The refigerator rumbled.
Nancy was pretty drunk. She threw the bottle of vodka that she'd been drinking from all night back into the refrigerator and turned back to the blender. She hummed while it chopped up the ice and vodka and strawberries into a pleasant slushie.
When Nancy took her finger from the blender, she noticed it rumbling.
It had never rumbled before.
Now it rumbled again.
She opened it.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Sure, the jar of pickles had seen better days, but they were pickles. Keeping track of their age would be like charting the decay of a zombie.
She shut the door again.
The refrigerator rumbled. Only this time she realized that it was a grumble. And it sounded likt it was saying something.
"I'm not feeling well," the refrigerator grumbled. "I'm not cold enough."
"Refrigerators aren't supposed to talk," Nancy said.
"We're also not supposed to be warm," the refrigerator replied.
"True," Nancy said, who had a loaf of expensive, preservative-free bread tucked into one of the corners of the refrigerator. "Do you know why you're not cold enough?"
"I would wager that the ice demon in me isn't feeling well," the refrigerator said.
"Refrigerators don't work because of ice demons," Nancy said.
"Can you prove it?"
Nancy paused. "Where is your ice demon?"
"Reach behind me," the refrigerator said. "There's a panel with a small latch. Open the latch and reach into it. You'll feel something cold and about the size of a doll. That's my ice demon."
The refrigerator sat in a nook formed by kitchen cabinets, so Nancy got all up in its business and reached an arm into the dark crevice between its stainless steel flank and the particle board cabinet. She felt around until her fingers brushed a latch. Fitting the first knuckle of her index finger into it, she pulled it open.
A great gout of ice-cold air rushed out and chilled her hand so quickly that she yanked it away. It smacked into the cabinet.
"You didn't tell me that it would be so cold," Nancy said.
"Oh, I'm sorry," the refrigerator said, "you didn't tell me that you would be so delicate."
Nancy pulled her arm out, put on an oven mitt, and reached back behind the refrigerator. The mitt dulled her sense of touch, but it didn't dull her sense of temperature. She knew right away when she'd touched the ice demon, as her fingers went numb as soon as she gripped the ice demon. She pulled it out and set it on the counter.
It was exactly as she might expect an ice demon to look: small, blue and with clouds of condensation spilling from it like a lump of dry ice.
"Urgh," the refrigerator said. "I don't feel so great."
"What's wrong with him?" Nancy asked. The ice demon propped itself up on one icy elbow. It looked woozy.
"Clean your freezer," the ice demon said. He leaned over a bit further and vomited out a pile of slush.
"Clean your freezer. Your bottle of vodka leaked into my home. Have you ever been awash in powerful spirits?"
"Yes," Nancy said. "I am, after all, a shaman!"
And the ring of ghosts behind her agreed.
"Hang in there, little guy!" one of them said, and it patted him on the back.
The Moral: if you're willing to concede that ghosts exist, then you must also concede that disco aliens exist and have brought us music to move to.