I yank the record player’s cord out of the wall right as Mariah’s distorted soprano reaches a fever pitch, all six bulbs in the ceiling fan popping in an explosion of glass, a table lamp behind me catching fire.

“Agghhhh, shit! What the hell! What the ever-loving hell!” I seize my weighted throw blanket and almost use it to tamp out the flames, but it’s a remnant from The Time I Had Money and, more importantly, it’s been discontinued. I know for a fact that Carrie Underwood has publicly bemoaned not having one. I simply cannot destroy a thing so exclusive that Carrie Underwood will never have it.

I use an afghan Eileen crocheted instead, thankfully succeeding in beating the fire into submission. The electricity stabilizes, that piercing buzzing noise ebbing away. Smoke lingers in the room, and my mind flashes with ideas for utilizing this near-death experience to come back into public favor. I’ll post a picture of the exploded bulbs in the Clarendon filter, an afghan singed with black craters. Lost my only memento of my great-grandmother, I’ll caption it, but I’m thankful to still be here. I’M SO SORRY, Kelly Frederick will type-sob in a front-page headline. Then the byline: The world almost lost Bettie that day. And I . . . can’t help but feel responsible, after I exposed her money problems to her investors and ruined her life. I’ll forgive her, but only after Oprah gently advises me on national television to take the high road.

“Whew.” I blow out a shaky exhale, then revolve to find a man in my living room, standing not five feet away from me.

He waves. “Oh, hey!”

I scream and fall down, frantically scuttling backward like a crab, broken glass biting into the pad of my hand. A swift glance at the door shows me it’s still shut. The man is speaking, although whatever he’s saying can’t be heard over my never-ending scream. He’s a blur of colors, mostly red and green with a squiggle of brown on top, wearing what I think is (but cannot possibly be) a sweater featuring a T. rex eating a candy cane.

“I’ll never drink again,” I vow. “Please, Mariah, release me from your curse. I’ll be good.”

“As I’m sure you’ve already guessed, I am the Holiday Spirit,” the man tells me mildly. “Due to an obscure typo in the Festivities Legislation, the Holiday Spirit can be conjured by playing the current Billboard Hot 100 number one hit, if it is a holiday hit, and if it is played backwards, on vinyl.” He gestures to the scarlet record on display, sticky with wine. “Well done, Miss Carey. I’m as shocked as you are that it’s taken until now for that typo to be pressed into action.”

The last of my air abandons me in a wheeze.

“But you can call me Hall, as in Holiday.” He beams, head slanting.

“Oh, right,” I reply faintly, and then pass out.

*