By A.L. Short
Ebenezer Scrooge sat by the fire—an actual fire, blazing merrily this Christmas Eve instead of the pathetic ember he used to permit—muttering cheerfully to himself while polishing his spectacles. Just then, the clock struck seven. The flames flickered ominously. A breeze as cold as the inside of a snowman’s trousers swept through the room, rattling the windows and making the curtains dance like drunken specters.
“Oh, no,” groaned Scrooge, his newfound cheer now a deflated Christmas pudding. “Not again. What have I done wrong now? Did I shortchange the carolers? Undercook the goose? Smile insufficiently at orphans?”
Sure enough, Marley’s ghost floated through the door, chains rattling with their familiar mournful clank. Behind him came the familiar trio: the Ghost of Christmas Past, shimmering like moonlight on snow, the Ghost of Christmas Present, robust and jolly as ever, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come, as ominous as before.
Scrooge leapt to his feet, knocking over his brandy. “What is this? Have I backslidden? Did I accidentally foreclose on someone? Please tell me I haven’t repossessed any Christmas trees!”
“Relax, Ebby,” said the Ghost of Christmas Past, plopping herself down in his best armchair as though she owned it. Her ethereal robes settled around her. “We’re not here for another intervention. We just thought… Well, you throw a mean goose dinner now. Why not invite us?”
“Invite you?” Scrooge’s voice squeaked. “To what, exactly?”
“To hang out!” Christmas Past beamed, helping herself to his best brandy. “You know—socialize, make merry, engage in festive camaraderie!”
“Precisely,” boomed Christmas Present, already rooting through the pantry with the enthusiasm of a bear in a honey shop. “All work and moral lessons make us dull specters. We want merriment! Joy! Figgy pudding!” He emerged triumphantly with an entire Christmas cake. “Ah, here we are!”
The silent Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come gave a thumbs-up, which was both reassuring and deeply terrifying. When a harbinger of doom approves of your hospitality, you’re not sure whether to feel flattered or start writing your will.
Marley jingled his chains apologetically, the sound of a melancholy wind chime. “It gets lonely, rattling about in the afterlife, Ebenezer. Nothing but endless corridors and the occasional wailing. Figured you’d be good company now that you’ve got your act together. And you’ve got proper heating!” What followed could only be described as the most unusual Christmas party in London’s history.
Christmas Present discovered Scrooge’s collection of music boxes and insisted on conducting an orchestra of tiny dancing figurines.
By ten o’clock, they had somehow convinced Scrooge to participate in what Present called “Supernatural Karaoke.” This involved the ghosts magically enhancing his voice while he attempted to sing Christmas carols. The results were mixed—his rendition of “Silent Night” could apparently be heard three counties over, and his “God rest Ye Merry, Gentleman” caused every dog in London to howl in harmony.
“I sound like a dying walrus!” Scrooge complained.
“A very enthusiastic dying walrus,” Past corrected.
“With excellent pitch control,” added Present.
Yet-to-Come gave another thumbs-up, though it might have been sarcastic. It was hard to tell with the hood.
Around eleven, Christmas Present discovered Scrooge’s wine cellar.
“Ebenezer, you magnificent miser!” he boomed, emerging with bottles that Scrooge had been saving for special occasions. “This is an 1847 port!”
“That is for my funeral!” Scrooge protested.
“Well, you’re not dead yet, so bottoms up!”
As the night continued, the party turned to more philosophical conversations.
“But if we can change Scrooge,” Marley pondered, “and Scrooge can change others, then nobody’s really doomed, are they? So why do I still have these bloody chains?”
“Maybe,” Scrooge suggested thoughtfully, “you’re supposed to take them off yourself?”
Long pause.
“…Has anyone tried that?” Past asked.
“Well, this is embarrassing,” Marley muttered, fumbling with his locks.
Past shared stories about the good old days when haunting was an art form, not just pointing at things and making people feel guilty. Present explained the complex logistics of visiting every household in one night. “It’s all about time dilation and really good planning.”
By midnight, Scrooge’s house was in complete shambles. The pudding was gone, the goose had been pilfered, his bed was full of spectral glitter that no earthly broom could ever sweep, and there were ectoplasmic handprints on every surface. Scrooge’s music boxes created a cacophonous symphony that sounded as though Christmas had collided with a carnival.
Yet, for the first time in his life, Scrooge didn’t mind the mess. He actually laughed, though it came out as more of a wintry wheeze that made everyone pause and check if he was having some sort of attack.
When the ghosts finally began to depart, leaving trails of ectoplasm and empty bottles, Scrooge felt oddly bereft. The house seemed too quiet, too normal.
“Thank you,” he called after them. “This was… unexpected. But wonderful.”
Marley paused at the door, his chains jingling softly. “You know, Ebenezer, you’re much more fun when you’re not being spiritually educated.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Same time next Christmas?” called Present, already fading.
“We’ll bring better wine!” added Past as Yet-to-Come nodded enthusiastically.
Scrooge collapsed in his chair, exhausted but content. His house looked as if a hurricane had hit it, but it felt more alive than it ever had. “Well,” he muttered to himself, “at least they didn’t try to transport me to some otherworldly location this year.”
The faint rattle of chains drifted back through the wall, accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like spectral giggling.
“We heard that!” Marley’s voice called from somewhere in the ether.
“Bah… humbug,” Scrooge chuckled, but there was no bite to it. “But yes. Same time next Christmas.”
As he settled down to sleep in his glitter-covered bed, Scrooge reflected that perhaps this was what Christmas was really about—not just redemption and charity, but friendship, laughter, and the occasional supernatural house party.
Rate this story:
(1 votes, average: 2.00 out of 3)
You need to be a registered member to rate this.
Loading...ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tell us your thoughts!