Ghosts like Christmas.
During the Christmas season, a brief willingness to believe in the magical swept over the Earth. That tight veil that separates the possible from the impossible fades in the glow of candled wreaths, yuletide carols and drunken good wishes. The door to the everyday world is for a short time open, and saints and angels are sung about, prayed to, and invited inside.
It’s never easier for ghosts to slip in from the other side than at Christmas. And when they arrive, it’s as if all of London is lit up and celebrating their return.
Marley—the ghost of him—was flying over the streets of London with hundreds of other ghostly ex-citizens. They flew, invisible to the living, above its busy streets. It was Christmas Eve. Beneath the ghosts, the city was lively and full of cheer. There were feasts on every table, and wine in every glass.
The sight of the festivities did not move Marley. Except for the food. It was the food he longed to taste again.
Last Christmas Eve, Marley watched a living man eat a steak in a pub, invisible and full of envy. But Marley’s weightless teeth, his vague esophagus, and the cobweb folds of his faded stomach . . . they’d be of no use at all for the actual digestion of food. Marley could, perhaps, have manifested well enough to snatch the steak away from the man. But he would enjoy just a brief bit of chewing, before it spilled out the sides of his ghostly cheeks.
This was how death made a punishment of all that ever gave joy, Marley mused, miserably. And he was miserable. As insubstantial as his ghostly form was, he bore heavy chains, and those chains pulled at him constantly. There were iron moneyboxes fastened to the chains. Marley bore the weight of the wrongs he’d done in life. He suffered, as did all the other wailing ghosts he flew with.
The wave of moaning specters flowed past Marley as he stopped before the single house that had no lights in the windows. It was the home of his business partner, Ebenezer Scrooge. Ebenezer was home—the old miser kept the lights off to save money. Peering in through the dusty glass, Marley grinned at the sight of Ebenezer, sitting alone at his dinner table, illuminated by a single candle. He’d finished his frugal meal and pushed the plate to the side. He was counting money.
Sour-faced Ebenezer. . . They’d started as friends. But a year before his death, Marley discovered that Ebenezer had been stealing from him for years; and, worse, Scrooge had put plans into effect that would cut Marley out of their partnership entirely. Shrewd Marley never let on that he’d caught on to the scheme. He carried on as if all was well between them, while hatching his own plan to cheat Scrooge out of his fortune.
But Marley had died coughing in his bed before much of that plan was realized.
Levitating outside Scrooge’s window, Marley prepared himself. He made his countenance less sepulchral. He rearranged the folds of his tattered business suit to cover the chains and silver moneyboxes that hung from him, shifting their ceaseless agonizing weight into positions where they would not be visible to Ebenezer. He lifted the largest of the moneyboxes and held it in front of him as he passed through the glass of the window. It took a lot of effort to rematerialize like this his afterlife appearance. But Marley had a mission.
As mentioned, ghosts love Christmas. But more importantly, there is something in Christmas that loves mankind. Ghosts pierce the veil for various reasons. Some to haunt, some to look in on loved ones. The strongest of Christmas ghosts, however, came to save souls. To correct the course of those heading for damnation, if they could. To warn of the perils of an ill-spent life, and try to warm even the iciest of souls. Such powerful ghosts sometimes enlisted the help of more common ghosts. Ghosts like Marley.
Marley had been enlisted to show Scrooge the torment his miserly ways would earn him in the afterlife. He was instructed to show Scrooge the chains and moneyboxes he would wear for eternity. Warn him of the terrible rewards for the type of things they had done in life! For Marley and Scrooge had both been treacherous and cold-hearted in the conduct of their moneylending business.
One didn’t ignore the wishes of such ghosts lightly. But vengeful Marley had his own plan. He interrupted Scrooge’s money counting. Ebenezer was shaken by the apparition of his dead partner, though he initially tried to pass Marley’s appearance off as the result of a poorly digested meal. Marley had been told to frighten Scrooge and warn him to change his spiritual course. Instead, Marley started his pitch with as warm a smile as a dead man can manage, and a mockery of the heralding Christmas angel that spoke to the shepherds: “Greetings, Ebenezer! I bring tidings of great joy!”
These ‘tidings’ had nothing to do with the birth of Christ. Using all the skill and eloquence he’d used to talk clients into thousands of bad deals, Marley told Scrooge of the rewards that awaited beyond the grave.
“This place we go to, call it Hell if you want to, but it is abundant with those things we manipulated so well in life! There is poverty, and desperation! Greed, ignorance, and Want! The ingredients of the fortunes we made in life exist here as well, old friend. There is money after death, and who better than us to have the most of it!” At that point he sprung open the moneybox he head in front of him, and a cascade of ghost coins spilled onto the table.
Marley relished the instant predatory lust in Scrooge’s eyes when he saw the spectral coins.
Redeem the soul of Scrooge? Make him a better man before he died? Spare him the fate that Marley had suffered since his own death? And ask Marley to help accomplish that? Never. He’d take his chances with those powerful ghosts that sent him here. He’d fan the flames of the greed in Scrooge’s heart that those other ghosts hoped to extinguish.
Before Marley left Scrooge, he told him that three more ghosts would visit him that night. “They’ll speak of redemption. They’ll bother you with appeals to ‘morality.’ They’re the do-gooders on this side. No better than the orphanages that begged us each year for ‘charity’. Street preachers and bell-ringers! Parasites! Pay them no mind!”
His time was up. Marley laughed as convincingly as he could as he melted back into the darkness, hugging his moneybox to his chest.
The first of the three Christmas Ghosts arrived as the clock struck One. Scrooge was in bed asleep, dreaming of ghost fortunes. The clock woke him. He saw The Ghost of Christmas Past enter his bedroom like a dusty schooner. She was a statuesque middle-aged woman. She floated slowly to his bedside, smelling of old photographs and mildewed scrapbooks.
She said nothing. The she lifted her pale hands and placed them lightly on Scrooge’s forehead. This alone was frightening to Scrooge—another human being hadn’t touched him in decades. But this was a ghost. Her fingers fell on his face like dry leaves. Then she spoke: “Go back to sleep.” She was there to guide Scrooge through his memories, before he was the loveless miser he’d become.
Visits to the Past are tricky, and treacherous. The Ghost of Christmas Past was tricky and treacherous too. She guided people like Scrooge through their memories with skillful cruelty. For most of what people saw in their past, relived, was painful.
What was there, locked up inside Scrooge? What could she show him? The thoughts of living people were like phantom theaters that the Ghost of Christmas Past could look into. She could see the little comedies and dramas going on in the darkest corners of their memory. What could she work with, inside Ebenezer Scrooge?
It looked like Scrooge once had a fiancé, but he had chosen money—his truest love—over her. She could use that. And did use that.
She moved her fingers to his temples, and showed Scrooge the happy life his fiancé had with another man, after he’d rejected her.
Ghost of Christmas Past pulled more scenes from the cloud of recollections and regrets. She plucked scenes from his mental theater and sharpened them into a narrative dagger to slide into the old man’s heart. He’d had an older sister that he loved, who died. And, oh! She’d died while Scrooge was working late at the bank, though he knew she was in hospital, dying. Secretly, Scrooge had always regretted there was no goodbye, no last words, between them.
No one is untouchable. These regrets had always scurried around the floor of Scrooge’s bedroom at night, though Scrooge had been expert at ignoring them. The Ghost of Christmas Past used her talents to pull them up now as mice from the cracks and corners of the floorboards, and gathered them around Scrooge on his bed. They tore and chewed on him as she worked, leading him through memories he’d avoided for years.
He woke with a start. The spectral woman was gone, but he caught caught a glimpse of the ghost-rodents gnawing at him. He screamed and swatted as they disappeared. It seemed to Scrooge he’d been gone for years, but the clock had not yet struck Two. His face was wet with tears.
The Ghost of Christmas Present appeared at Two.
The Ghost of Christmas Present liked to give a good scare. He snuck up behind Ebenezer as he stood before the washbasin, trying to collect himself. “A-llo, Eb-e-neeeeezer!” he said loudly from an inch behind him. You’d be surprised how high an old man can jump.
The ghost had chosen the form of a poor workingman. A hard luck sort of man, the type Scrooge enjoyed denying loans to. He greeted Scrooge with a cocky overfriendliness. Then he saw the horror on Scrooge’s face when he got a better look at his visitor. The Ghost of Christmas Present’s head was half blown away. His head was a pulpy, one-eyed crater of gore.
Ebenezer looked away from the grotesque apparition. “Wh-what are you here to show me?” he asked, terrified.
“I’m going to show you … a good time!” the Ghost of Christmas Present answered, grabbing Scrooge by the shoulders and spinning him around in a little dance. Scrooge’s face was an inch away from the ruin of what was left of the ghost’s face. Then, with one last horrid spin, they arrived in another place entirely.
They were at a party, a celebration. Laughing, dancing, raised glasses and jovial toasts. And only the first of the parties they visited –They spent what must have been hours, touring house after house of yuletide revelers. They went from pub to noisy pub, unseen. There had once been a time when Scrooge’s fiancé would drag him to such celebrations. He’d always protested, but in the end, he would have a good time, and some of his reserve would melt away. He saw pretty women laughing and caressing their mates, and he remembered how she used to hold his face and cajole him into smiling.
The Ghost of Christmas Present talked the whole time. He boasted casually of how hard life can be, and how it’s the brave ones, like him, who chose their own end to the miseries of a life of poverty. But the ghost, who said in life his name had been Tommy Silk, mostly told jokes. They were off-color and ridiculous, but after a few drinks, Scrooge actually started to enjoy himself, although one should never have to endure the sight of a nearly headless man laughing.
Christmas Present looked at Scrooge and decided he’d softened him up enough. He grabbed Scrooge’s shoulders and spun him round again, and took him to a very different sort of celebration. They landed in the home of Bob Crachit, Scrooges solitary employee. Crachit was holding a sickly looking boy with a twisted leg in one arm, and making boisterous toasts with the other. The room was full of people in clothes as humble as the battered house Crachit lived in. It was the party Crachit had invited him to that afternoon, an invitation he made every year, and which every year Scrooge declined.
In all his years as Crachit’s employer, Scrooge had never taken a really good look at the man. ‘Tommy Silk told him to look now. Crachit was older than Scrooge thought — no, it wasn’t age, it was exhaustion, and worry, Scrooge saw. And Crachit plainly loved the boy, the youngest of his seven children, who was named Tim. Scrooge was looking at how shabby his clerk’s clothes were when he was startled at hearing Crachit say his name. Good lord! Crachit was proposing a toast to Scrooge!
All attending the party groaned in unison. Bob’s wife said, “I love you Bob, but I’m not joining in any toast to that man.” The others in the room heartily agreed. “He can die with his money and not a speck of love in his life. That I’ll drink a toast to!”
Crachit’s wife took the sick boy, Tim, and walked right past Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present.
“Why does Father want to make a toast to Mr. Scrooge?” the boy asked. “He treats father so terribly.”
“He’s a very loyal man, your father. A kind, forgiving man. And he thinks there’s some good in the man. He actually feels sorry for him …”
Crachit cheerfully insisted on his toast. He raised his glass. “To Scrooge, despite it all!” No one joined him.
The cheer Scrooge had started to feel in the last pub disappeared. The guests left and the Crachit children played noisy party games now, laughing and squealing in their ragged dress.
“They’re all so thin . . . ” Scrooge mused.
His guide nodded. “Almost skeletal, I’d say! But who could feed seven kids on what you pay Crachit?”
Scrooge felt a sharp pang of guilt. It angered him to feel it. “If he can’t feed them, he shouldn’t have so many!”
The Ghost of Christmas Present leaned back and studied Scrooge with his one eye. “Not to worry, Guvnor,” he said drily. He’ll soon have one less.”
The ghost saw a chill run through Ebenezer Scrooge. They were getting to him.
“The boy? Young Tim? The one that Crachit so obviously adored?” The ghost nodded.
“Spirit, ” Scrooge said, with hesitation. “Is that for certain, or is it just a possibility … a potential?”
“Nothing’s for certain. Not here in the Present. But without proper care — which the one bloke in London willing to drink to you can’t afford—it seems a damn good potential.”
At a few minutes to Three, The Ghost of Christmas Future sat at an easel in the dark, holding a brush in his bony hand. He’d chosen to appear as a shrouded skeleton. His skull face looked out from beneath a black hood. The ‘Grim Reaper’ look was a popular way of manifesting during a haunting, and arguably, overused. But the Ghost of Christmas Future liked the ‘classics.’ He regarded the more recent haunting trends as shallow and unduly theatrical.
Christmas Present was sometimes guilty of this.
It might not have been the most unique way to materialize, the ghost thought, but he’d done a good job of it. The painter’s easel was an innovative touch, and he was proud of it. He’d manifested oil paints and a palette with great detail. He was sure Scrooge would smell the turpentine.
The Christmas ghost waited for Scrooge to emerge from under his blankets, which were visibly shaking. After a minute or two, he saw Scrooge cautiously peering out from under his covers.
He invited him: “Come look.” Scrooge ducked back under, pulling the covers tighter around him.
“Don’t be silly,” the Ghost of Christmas Future said. “Come look.”
Scrooge emerged and stood across the room on shaky legs. It was obvious his two partners Past and Present had done their parts well. Scrooge was a shambles. He looked a mess.
Outside the window, a flurry of ghosts flew past. It had started to snow.
“It’s not finished,” the Ghost of Christmas Future said, a little defensively, as Scrooge stepped round to look at the painting.
Scrooge hesitated. “I’m really not one for the arts –” Scrooge stammered.
It was late. With his skeleton hand, the Grim Reaper pushed Scrooge into the painting.
Scrooge found himself in a room of crying people. Bob Crachit sobbed at the bedside of someone Scrooge could not see. “Young Tim,” Ebenezer whispered. Scrooge was pulled irresistibly through the crowd of mourners till he stood beside Crachit. He looked at the still figure on the bed, expecting to see the boy, Tim. But it was his own long-dead sister that lay there.
Her eyes snapped open. Her head tilted at an unnerving angle to look Scrooge in the eyes. The Ghost of Christmas Future saw to it that he would get his ‘last words’ from her.
Those words were “Ebenezer. I’m ashamed of you.”
That was the last visit in the haunting of Scrooge. He laid on the floor of his bedroom, wracked with that thing most alien to him, emotion. What kind of man was he? Could he change? Or, had Marley been correct, that he should refuse the agenda of the three spirits, and turn them away like the countless street beggars he’d refused? It was almost dawn. Outside Scrooge’s window, a few tired ghosts flew by, heading home.
As the first pink light of morning spread over the snow-covered streets, an unlikely scene was taking place at Bob Crachit’s house. Young Tim sat up in his bed as the other children slept, surrounded by the Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Christmas Present, and the Ghost of Christmas Future. They sat on the boy’s bed with familiarity, for they visited the boy many times during the Christmas season. It’s not so strange for a dying boy to see and talk to ghosts. And Tim was a very good boy, with a good heart, and that attracts ghosts the way a Christmas tree with presents beneath it attracts children.
The ghosts looked different. ‘Past’ had become softer-looking, and was stroking the boy’s hair in an almost maternal way. She’d was especially fond of the boy, for he had very little past, but much more of it than future. She always showed him good memories. ‘Present’ had restored his face and looked like a normal man. He liked to entertain the boy with jokes, but the ones he told Tim were considerably less bawdy than the ones he’d told to Scrooge. Meanwhile, ‘Future’ was still thinking of the painting he’d done. He was pleased with the accomplished painting techniques he’d used. But the narrative — did it lack subtlety? He was still wearing the Grim Reaper facade, and even had some paint stains on his black shroud. His appearance did not frighten Tim, who had grown so used to the idea of dying.
They four of them talked as friends do, for indeed they had become friends. They had asked the boy if there was anything they could do with their supernatural abilities. And he had won them over by not asking for a cure for his illness or relief from the pain he experienced daily. Instead he asked if there was anything they could do to get his father’s employer to treat him more kindly. And this they had attempted to do, the night before.
And what of Scrooge? Well, of course this is a Christmas story, and the story’s present to you is a happy ending. The miser repented and caused a commotion by sending an enormous turkey to the Crachits’ door. He celebrated Christmas Day with further generosities, and he continued that generosity for the rest of his days. He gave Crachit a bigger raise than the poor man had dreamed possible, and he went on to pay for Tim to see the finest doctors in London. Young Tim, who would live to be a kind and generous man.
Marley, meanwhile, earned another heavy chain for his stunt.
But go ahead and be cynical, if you insist. Ask yourself: had the three ghosts really accomplished that most difficult feat of Christmas magic, the warming of a cold man’s soul?
Or had they merely scared the dickens out of him?