A Magical Christmas

by Heather Graham

  “Christie, you look wonderful. Things are working out? What’s going on? You’re with your folks? And everything is great? Okay? Awful?”

  Christie laughed. “I’m with my folks. Let’s see, math is a bitch, and I have a history teacher who is truly straight from hell. But Jamie is here with us this year. I am going to marry him eventually. My folks are being really good about him. They’re trying.” She smiled. “I think, thanks to your folks, they’re getting along a lot better with each other, and that kind of makes things look better, you know? Have you heard that expression about a glass being either half-full or half-empty? Well, you know, it’s not that the glass got any more water in it, but we’re all starting to look at it as if it’s half-full!”

  “That’s great.”

  “How about you? How are things?”

  He smiled, touching her cheek. “Well, you know how the country can be. Things are pretty much the same. I’m happy, though. It’s almost Christmas Eve.”

  “You really like Christmas, don’t you?”

  “It’s everything to me.”

  Christie laughed suddenly. “So why are you always hanging out in the cemetery? Come on with us. You can show us the way to your folks’ home.”

  He took both of her hands in his, staring at her fingers as he touched them. “Christie… you’re not going to find my Oak River Plantation this year. You found it last year. There are other guests now. You—you and your family don’t need the old house anymore.”

  “Aaron, we’re not staying, we just want to say hi and thanks!” Christie assured him, frowning. She was tempted to pull her hands away, except that, though he was certainly being odd, he wasn’t being mean. His hands on hers were very warm, and was his smile.

  “You don’t need to say thanks,” he told her.

  “Listen,” Christie said with frustration, “I’m getting my mom. She’ll be so happy to see you. And she’ll talk you into getting in the car with us and getting us up to the house and a nice warm fireplace. Don’t move a muscle.”

  She started to walk away.

  “Christie!” He caught her hand, pulling her back.

  “Aaron, I’m just getting my mom. I’m coming right back.”

  He nodded. “Sure. Just Merry Christmas, huh? Happy life. Don’t ever throw any of it away, okay?”

  She stared into his eyes, his handsome face. Shook her head. “Merry Christmas to you, too. I know Jamie won’t mind if I kiss an old friend,” she told him. She stood on tiptoe and gently kissed his lips. “I’ll be right back!” she whispered.

  Christie went tearing back through the trees, calling out as she went. “Mom, Dad! I’ve found it! I’ve found the old cemetery. Aaron Wainscott is here; he can show us the way.”

  Julie had been standing outside the van, leaning against it, Ashley, awake now, hugged to her. Jamie, too, had awakened. His dark hair was a little mussed—sexy, Christie thought, but she’d keep a lid on it. Jon and Jordan were still staring at a deep pile of once-white snow. They all turned at the sound of her cries.

  “Aaron’s there? At this hour?” her mother said doubtfully. “Why didn’t you bring him out here?”

  “Couldn’t talk him into it. He’s a little strange tonight, but I know you’ll set him straight. Jamie, I really want you to meet him. Come on!”

  Christie led the way back to the cemetery. “Aaron! Aaron!” she cried out.

  Her family all wandered into the copse with its crooked, broken headstones and beautiful angels. They all looked around, then looked expectantly back to Christie.

  “Well, he was here. I didn’t just imagine it,” Christie said.

  “You did find the cemetery,” Jordan said grudgingly.

  “So where did your friend Aaron go?” Jamie asked Christie.

  “He’s disappeared because he’s a ghost,” Ashley said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, honey!” Julie laughed. “Aaron is no ghost! He’s Mrs. Wainscott’s son.”

  “Mrs. Wainscott is a ghost, too,” Ashley said. She looked at her father very seriously. “And that’s why you can’t find the house. It’s even a ghost.”

  “Can houses be ghosts?” Jordan asked.

  “They can be haunted,” Jamie offered.

  “People are ghosts,” Christie advised her sister.

  “People aren’t ghosts!” Julie protested. “Aaron must have just decided to go to the house on his own, or else…”

  “He is a ghost,” Ashley insisted. “And he steps out of the picture when he’s allowed to haunt the house. Mostly, he has to haunt the cemetery. I think it’s because he must have actually died near here or something. I don’t know. All I know is that they step out of the paintings when they’re free to haunt Oak River Plantation, and then they go back into the paintings when they’re not. They must have had some kind of a really terrible fight, because Mrs. Wainscott haunts the place by night, and Mr. Wainscott haunts the place by day. Didn’t you notice that we never saw them together? They only get to see each other all together on Christmas Eve. And I think that they get to do that because they really did love each other, they just let that war kind of get in the way.”

  A pin could have been heard, dropping in the forest. They all just stared at Ashley. Blankly. Several seconds passed. She was seven now, of course. But still, such an assured and detailed display of imagination!

  “Ashley—” her mother began at last.

  “Mom, Aaron said that we wouldn’t find the house,” Christie said a little uneasily, staring at her little sister. “He said that we’d been at the house last year; someone else would be there this year. He said that we didn’t need the old house anymore, we didn’t need to say thanks.”

  “Hey, want to know what’s weirder?” Jordan demanded suddenly. He sounded a little spooked.

  “What?” Julie asked him.

  “Look,” Jordan said, and he pointed toward one of the lichen-covered tombstones. Snow dusted it, and he went down on his knees in front of it to wipe away the snow. It read:

  CAPTAIN AARON WAINSCOTT, ARMY OF THE POTOMAC BORN JULY 20TH, 1842 / DIED DECSPANBER 24TH, 1862 BELOVED SON AND BROTHER TRAITOR TO THE SOUTH BUT LOYAL TO HEARTH, HEART, AND FAMILY MAY HE REST IN PEACE

  “Aaron must be a common family name,” Julie said.

  “Aaron told me a story last year,” Christie said uneasily. “He told me about this Aaron.” She grimaced at her parents. “I was saying that we didn’t get along, and he told me about this family, and how the son had fought for the Union and the father had fought for the Confederacy. And they both died. Here. Or somewhere near here.”

  “So your Aaron must have been named after the young man who died,” Julie said to Christie.

  “Yeah, sure,” Jon said suddenly. His voice sounded strange. He reached out a hand toward Julie without really looking at her. He seemed to be desperately grasping for her. She took his hand, and let him draw her next to him. He was staring at another tombstone. A larger one. “Can you read that?” he demanded. “I’m a few months older than you are. You may still have more vision left. I think I’m seeing things. Julie, read!”

  Julie stared at the tombstone, reading silently.

  HERE LIE INTERRED THE BODIES OF CAPTAIN JESSE WAINSCOTT, A BRAVE AND COURAGEOUS SOLDIER, EVER LOYAL TO HIS CAUSE

  BORN APRIL 18TH, 1819 / DIED DECEMBER 24TH, 1862

  CLARISSA WAINSCOTT, BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER

  BORN MAY 10TH, 1823 / DIED DECEMBER 24TH, 1862

  MARY, PRECIOUS DAUGHTER BORN NOVEMBER 8TH, 1850 DIED DECEMBER 24TH, 1862

  Jordan came by his mother’s side and read the words out loud. “Wow!” he said. Then he added, “Hey, this must be some kind of a prank. These stones are really easy to read in an otherwise awfully neglected little cemetery.”

  “The cemetery isn’t neglected,” Christie protested. “Someone obviously tends this place.”

  “Of course, the Wainscotts take care of it,” Julie said. “And this…”

  “They all died on Christmas
Eve,” Jamie said, kneeling down by the large tombstone, pulling off a glove and running his fingers over it. “Looks real,” he said, glancing up at the Radcliffs. “Don’t you think, Mr. Radcliff?”

  “Okay, so it’s a real old tombstone; someone has just played a few games with it,” Julie said.

  Jordan started humming the theme song to The Twilight Zone.

  Christie hit him in the arm. “Stop that!” She looked at her folks. “This is weird. Really weird. And I’m freezing. Dad, could we please go back to that place and get some hot chocolate?”

  “Yeah, sure. What do you say, Julie? We’ll have hot chocolate, get something to eat, and get warmed up, and then, if everyone is up to it, we’ll make one last try to find the house. How’s that sound?”

  Julie just nodded stiffly. “Mum Let’s do that,” she murmured. She set an arm around Ashley’s shoulders and stared down at her daughter, walking quickly away from the cemetery as she asked her, “Ashley, honey, what pictures were you talking about?”

  “When we were at the house, Mommy. The pictures—”

  “The paintings in the parlor?” Jon interrupted.

  “Right. Those paintings, Daddy. And when we first got to the house, they were all in the paintings. Mr. and Mrs. Wainscott were in one; Aaron and Mary had their own. Then, first, Mrs. Wainscott was missing from a painting. And the next day, I saw that Mrs. Wainscott was back, but Mr. Wainscott wasn’t in the painting anymore. That was because he was with me. But it was a secret, and I knew it was a secret, so I didn’t say anything.”

  They had reached the road and the van. Julie looked at Jon. “She’s really been doing an awful lot of reading for that literacy project at school,” Julie said.

  “She’s—gifted!” Jon replied, seeking an explanation, the same as Julie was.

  “Oh, I am not!” Ashley protested. “I’m telling you what happened! No one ever believes you when you’re seven!” she said unhappily.

  “I believe you, Ash,” Jamie Rodriguez told her, tugging lightly on her hair as they crawled back into the car. She smiled at him. Jamie was nice. She was glad to have him around, now that everybody wasn’t fighting all the time.

  “I’m telling the truth,” Ashley assured him.

  “Ashley,” Christie murmured, “I think that you are telling the truth, and it scares me!”

  Ashley looked at her. “It shouldn’t scare you. It never scared me. And I knew they went in and out of the pictures. They did it to help us. So that we wouldn’t have to be lonely forever, only getting to see each other on Christmas Eve.”

  “Ashley!” Julie cried. “Honey, you can’t really believe in such things!”

  “Why not?” Ashley asked stubbornly. “I believe in Christmas.”

  The others remained silent then. Jon had no trouble retracing the road to the little restaurant, and they all piled quickly out of the car and into the wood-frame building. There was a long, old-fashioned counter directly in front, and by silent, mutual agreement, they all climbed onto the counter stools.

  The restaurant was all but deserted, except for a young couple with twin babies who were just finishing up their dinner in front. A very old man, surprisingly sprightly for his tall, bony frame and wispy gray hair, came walking out from a back room, drying his hands on a clean white bar towel. “Howdy, folks. I’m afraid I was just closing up for the night, but I’ll help you with what I can.”

  “Thank you, we’d really appreciate it,” Jon said.

  The fellow nodded, looking them all over. “Nice-looking family you got here. You, too, young fellow,” he told Jamie. “You adopted?”

  Jamie smiled. He shook his head. “I’m Christie’s boyfriend.”

  The old man nodded. “That’s mighty fine, young feller. Mighty fine. Now, what can I get for you?”

  “Hot chocolate all around, if you don’t mind. And anything at all that you might have left to eat.”

  The old man nodded. “Got stew. Will you eat stew, young lady?” he asked Ashley.

  Normally, Ashley would have wrinkled her nose and echoed, “Stew!”

  But she didn’t. She nodded.

  “There’s just me, so if you want faster service, someone step on back here. Mugs are there, hot chocolate machine is there, pours out a cup exact. What will they think of next? I’ll be right out with the stew.”

  He disappeared back into the kitchen. Jon and Julie stared at one another and smiled. “I’ll get the hot chocolate,” Julie said.

  “I can do it if you want.”

  Her smile broadened. “I want to get hot chocolate for my family,” she said. Jon, smiling as well, nodded.

  The old fellow managed to get bowls of stew out to them in a matter of minutes, accompanied by big, fluffy dinner rolls. The cold had made them very hungry, and they all started eating right away, complimenting the old man.

  “Glad you like it,” he told them, leaning on the counter. “Don’t usually get strangers by here this time of night. Except the occasional lost motorist.”

  Jon stopped chewing on his roll and swallowed. “Well,” he said ruefully, “I guess I am your occasional lost motorist. I thought I knew where I was going. Maybe you could help us. We’re looking for a place called Oak River Plantation.”

  “Oak River Plantation?” the old man said, his bushy salt-and-pepper brows arching high.

  “Right,” Jon said.

  The man smiled. “You’re fooling with me, mister.”

  “We’re not, honestly,” Julie said. “Why?”

  “There ain’t no Oak River Plantation. Not anymore. Place burned right to the ground way back in the middle of the Civil War, well over a hundred years ago.”

  “Someone rebuilt it, because we were there,” Jon said politely.

  “No one rebuilt it,” the fellow said.

  “But—” Julie began.

  “How can you be so certain?” Jordan exploded.

  The old man smiled. “I’m certain, young man, because my name’s Wainscott, and I own the property it sat on. My great-grandfather was younger brother to the captain who owned the place when it all went up. No one ever rebuilt there.”

  “Well, then,” Jon said, “someone nearby is pirating the name. It’s been done really well, but—”

  “Mr. Wainscott,” Jordan said, not intending to interrupt his father but doing so anyway, “are you the one who keeps up the old family cemetery?”

  “And my granddaughter, Mary, there, with her husband and boys.”

  They all turned to the young couple near the door with the twins. The woman was very pretty, and had a great smile. “Hi, folks.” Her husband nodded a polite greeting; one of the twins burped.

  Everyone laughed. A building tension seemed to ease from the room.

  “The tombstones are all tended; they’re very nicely legible for being so old,” Julie said.

  “Clear as rain. Mary went to a highfalutin art school up North and studied grave markers; can you beat that?” the older Mr. Wainscott said, obviously still astounded by such an idea.

  “Funerary art,” Mary said, smiling indulgently at her grandfather. “There are some really beautiful pieces in my own backyard.”

  “And some interesting gravestones,” Jon said.He shook his head. “Something awful must have happened; the whole family died on Christmas Eve, 1862.”

  Old Mr. Wainscott snorted. Mary glanced at her husband, who nodded to her with a bemused shrug. She came to the counter. “Jesse Wainscott was supposed to be one of the most extraordinary men to ever serve with the Confederate marauder, Mosby. He and his men hit the Union troops so often that Custer put out an order that captured men were to be hanged. Jesse was captured, and though he wasn’t to hang originally, a young boy in his company was supposed to die, so Jesse determined to take his place.”

  “Oh, my God!” Christie breathed.

  “Shush!” Jordan commanded.

  Jamie reached for Christie’s hand, squeezing it.

  Mary continued. “But Jesse happen
ed to be a Freemason as well, and he gave a distress signal to a Union commander who was obliged, as a Mason, to answer that call. Jesse might have walked away from the hanging.” She smiled, then glanced at Christie and Jordan. “But talk about your dysfunctional family! Jesse had had this terrible row with his son, who had decided to fight for the Union. And he’d had words with his wife, because she was sick and tired of the fighting. But, anyway, when the wife and son heard that Jesse was in trouble, none of the past mattered. They came riding to his rescue. Their daughter was supposed to be safe with relatives, but she wasn’t. She saw her mother leave and followed her. Clarissa raced her horse all the way from Front Royal to Oak River Plantation—”

  “Hear the horse died, too,” the old man put in.

  “Clarissa had a gun,” Mary said, narrowing her eyes at her grandfather for his interruption of her story. “Aaron Wainscott’s command came in at just about the same time. Shooting started and panic rose. The Union boys thought that Mosby was coming after them with demons straight from hell. It was a slaughter. So much gunfire. Jesse and Clarissa were killed straight away, right in one another’s arms. Aaron was wounded and died, and even the young girl got caught up in it and was shot and died as well. The whole family. And more. Union men, Rebel men… and somehow, a cannon was fired, the house caught fire and burned right to the ground. Naturally,” Mary added, her eyes alight with a twinkle, “with such a history, our property is supposed to be very haunted!”

  “Naturally,” Julie agreed in a whisper.

  She stared at Jon. She felt a little hand slipping into her own and turned to see that Ashley had come to stand beside her. “I told you, Mommy.”

  Ashley had told her, of course.

  But she was still a grown woman and it was impossible to believe. There had to be a rational explanation.

  Behind the counter, old Mr. Wainscott chuckled. “Legends!” he said. “We’re close to D.C. here, all right, you know, but at night sometimes the ground fog is neck-high, the wolves howl like banshees, and the wind sounds like a woman’s cries when it whistles through the trees. Folks around here tend to the fanciful, you know? Rumor does have it that Jesse gets to come alive by day, ’cause he was such a fine, brave fellow. Like his boy. The boy’s supposed to haunt the cemetery, isn’t he, Mary?”