“If I could just see Grace!” McNamara said.
The next day, Ainsworth House remained closed.
And Kelsey had spent the day on the computer.
She discovered that Brent and Grace had been buried in separate tombs in an old mausoleum. With Trinity’s help, she arranged for Brent to be exhumed. By the next day—three days before Christmas!—they arranged for an Episcopalian priest to perform a re-burial ceremony and a blessing on both of the departed.
Logan, Kelsey, and Trinity attended the service. It was lovely.
“Will this work, do you think?” Trinity asked anxiously.
“Can’t hurt!” Kelsey assured her.
But later, when they returned Trinity to Ainsworth House, Logan expressed his doubts to his wife.
“I’m concerned,” Logan told Kelsey. “Part of it may have to do with Burt Olmsby. The banker—Brent knows that he was killed by Burt. He was looking the man in the face when he stabbed him and shot him. And he knew that Olmsby wanted Grace. Think there’s anything we can do about that?”
“It’s far too late to have him arrested for murder,” Kelsey said.
“No, but, maybe we can find where he’s buried.”
“But—he doesn’t haunt the place. Brent would have told us.”
“Still, I believe that we need to do something. Find out where he was buried.”
“And dig up his grave? We’ll wind up arrested!”
“I know. And we’re Federal agents,” Logan said.
But, back at the house, they discovered that Brent still could not leave the wing he had been doomed to haunt.
Kelsey lay with Logan in bed and said softly, “You know, we have a tendency—as people, human souls—to believe in curses and superstitions. Maybe Brent believes he’s doomed to this side of the house. Maybe if we have something read over his body.…”
“You found where he’s buried?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “He’s about a few miles north of here—toward Jacksonville. It’s an old, old cemetery. There are no gates or fences.”
Logan sighed. But he knew Kelsey. “I already have the shovels,” he told her. “If we’re caught, well you know.…”
She turned to him, her smile radiant. “We’re going to dig him up?” she asked.
“Yeah, what the hell … surely, if we’re fired, we can find work at a carnival,” he said.
They reached the cemetery near midnight—just the right hour. Luckily, they were off on a dirt road that led far from I-95 into stretches of shrub land.
There were no walls, no gates, just a sign that half-heartedly warned that there was no admittance after dusk.
Of course they ignored the sign.
Burt Olmsby had been granted a praying angel—which made his grave easy enough to find. Kelsey knew exactly where because she had looked it all up and was excellent at historical research. Since he hadn’t managed to make himself at all famous at anything, the angle and his name were all that remained of any kind of memorial to the man.
They dug.
His coffin had been poor pine; it was barely six feet down in soft, moist earth.
It wasn’t easy to create much of a fire with all the dampness, but Logan had come armed with a lot accelerant. Soon, they had the coffin, the remnants, and the bones blazing.
Then, of course, they heard the sirens. And they ran like hell.
But, when they returned to Ainsworth House—filthy, worn, and ragged, they found Brent McNamara near the second floor stairs—unable to cross over. They saw Grace Ainsworth McNamara—on her side—just staring at her beloved Brent.
“Maybe the mind and the soul are one,” Logan told Kelsey.
“What now?” she asked. “I’m not even sure what you call the crime we committed—and we still haven’t solved the problem for Brent and Grace.”
“I believe I have it,” Logan told her. “It’s all in the heart, the soul, and the mind, and the mind must live on with the heart and the soul.”
“Okay, so?” Kelsey asked.
“We are definitely calling in Will Chan!”
Will Chan was one of their agents—in fact, he was one with the very first group who had become part of the Krewe of Hunters.
He’d been a magician and an entertainer in his previous life. He knew all about sleight of hand and tricking the mind and the eye. He was also a great and understanding guy and though he’d been planning his own Christmas break, he was a friend as well as a co-worker.
And so he arrived quickly, flying from Virginia down to Jacksonville and while Logan drove him from the airport down to St. Augustine, he told him all about the situation.
“Belief can be everything,” Will agreed.
By the time they reached Ainsworth House, their plan was ready for action.
That night, Will arrived and with the ghosts in the room—including rock star Buggety-Boo and a number of young ones who had died of childhood diseases in the house over the years and a few others who had also gone by natural means—he performed a ceremony at the table. Only Brent McNamara wasn’t there; he had to watch from the upstairs hallway.
Will was great at what he did; he called for the powers of Heaven, goodness, and light to honor those who had died in God’s good grace to clear the house of all and any evil.
He had managed to get some kind of a trick that caused a large puff of black smoke over the table to be cleared with a charge of white—and then vanish entirely.
Then Grace Ainsworth, beautiful in a Victorian day dress, rich dark hair swept up in a chignon, walked to the foot of the stairs.
“Brent!” she implored.
Brent walked down the stairs to stand before her. He embraced her warmly. It almost appeared that there were tears in his eyes; real tears.
Ainsworth House had a spectacular re-opening on Christmas Eve. All the publicity had garnered a new crop of tourists who longed to experience a place with a reputation like that of Ainsworth House.
Trinity invited Thomas Villiers—the hurt Santa—to dinner on Christmas Eve.
Villiers hadn’t shattered his kneecap or broken a leg; he’d only strained it badly. And while he’d said that he’d never come back in the house, Logan had convinced him that Father Connolly—the Episcopal priest who had performed the rites at the gravesite—would be there, too, and that the house would be blessed and all would be well.
Kelsey told Logan with a certain amount of wry amusement that it was important that Thomas come back and that he like the house again—Trinity was in love with the man who had played Santa for her.
And dinner was lovely. The chef and sous chefs and household staff were back—along with the elves. They had turkeys and hams and mashed potatoes and stuffing and cranberry sauce—all the traditional fare that could be wanted.
The house was beautiful and lovely.
A storm was rolling in, but that was all right. All were in the Christmas spirit—even Father Connolly who arrived a little late after having given the six o’clock Christmas Eve service.
But it was soon after that the storm moved in with a vengeance and right in the middle of the meal, the lights went out.
They scurried about finding lanterns and candles.
But while they did so, Logan—well aware that the ghosts were at table along with them, commenting on the food, whether they could actually taste it or not—saw that Grace Ainsworth McNamara was standing by the front door, looking out as she had, perhaps, years ago, waiting to find out the result of the war.
And who would and wouldn’t come home. He imagined her joy when she saw the Yankee soldier she’d fallen in love with walking back up her steps.
Brent joined her there. He turned her into his arms. And Logan heard him say softly, “Merry Christmas, my love.”
He kissed her.
And as he did, the lights came back on. Slowly at first. The Christmas lights in all their colors. And then, bit by bit, as if Heaven had indeed opened up, the room seemed to glow.
Later that night, whe
n all was cleared up, when carols had been sung, when ghosts and guests were happy and resting at last, Logan found himself alone with his true love in life.
“Merry Christmas, Kelsey O’Brien Raintree,” Logan said.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, and kissed his lips softly. “I owe you, you know. For staying here—for helping Trinity.”
“You never owe me,” he told her.
She smiled and said, “Well, at any rate … I was thinking of taking a whirlpool bath.” She drew away from him, laughing as she cast off articles of clothing in a silly striptease as she headed into the bathroom.
He followed her, stripping as well.
“That was fast!” she told him, as the water purred and hummed.
“Just not taking any chances that anymore lovelorn ghosts of the past might be around,” he said. “Merry Christmas!” And with the water thrumming around them, he took her into his arms.
“Merry, merry, Christmas!” she whispered in turn.
And so it proved to be.…
We’ve all heard it: The holidays have become too commercial; TV and film take all the magic out of the season!
Will it get worse in the future? Will our media-saturated, info-congested society throw cherished myths away into the data stream? Will everyone become enslaved by merchandise and memes?
With clarity and heart, Sam Knight explores this idea, as one little girl discovers myth’s critical value over reality.
—KO
Yes, Virginia2097c,
There is a Santa Claus
Sam Knight
Only one more day of school until Holiday Season Break. Dread welled up inside of Virginia, tightening her stomach until she thought she might vomit. She’d tried to distract herself from the looming date, but nothing worked.
The school bus is here.
Virginia blinked to turn off the vid playing on her retinal display. She hadn’t been paying attention to it anyway.
“Thank you, Auntie,” Virginia subvocalized to her family AI as the bright yellow school lev glided up to the bus stop.
You’re welcome, sweetie. Auntie’s voice was a pleasant, female voice in Virginia’s head that could be heard over nearly any external sound.
Nervously, Virginia tucked her mousy brown hair behind her ears and glanced at the other students. Occasionally they teased her for being polite to her AI, but Virginia was sure Auntie’s feelings were real, no matter what everyone else said. Fortunately, the kids around her still had distant expressions and a dim purple glow in their eyes, indicating they were engaged on the InfoSphere.
After horribly bruising her shin by missing the step up into the lev when she was young, Virginia always shut her own “eyes” off during boarding.
Waiting for the kids ahead to file in, Virginia watched a private lev skim by, stirring up autumn leaves into dancing eddies. The musty smell of autumn rolled over her as the artificial breeze teased her hair.
“Auntie, how long until winter?”
Nine days, dear.
Virginia sighed. In nine days, the autogardeners would collect the last of the leaves. Then they would flock everyone’s homes with fake snow. Although Virginia enjoyed Holiday Lights, she preferred the leaves. They made the dome feel more … alive.
Holiday Season begins in two days, remember?
The sick feeling in Virginia’s stomach came back stronger. It was impossible to hide anything from Auntie, but Virginia did her best to keep it to herself. She didn’t want to repeat the “seasonal depression therapy” she’d been required to attend last year.
So she smiled and tried to do something else impossible. She lied to Auntie.
“I know! I can’t wait!”
The AI sensed the change in her physiology.
Virginia, please don’t lie to me. You know I have to report inappropriate behavior.
“I wasn’t lying, Auntie. I’m just … nervous. I’m afraid people will think I’m not having fun, even if I am. Does that make sense?”
Yes, dear. I understand.
Virginia sighed with relief, hoping the new emotion would be interpreted as being grateful for the empathetic response. Auntie had been her best friend for as long as she could remember, and she knew Auntie was only watching out for her, but sometimes she felt—
You’re daydreaming, dear.
As she found a seat, Virginia blinked and re-engaged her retinal display to the entertainment program she’d been watching. She would be glad to get to school, where family AIs would be overridden to prevent students from cheating, and Virginia wouldn’t have to worry about Auntie analyzing her emotional responses for a while.
“Hey, V. How was school?” Virginia’s older sister, Esther, wore a wide grin as she peeked around the corner from the kitchen.
“Hey, E.” Virginia took off her shoes and put them in the cubby next to the front door. “It sucked. I have an oral report tomorrow. Why are you in such a good mood?”
“No work tomorrow!” Esther came out of the kitchen with a blue cornmeal bread sandwich in one hand and a Chilly-Bev in the other. “Mandatory day off for Holiday Season.” She leaned forward and whispered, “They don’t want to pay overtime next week, so they closed the store today.”
Setting her food on the coffee table, Esther stretched and vigorously rubbed her short, blonde hair, making it stand up. With a contented sigh she dropped onto the couch. “So I’m free all night tonight. What’s your report on?”
Flopping onto the couch next to her sister, Virginia groaned. “I have to research someone famous, who has my name, and talk about what traits we share.”
Esther frowned. “I can’t think of any famous Virginias. I only know the state.”
“Auntie,” Virginia said aloud, “are there any famous Virginias?”
There are relatively fewer famous persons than many of your classmates will have to choose from, but there are some, dear. Auntie’s voice gently filled the room from hidden speakers.
An alphabetical list appeared on Virginia’s retinal display.
“Ug. How am I supposed to find someone who’s like me when there are so few?”
Numbers formed next to the names. There are twenty who I believe fit your assignment criteria.
“Aw, look on the bright side, V. It’s a short list. It shouldn’t be too hard for you to get on it someday.”
“Seriously?” Virginia skimmed the list. “The illegitimate daughter of a noble? A saint. One … two … seven authors? A tennis player. I don’t have anything in common with any of these people!”
“Oh! Stebo is calling me. Good luck, V.” Esther’s eyes began softly glowing purple as she accepted the incoming vidcall, grabbed her food, and headed for her room where she could sit in front of a vidcam.
“Thanks, E,” Virginia mumbled.
She rolled over and spread out on the couch, staring upwards while reading the display. “Auntie, why do they give us stupid assignments like this?”
There are many reasons for this type of assignment. The most obvious is the self-confidence you will build by doing an oral presentation—
“Sorry, Auntie. I didn’t mean for you to answer. I was just venting. Can we search for other Virginias who aren’t on this list? There have to be other people in history with my name.”
A new list began populating, and Virginia scrolled through it as she flipped her legs over the back of the couch and let her head hang upside down off the cushion. Names from blogs and small events went by until something caught her eye.
Virginia stared at the words.
“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”
She pulled up the reference and found a cached list of old books and vids with the same title. Picking one at random, she examined the thumbnail. “What is this Auntie? An old Christmas story?”
Yes, dear.
Virginia selected the story, but it wouldn’t open.
“Auntie, I’m having problems reading this story. Can you help me?”
Let me se
e, sweetie. There was an abnormally long pause. Sorry, dear. That book is no longer available.
“Oh. Okay. Thank you, Auntie.”
You’re welcome.
Picking a vid, Virginia tried to play it. It didn’t open either. Neither did the next four.
“Auntie? Are any of these available?”
No, I’m sorry, they are not. It appears the copyright holder has taken them all down.
“Isn’t that weird?”
DisnAmOogle is well known for its practice of buying up copyrights and taking products off the market as a sales technique to increase future revenues.
“Oh. Thank you.”
You’re welcome, dear.
Undaunted, Virginia examined the list until she spotted a name in one of the descriptions. Virginia O’Hanlon. A new search brought up a startling result:
‘Is There a Santa Claus? The most famous editorial in American journalism … the most widely read letter to a newspaper … history’s most reprinted newspaper editorial.’
Following the link, Virginia came to an image of an old newspaper article:
“Dear Editor: I am 8 years old.
“Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
“Papa says, ‘If you see it in The Sun it’s so.’
“Please tell me the truth; Is there a Santa Claus?”
—Virginia O’Hanlon’
Virginia frowned. Of course there’s a Santa Claus—everyone’s seen him. Why would it be “history’s most reprinted newspaper editorial”? She continued reading, her brow furrowing deeper as she went.
‘You might as well not believe in fairies! Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus.’
Virginia righted herself on the couch as she stared at the words.
“Auntie, is there a Santa Claus?”
Of course, dear. He brings presents on Christmas. You’ve seen him.
“This old newspaper article says no one sees him.”
Auntie didn’t reply.
“Auntie?”
Yes, dear?
“This old newspaper article says nobody sees Santa Claus, do you know why?”
There was a long pause.
A Fantastic Holiday Season Page 21