mr Pritchard was still outside.
Reading something.
Sherm frowned.
‘That’s not good.’
He knew the inspector.
Pritchard was irritatingly thorough.
Painfully punctual.
And utterly devoid of humour.
If he had arrived in Baddeck this early, it meant someone had noticed Sherm’s little excursion.
Which meant the situation was worse than he’d hoped.
Sherm looked towards the waterfront.
Then towards the cemetery beyond the village.
He had nineteen days to put things right.
Nineteen days to correct the mistake.
Nineteen days before the proper Christmas return.
And if he failed—
Well.
He preferred not to think about that.
He adjusted his scarf.
‘Right, Sherman.’
He smiled to himself.
‘Nothing to worry about.’
Then a familiar black crow landed on the kitchen windowsill.
The bird looked at him.
Sherm looked back.
‘Oh, don’t you start.’
The crow gave a single, furious call.
Sherm sighed.
‘Yes, I know.’
He glanced towards the street.
‘We’ve made rather a mess of things.’
The crow tilted its head.
Sherm grinned.
‘But Christmas is a time for miracles, isn’t it?’
He stepped towards the wall.
‘And if there’s one thing I’ve always been good at—’
He paused.
Considered the statement.
Then shrugged.
‘Well, I’ve always been good at making things interesting.’
And with that, Sherman McCauley disappeared through the kitchen wall.
Leaving behind a tray of mince pies, three bewildered university students, one deeply irritated inspector, and a village that had absolutely no idea what was coming.
Because Christmas in Baddeck was about to become considerably more complicated.
And Sherman McCauley had only just begun.
End of Chapter One
Next: Chapter Two — The Inspector, the Cat and the Christmas Catastrophe
------------
A SEASON FOR THE DEAD
A Christmas Ghost Story
Chapter Two: The Inspector, the Cat and the Christmas Catastrophe
Baddeck, Nova Scotia — December 2026
There was nothing Sherman McCauley disliked more than being told what to do.
Except perhaps being told what to do by someone wearing a bowler hat.
And Mr Pritchard, Senior Inspector of Seasonal Returns, was wearing a particularly offensive one.
‘McCauley!’
Sherm stopped halfway through the wall of the village bakery.
He looked over his shoulder.
‘Oh, do keep your voice down. People will think we’re arguing.’
‘We are arguing!’
‘Well, there’s no need to make a spectacle of it.’
Mr Pritchard stood in the narrow alley behind the bakery, his black overcoat buttoned to the throat and his leather case clutched beneath one arm.
He was a tall, painfully thin gentleman with a complexion resembling old parchment and the general disposition of a man who had been forced to attend a party against his will.
Sherm had known him for twenty-seven years.
He had disliked him for twenty-six years, eleven months, and approximately three weeks.
The first week had been quite pleasant.
Then Pritchard had introduced the regulations.
‘You are in direct violation of Article Seven, Section Four, Subsection B of the Seasonal Return Agreement.’
Sherm sighed.
‘Oh, here we go.’
‘You have entered the living world nineteen days before the authorised return period.’
‘Eighteen and a half, actually.’
‘Nineteen!’
‘Well, if we’re going to be pedantic about it.’
Pritchard opened his notebook.
Sherm groaned.
‘Must you?’
‘Furthermore, you have interfered with municipal Christmas decorations, manipulated physical objects, and allowed yourself to be photographed.’
Sherm raised one finger.
‘In my defence, the photograph was taken without my consent.’
‘You are dead, McCauley!’
‘Yes, thank you. I had noticed.’
‘You have no business being here!’
Sherm glanced towards the bakery window.
Inside, a young woman was arranging gingerbread biscuits.
‘Technically, I’m not in a business. I’m in an alley.’
Pritchard closed his eyes.
A muscle twitched beneath his left eye.
Sherm considered this a promising development.
‘You are coming with me.’
‘Am I?’
‘Immediately.’
‘How unfortunate.’
Sherm stepped fully through the wall.
Pritchard seized his collar.
Or attempted to.
Sherm ducked.
Pritchard’s hand passed through the bricks.
For one glorious second, the inspector appeared to be embracing the bakery.
Sherm smiled.
‘You really must stop throwing yourself at buildings. People will talk.’
Mr Pritchard straightened his coat.
‘Enough.’
Sherm folded his arms.
‘Agreed. I’ve had quite enough of you myself.’
The inspector opened his leather case.
Inside lay a small silver pocket watch, several neatly folded documents, and a black velvet pouch.
Sherm eyed the pouch.
‘Oh, don’t tell me you’ve brought the restraints.’
‘If necessary.’
‘Honestly, Pritchard. It’s Christmas.’
‘It is the fifth of December.’
‘Exactly. Practically Christmas.’
‘Christmas is nineteen days away.’
‘You must be tremendous fun at parties.’
Pritchard removed the pocket watch.
Its hands moved in opposite directions.
Sherm watched it carefully.
He had seen that watch before.
It was not a timepiece in the ordinary sense.
It measured something considerably more troublesome.
Time remaining.
Not until Christmas.
Not until midnight.
But until a departed soul’s permission to remain among the living expired.
Pritchard clicked it open.
The hands began spinning.
Then stopped.
The inspector frowned.
He tapped the glass.
Nothing.
He shook it.
The hands moved briefly, then stopped again.
Sherm leaned closer.
‘Broken, is it?’
Pritchard’s expression darkened.
‘That is impossible.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t worry. Things break. My neighbour’s washing machine broke in 1974. Flooded the entire kitchen. Dreadful business.’
Pritchard looked at him.
‘What have you done?’
Sherm blinked.
‘To the washing machine?’
‘To the boundary!’
Sherm’s smile faded.
Only slightly.
But enough.
‘Now, there’s no need to become theatrical.’
‘McCauley.’
‘I’ve done nothing of the sort.’
Pritchard stepped closer.
‘The watch cannot determine your return time.’
‘Perhaps it needs winding.’
‘It has never needed winding.’
‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’
The inspector stared at him.
‘You didn’t simply return early, did you?’
Sherm adjusted his scarf.
‘Define simply.’
Pritchard’s eyes narrowed.
‘How did you get here?’
Sherm looked towards the sky.
‘Beautiful weather we’re having.’
‘McCauley.’
‘Bit chilly, admittedly.’
‘Sherman.’
Sherm sighed.
‘Oh, very well.’
He leaned closer.
‘There may have been a door.’
Pritchard went completely still.
‘What door?’
Sherm hesitated.
‘A small one.’
‘Where?’
‘Well, that’s rather difficult to explain.’
‘Where, McCauley?’
Sherm looked at his boots.
Then at the bakery.
Then at a particularly interesting patch of snow.
‘In the wrong place.’
For several seconds, Mr Pritchard said nothing.
Sherm considered this a personal triumph.
Then the inspector whispered, ‘You opened a passage.’
Sherm winced.
‘Opened is such an accusatory word.’
‘You opened a passage between the living and the dead.’
‘Only a little one.’
‘There is no such thing as a little passage!’
‘There certainly was. I had to crawl.’
Pritchard stared at him.
Sherm smiled weakly.
‘Very undignified.’
The inspector removed his hat.
For the first time in twenty-seven years, Sherm saw that Mr Pritchard was almost entirely bald.
He found this enormously satisfying.
Unfortunately, the inspector’s next words rather spoiled the moment.
‘If that passage remains open, anything could come through.’
Sherm looked away.
‘Yes.’
Pritchard noticed.
‘McCauley?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Has something already come through?’
Sherm became deeply interested in the bakery’s drainpipe.
‘Sherman.’
‘Well, you see—’
‘What came through?’
Sherm sighed.
‘A cat.’
Pritchard stared.
‘A cat?’
‘A very handsome cat, actually. Black and white. Rather superior attitude.’
The inspector looked positively ill.
‘You brought an animal through the passage?’
‘Not intentionally.’
‘How does one accidentally bring an animal through a forbidden passage?’
Sherm considered the question.
‘It followed me.’
‘And you allowed it?’
‘Have you ever tried telling a cat what to do?’
Pritchard pressed his fingers against his temples.
‘Where is it now?’
Sherm looked around.
The alley was empty.
‘Ah.’
Pritchard closed his eyes.
‘You’ve lost it.’
‘Misplaced.’
‘You’ve misplaced a creature from the other side.’
‘Temporarily.’
‘McCauley!’
Sherm threw up his hands.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, man! It’s a cat, not a bloody dragon!’
From somewhere above them came a loud crash.
Both men looked up.
A large plastic reindeer toppled from the bakery roof.
It struck the pavement.
Bounced once.
And landed directly on Mr Pritchard.
The reindeer was not particularly heavy.
Nor was Mr Pritchard particularly solid.
Nevertheless, the impact was spectacular.
The inspector disappeared beneath a tangle of plastic antlers, electrical wiring, and artificial snow.
Sherm stared.
Then he began laughing.
Not politely.
Not discreetly.
But with the helpless, wheezing laughter of a man who had just witnessed something so magnificent that thirty-seven years of death seemed entirely worthwhile.
‘Oh! Oh, that’s marvellous!’
Pritchard struggled to his feet.
The reindeer’s head remained lodged around his neck.
Sherm clutched his stomach.
‘You look like a Christmas ornament!’
‘GET THIS THING OFF ME!’
‘Hold still. I must remember this.’
‘McCauley!’
Sherm leaned against the wall.
‘Oh, if only I had one of those photographic contraptions.’
The inspector tore the reindeer from his shoulders.
Its nose lit up.
A cheerful electronic voice announced, ‘Merry Christmas!’
Sherm collapsed into another fit of laughter.
Pritchard looked towards the heavens.
‘Why me?’
From the roof came a single, triumphant caw.
Sherm looked up.
The crow stood beside the broken mounting bracket.
Its head tilted proudly.
Sherm wiped an imaginary tear from his eye.
‘You magnificent creature.’
Pritchard followed his gaze.
‘That bird.’
Sherm straightened.
‘What bird?’
‘The crow.’
‘Oh, that old thing?’
Pritchard stared at it.
Then at Sherm.
‘You brought a crow as well?’
Sherm hesitated.
‘Well, technically—’
‘McCauley!’
The crow flew away.
Sherm watched it go.
‘There goes your witness.’
Meanwhile, at the café on Chebucto Street, Sophie Campbell was discovering that photographing a dead man was considerably more complicated than she had anticipated.
‘I’m telling you, it’s him.’
Liam MacNeil had spent the last twenty minutes searching through old photographs on his laptop.
Grace sat opposite him, finishing a second sandwich.
She had decided that if she was going to experience a supernatural event, she would prefer not to do so on an empty stomach.
‘Look.’
Liam turned the screen.
A black-and-white photograph filled the display.
It showed a group of men standing outside a building decorated for Christmas.
The photograph was dated December 1976.
In the centre stood Sherman McCauley.
He wore a dark coat, a battered hat, and an expression of immense satisfaction.
Behind him, an enormous Christmas tree lay horizontally across the street.
A handwritten caption beneath the photograph read:
Sherman McCauley and the Christmas Tree Incident.
Sophie leaned closer.
‘That’s definitely him.’
Grace studied the photograph.
‘He looks exactly the same.’
‘Because he’s dead,’ Liam said.
Grace looked at him.
‘Thank you, Liam. That clears everything up.’
Sophie enlarged the image.
‘Look at his scarf.’
The red scarf hung loosely around Sherm’s neck.
The same scarf.
The same hat.
The same ridiculous grin.
‘There’s no way that’s a coincidence.’
Liam shook his head.
‘My grandfather said Sherm was the most extraordinary man he’d ever known.’
Grace raised an eyebrow.
‘Extraordinary how?’
‘He was always doing something.’
‘Such as?’
Liam smiled.
‘Apparently he once convinced half the village that the Christmas parade had been cancelled because Father Christmas had been arrested.’
Grace laughed.
‘Why?’
‘He wanted to organise his own parade.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it better?’
Liam grinned.
‘Apparently it involved a fishing boat, two goats, a bagpiper, and a man dressed as the Queen.’
Grace stared.
‘That’s brilliant.’
‘The mayor didn’t think so.’
Sophie looked back at the photograph.
‘What happened to him?’
Liam’s smile faded.
‘He died on Christmas Eve, 1989.’
‘How?’
‘Heart attack, I think.’
Sophie studied Sherm’s face.
‘He doesn’t look like someone who’d go quietly.’
Liam laughed.
‘According to my grandfather, he didn’t do anything quietly.’
Grace reached for her coffee.
‘Well, if he really is wandering around Baddeck, I hope we meet him.’
Sophie smiled.
‘We already have.’
Across town, Sherm had acquired a new problem.
The cat was sitting inside the village’s largest illuminated Nativity display.
Specifically, it had installed itself in the manger.
Where the baby Jesus was supposed to be.
Sherm stood before the display, hands on hips.
‘Oh, that’s just disrespectful.’
The cat yawned.
‘Get out.’
It blinked.
‘Immediately.’
It stretched.
Sherm looked towards the crow.
‘Do something.’
The crow landed on the stable roof.
The cat closed its eyes.
Sherm sighed.
‘Wonderful. A conspiracy.’
He approached the manger.
The Nativity display had been constructed by the Christmas committee and featured life-sized figures, carefully arranged straw, and a collection of plastic sheep.
A small speaker played gentle instrumental carols.
Sherm reached towards the cat.
His fingers passed through its fur.
‘Oh, come on.’
He tried again.
Nothing.
The cat began purring.
Sherm stared.
‘You can see me. You can hear me. You can apparently follow me through the boundary between life and death. Yet I can’t pick you up.’
The cat rolled onto its back.
Sherm folded his arms.
‘You’re enjoying this.’
A voice spoke behind him.
‘Sherman McCauley.’
Sherm closed his eyes.
‘Oh, for the love of—’
He turned.
Mr Pritchard stood beside the display.
His coat was crooked.
His hat was missing.
And a small piece of artificial snow remained lodged in his collar.
Sherm smiled.
‘Inspector. You’ve changed.’
Pritchard ignored him.
He stared at the manger.
Then at the cat.
‘There it is.’
‘Yes. Quite.’
The inspector approached cautiously.
‘Come here.’
The cat opened one eye.
‘Come along.’
It closed the eye.
Pritchard frowned.
‘You are required to return to your proper realm.’
Sherm snorted.
‘Good luck with that.’
The inspector reached into his coat and produced a small silver whistle.
Sherm’s expression changed.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t—’
Pritchard blew.
No sound emerged.
At least, no sound that the living could hear.
But the cat sat bolt upright.
The crow launched itself from the roof.
And every plastic sheep in the Nativity display turned its head.
Sherm stared.
‘Oh, dear.’
The sheep began moving.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
One stepped out of the display.
Another followed.
A third toppled over the wooden fence.
Pritchard stared in horror.
‘That shouldn’t happen.’
Sherm looked at him.
‘You don’t say.’
The mechanical sheep began marching across the pavement.
The cat leapt from the manger.
The crow screamed.
And from the speaker came a sudden burst of extremely loud bagpipe music.
Sherm grinned.
‘Oh, this is going to be good.’
Within three minutes, Baddeck’s Christmas celebrations had descended into complete confusion.
The mechanical sheep marched down Chebucto Street in a crooked procession.
The Nativity display’s donkey began braying.
The illuminated reindeer outside the pharmacy flickered wildly.
And the twelve-foot inflatable Father Christmas outside the bakery suddenly broke free of its moorings.
Again.
It rose into the air.
Turned slowly.
Then drifted towards the waterfront like an enormous red balloon.
Mrs Beatrice MacIntyre emerged from a shop carrying a bag of Christmas decorations.
She stopped.
Stared.
And screamed.
‘NOT AGAIN!’
Constable Fraser came running.
‘What’s happened?’
Beatrice pointed towards the sky.
‘FATHER CHRISTMAS IS ESCAPING!’
Daniel looked up.
The enormous inflatable figure drifted over the street.
One arm waved cheerfully.
Its electronic voice announced, ‘Ho, ho, ho!’
Daniel stared.
‘Right.’
Behind him, the mechanical sheep marched past.
He looked down.
Then back up.
Then at Beatrice.
‘I’m going to need a moment.’
Sherm was having the time of his life.
‘Look at them go!’
He stood beside the Nativity display, laughing as the sheep continued their procession.
Mr Pritchard looked as though he might suffer a fatal medical episode.
Which, considering his condition, would have been an impressive achievement.
‘Stop them!’
Sherm wiped his eyes.
‘How?’
‘You caused this!’
‘Actually, you blew the whistle.’
Pritchard glared.
Sherm smiled.
‘Important distinction.’
The cat trotted past them.
Its tail held high.
The crow landed on the inspector’s shoulder.
Pritchard froze.
‘Remove that bird.’
Sherm looked at the crow.
‘He seems comfortable.’
‘McCauley.’
‘Perhaps he’s taken a liking to you.’
The crow deposited something unpleasant on the inspector’s coat.
Sherm stared.
Then burst out laughing again.
Pritchard closed his eyes.
‘I’m going to have you permanently confined.’
Sherm straightened.
‘Now, there’s no need to be unpleasant.’
‘You have broken the boundary, released an unauthorised creature, interfered with the living, and caused a public disturbance.’
Sherm considered this.
‘Yes, but look how festive everyone is.’
A woman screamed as a mechanical sheep collided with her shopping trolley.
Sherm winced.
‘Well, most people.’
Pritchard opened his notebook.
Sherm groaned.
‘Oh, put that blasted thing away.’
The inspector began writing.
Then stopped.
His expression changed.
He looked down at the page.
Sherm noticed.
‘What?’
Pritchard said nothing.
‘Inspector?’
The man turned the notebook towards him.
Across the page, beneath Sherm’s name, a second red mark had appeared.
Then a third.
The marks began spreading.
One after another.
Pritchard’s face drained of colour.
‘Oh, no.’
Sherm’s smile disappeared.
‘What does that mean?’
The inspector looked towards the street.
The mechanical sheep had stopped moving.
The music fell silent.
Even the inflatable Father Christmas seemed to hang motionless above the waterfront.
For one strange moment, the entire village became still.
Pritchard whispered, ‘Something else has crossed.’
Sherm looked towards the cat.
Then the crow.
‘Something else?’
The inspector nodded.
‘Something that wasn’t invited.’
At the café, Sophie was looking through her photographs when the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then the screen of her camera went black.
‘Oh, come on.’
She pressed the power button.
Nothing.
Liam looked up.
‘Battery?’
‘Fully charged.’
Grace glanced towards the window.
‘Maybe it’s the cold.’
Sophie tried again.
The camera screen lit up.
But instead of displaying her photographs, it showed a single image.
The village Christmas tree.
The red underpants.
The bakery.
And Sherman McCauley.
Only now, he wasn’t laughing.
He was looking directly at the camera.
His expression was serious.
Almost frightened.
Sophie stared.
‘Liam?’
He leaned closer.
‘What?’
She turned the screen.
The photograph changed.
Sherm disappeared.
In his place stood a dark figure.
Tall.
Thin.
Its face hidden beneath the brim of a black hat.
Grace leaned forwards.
‘Who’s that?’
Liam shook his head.
‘I don’t know.’
The figure moved.
Not in the street.
In the photograph.
It slowly raised one hand.
And pointed towards Sophie.
The camera screen went black.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Grace put down her coffee.
‘Right.’
She stood.
‘I’ve decided I don’t like Christmas any more.’
Back on Chebucto Street, Mr Pritchard was examining the silver watch.
Its hands spun wildly.
Sherm watched him.
‘Well?’
The inspector did not answer.
‘Pritchard?’
The hands stopped.
Both pointed straight upwards.
Midnight.
Pritchard looked towards the cemetery.
‘The passage is widening.’
Sherm frowned.
‘But I closed it.’
‘Did you?’
‘Of course I did.’
Pritchard stared at him.
Sherm hesitated.
‘Well, mostly.’
‘Mostly?’
‘It was rather difficult to reach.’
The inspector’s expression hardened.
‘You left it open.’
Sherm looked away.
‘Only a crack.’
Pritchard whispered something unprintable.
Sherm raised an eyebrow.
‘Good heavens, Inspector. Such language.’
‘Do you understand what you’ve done?’
Sherm sighed.
‘You keep asking me that.’
‘You have created an opening between two worlds. And now something is using it.’
Sherm glanced towards the cat.
‘Apart from him?’
Pritchard nodded.
‘Something considerably worse.’
The wind changed.
A cold gust swept down the street.
The Christmas lights flickered.
And from somewhere near the waterfront came a sound neither man had heard in many years.
A child’s laughter.
Not ordinary laughter.
Something thin and distant.
Like a recording played backwards.
Sherm stopped smiling.
Pritchard closed the watch.
‘We need to find the passage.’
Sherm nodded.
‘Yes.’
‘Immediately.’
‘Quite.’
‘And you will tell me exactly how you opened it.’
Sherm hesitated.
‘Well, you see—’
Pritchard stared.
‘McCauley.’
Sherm adjusted his scarf.
‘There was a key.’
‘What key?’
‘A rather old one.’
‘Where did you get it?’
Sherm looked towards the cemetery.
Then towards the village.
‘That’s the awkward part.’
Pritchard’s eyes narrowed.
‘Sherman.’
Sherm sighed.
‘I borrowed it.’
‘From whom?’
Sherm smiled weakly.
‘The Keeper.’
For several seconds, Pritchard did not move.
Then he whispered, ‘You stole the Keeper’s key?’
Sherm looked offended.
‘Borrowed.’
‘You stole the key that controls the boundary between life and death?’
‘Temporarily borrowed.’
Pritchard staggered backwards.
‘You absolute lunatic.’
Sherm straightened.
‘Now, there’s no need for personal remarks.’
The inspector stared at him.
‘Where is the key?’
Sherm reached into his coat.
Patted one pocket.
Then another.
He frowned.
Checked his waistcoat.
Then his trousers.
His expression changed.
‘Ah.’
Pritchard went still.
‘McCauley.’
Sherm looked around.
‘Now, before you become upset—’
‘Where is the key?’
Sherm slowly looked towards the black-and-white cat.
The cat sat beside the Nativity display.
Its tail curled neatly around its paws.
And hanging from its collar was a small silver key.
Pritchard stared.
Sherm stared.
The cat blinked.
Then, with an expression of absolute satisfaction, it stood up.
Turned.
And trotted away.
Sherm watched it disappear around the corner.
‘Well.’
He adjusted his hat.
‘That’s inconvenient.’
High above the village, the enormous inflatable Father Christmas finally came down.
It landed directly on Mrs Beatrice MacIntyre’s car.
The horn began blaring.
The mechanical sheep started marching again.
The church bells rang thirteen times.
And somewhere beyond the cemetery, hidden among the snow-covered trees, a small wooden door slowly opened.
A pale hand reached through.
Then another.
And a voice whispered into the winter darkness.
‘At last.’
End of Chapter Two
Next: Chapter Three — The Cat Who Stole Christmas
