No voice pronounced these words in Scrooge’s ears, and yet he heard them when he looked upon the bed. He thought, if this man could be raised up now, what would his end purpose be? What would it be programmed to haunt and applying itself to such horrors, try to accomplish?
“Spirit!” he said, “this is a fearful place. In leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson, trust me. Let us go!”
Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head.
“I understand you,” Scrooge returned, “and I would do it if I could. But I have not the tools, Spirit. I have not the corporeal sustenance.”
Again it seemed to look upon him.
“If this is my purpose, to be here, to put this creature down, then so be it!” His hand trembled only slightly as he pulled the sheet free to reveal the horror beneath.
The first impression the Ghoul had upon Scrooge was a pair of terrible glowing eyes. For a moment those eyes were the only thing he could see, as if their light cast the rest of the face into shadow. They did not blink but turned slowly as if it had just occurred to the Ghoul that there was something beyond the white of the sheet and the eyes moved in such a progression as to take in the room before finally settling on Scrooge.
As the shadows fell away and the face came into focus, Scrooge had first a dawning feeling that the face was someone he knew. This was followed by the sudden realization and corresponding drop in the pit of his stomach, that the figure was familiar as if he was looking in a distorted mirror, for the creature had his nose and lips and brow, but its skin was cast in a deathly pallor and its eyes, as if it recognised Scrooge too, narrowed to a feral gleam. The lips began to peel back in a semblance of a smile.
Scrooge let out a cry of disgust mixed with horror and, dropping the cloth back over the Ghoul’s head, scrambled back from the bed until he fetched up against something black and coarse, like a shroud. A glance confirmed the presence of the silent Ghost standing over him and it showed neither shock nor inclination to intervene with the Ghoul but only, as before, lifted a hand to point at the thing that had usurped Scrooge’s corpse.
It seemed as if Scrooge, in lifting the sheet, had in fact been the lifting of the veil of death, reanimating the twitching body to a nefarious purpose. The Ghoul sat up, the sheet falling from its face and slowly, like a marionette newly carved and strung, began to work each individual joint as if to see what it did.
Having seen enough, Scrooge threw himself into motion, flinging back the wardrobe door and reaching for the weapons he had secreted in the back. It was only when his hand scraped the empty air where the weapons should be did he remember the visit to Old Joe’s and the odious creatures who had availed themselves of his household. With a vile curse on his lips, Scrooge yanked himself back and, eyes raking over the room, tried to improvise a weapon on the spot.
Over to the fireplace he flew, first confirming as he suspected that the rune-laden fire iron had been stolen with the rest, then finding an over-looked flint stone that had been deserted by the thieves. Working the task with practiced hands, Scrooge struck a spark on the small tinder pile, and catching quickly, it bloomed into a hot flame. He glanced over his shoulder to gauge how much time he had to fashion a torch to find the Ghoul there, reaching out a hand with fingers that ended in talons.
With a cry of surprise, Scrooge bent away from the claws and, snatching up the tinder pile whole, turned and threw the flaming detritus into the creature’s face. It startled with the light and then howled with pain as the tinder scorched its bare chest. Gaining the advantage, Scrooge pressed towards the Ghoul with the flint stone, striking sparks in its direction.
The Ghoul retreated then and, finding itself trapped between Scrooge and the window, opted to throw itself bodily out of doors, not bothering to open the glass. Scrooge, delayed momentarily in shock that the Ghouls would defenestrate itself, hastened to the window and looked down. Finding the yard empty and catching a hint of shadow to indicate the path of the creature’s flight, he was forced to believe that the creature had not in fact perished.
Unwilling to follow the Ghoul’s example, Scrooge hastened down the stairs and out into the empty yard. Upon observing where the Ghost’s trajectory from the window should have taken him, Scrooge discovered its loathsome footprints in the snow and he pursued the trail with vigor. The Spirit followed Scrooge silently, hovering like a malevolent shadow.
Scrooge hastened through the city streets, ignorant of footpads and cutpurses, focused on his prey. Even in his horror at the visage of the Ghoul, he found the thrill of the chase had opened within him a wellspring of youth and excitement that he had once relished but had, in the absence of use and addition of age, forgotten had existed. The chase breathed new life into Scrooge and if one of his associates from the public house had happened out to see him round the corner, would not have recognised the man in the slightest, for there was a mad grin on his face and a gleam in his eye that had not been seen in many years.
Ahead, a scream cut through the night. It was not the cry of a Ghoul, nor the cry of someone who had stubbed their toe, nor even the cry of a good wife who had happened upon her Christmas Day surprise early and was pleased at the sight. No, this was a cry of mortal terror, made more visceral by the sudden interruption of it and the silence that followed.
Scrooge found the source in a narrow alley. The creature was huddled over a prone figure, making a wet, slurping sound as it ate. Unarmed and undaunted, nay he likely never noticed his weaponless hands, Scrooge let out a battle cry as he charged down the alley intent on putting an end to his twisted likeness. he Ghoul’s eyes flashed in the gloom of the alley, and upon recognizing his assailant, hesitated as if deciding whether this morsel was worth another confrontation and, finding it wanting, the Ghoul fled hastily in the opposite direction.
The shape on the ground didn’t move as Scrooge’s feet thundered toward it. He fell to his knees and thrust his ear upon the poor wretch’s chest and then again upon its lips and hearing no signs of life, he wept.
“That was a jikininki, Spirit! A jikininki!” Scrooge exclaimed, more to hear the truth than expecting the Spirit to reply.
The Spirit did reply, after its own fashion, producing from within its robes a wickedly lit orb. It hovered in the alley, casting light and shadows so the macabre scene was thrown into sharp relief followed by sickening darkness in turns. The snow was turning dark and damp from the corpse, the neck and chest opened by sharp talons and one arm, Scrooge noted, had been severed and cast-off some ways away, stripped like some discarded chicken bone. The face, however, had been left intact, and Scrooge felt as if the world had quickly dropped, leaving his bowels somewhere in his chest. It was the boy, one that Scrooge recognised from that very morning, who had offered him a song in exchange for charity. The boy whom Scrooge had so soundly refused. He scrambled on his hands and knees away from the body and was violently ill upon the stones.
When he was quite finished and rubbing his lips with the sleeve of his robe, Scrooge sat back upon his heels and put his mind to the task. His thoughts careened haphazardly between the assault in the bedroom, the fight at Cratchit’s house seven years prior, the charge in the alley and back again, interspersed with wonderings as to why the jikiniki had sprung forth from his corpse. These thoughts rattled and jumped in his mind, chasing circles and skipping the tracks, ultimately leading to nowhere.
He spoke out loud, as was his habit when working a difficult task, but the Spirit hovered close to hear his words and, seemingly, pass judgment. “I have no weapons. I have a responsibility and a duty to put this thing down, but no weapons. I cannot do it alone.” He turned to look up at the Spirit, the orb blinding and thrusting him into darkness in turn.
“If there is any person in the town who can help me put it down, “ said Scrooge, quite agonized, “show that person to me, Spirit! I beseech you. Let no harm come to the people of this city for the offspring of
my sins.”
The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment, like a wing; and, withdrawing it, revealed a familiar room lit by fireplace, where a mother and her children were. The room and its occupants were instantly known to Scrooge, as he had recently visited it with the Ghost of Christmas Present. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as statues in one corner, the mother tended a bubbling pot and her daughters were engaged in sewing and Peter sat with a book before him and read, “On that day many will say to me, `Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast out demons in your name, and do many mighty works in your name?’ And then will I declare to them, `I never knew you; depart from me, you evildoers.”
The scripture gave Scrooge a start, for it looked as if he had arrived in a moment of reprieve, but the words were chilling and ominous.
In fact, Scrooge, having grown quite accustom to the comings and goings of Spirits, anticipated popping into his destination without attracting notice nor infamy and was therefore quite taken aback when the good wife started and let out a shriek upon seeing him. It was Mrs. Cratchit who made such a noise and, scattering her brood with a wave of her hand, set upon Scrooge with a wooden spoon about the arms and chest and in the execution of her administrations flinging bits of stew onto his dressing robe!
“Good Lady!” Scrooge exclaimed.
“The Ghost speaks!” she cried continuing her assault.
“I’m not a Ghost!” Scrooge cried. “You’re hitting me!”
“Live or dead, no more than you deserve!”
Oh! A greater truth Scrooge was no more loath to admit. After the humbling incidents of the Ghost of Christmas Past and Present, and now Future, perhaps the good woman’s grievances might have merit, for he was beginning to realize that if his sins and virtues were stacked upon the scale plates, the life of her son would not set the balance to right. It might have once, it’s true, but that time was long past and squandered.
It was then that Scrooge noticed that Mrs. Cratchit, nor her shocked children had any inclination of the other “Ghost” in their midst. The only conclusion that he could draw was that the Spirit had thrust him corporeally into the room to, as the saying goes, set the cat among the chickens. In Scrooge’s assessment the thing took no small pleasure in the punishments Mrs. Cratchit was dealing out. He fancied he could see the Spirit’s shoulders heaving up and down with mirth.
The sight infuriated Scrooge and he turned upon Mrs. Cratchit, seizing the implement of his flogging. Tempting as it was to administer a spanking or two himself, he instead held the spoon steady in Mrs. Cratchit’s vision letting her focus on it and dread it before casting it into the fireplace where it promptly was consumed.
“The word came down from the laundress. You perished!” Her voice was queer, quiet compared to her previous outburst and breathy as if she had just ascended a staircase at a dead run.
“I’m not dead, woman!” he burst. At that moment Peter unstuck himself from his stool and threw himself between Scrooge and his mother, as if ready to sacrifice life and limb to protect her. Martha gathered the smaller children to her in a corner and sheltered them with her arms. He was still the ogre of the family, but there they stood united to face him, daring all and not turning away, not one thinking only of themselves. What strong people these were. In a sad way, it made Scrooge smile.
“Where is your father, lad,” asked Scrooge. He attempted to modify his voice to something resembling gentleness and did a bad job of it. Yet the effort, or perhaps years of ingrained politeness, tore the answer from Peter’s lips.
“With Tiny Tim, sir.”
“Ah! The boy lives. Good. Very good.” And indeed, Scrooge was pleased, as the boy should live and be merry, but it was apparent that this was the wrong thing for the family ogre to say, as to suggest that he wouldn’t be living was tantamount to declaring he would like to devour Tiny Tim for dinner!
It was no sooner that this thought crossed his mind that it occurred to him that his unnatural counterpart might agree! He felt as if cold fingers had skirted down his spine to rest within his bowels. Would he, that nefarious he, really pursue Tiny Tim as a delightful morsel? With dread Scrooge thought, perhaps he would.
Scrooge hastened to the window and looked out onto the street. “Where are they? By what route do they travel? When are they expected?”
“Past time, rather,” Peter answered. “But I think he has walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, Mr. Scrooge, what with your passing.”
“Go, before he comes, Spirit! You will visit no harm on us now!” cried Mrs. Cratchit in the grips of her terror. She pulled back upon Peter’s shoulders drawing him away and, retreating to the corner, comforted her children with soothing words. Scrooge paced the length of the room, keeping a distance from the corner where Mrs. Cratchit murmured to her children until hearing a noise on the stoop, she cried out triumphantly, “And there is your father at the door!”
She hurried out to meet him; quite forcefully shunting Scrooge aside in the process and Bob with his comforter—wrapped around he and Tiny Tim both, poor fellows--came in.
“Mr. Scrooge!” cried Bob. For a moment there was a war upon Mr. Cratchit’s face, it played out as if he could not quite decide whether to be shocked or fearful or worried that he had been mistaken in his employer’s death and now, with missed work on the offing, about to be let go from his position. Finally, his face seemed to settle on a wild-eyed grin that said he was no less than terrified and quite concerned he may have gone mad.
“Bar the door, man! There’s work to be done!” Scrooge snapped, counting on his voice to deliver the slap the man quite desperately needed. To Scrooge’s relief it worked, and Bob set into motion, ordering the children to secure the windows and throwing the bolt on the door himself.
Thus delivered of his task and in the motion of it, finding his voice, he rounded on Scrooge, demanding, “What is the meaning of this? Are you past or are you present?”
And now it was Scrooge’s turn to feel mad because he was passed, in the present which was his future. He shook the thought away with a desperate shake of his head. “I am not a Ghost, but there is a Spectre coming here tonight, Bob. He will look familiar and he will be after dear Tiny Tim. I need your help again, old friend.”
If Bob Cratchit was surprised or offended that Scrooge, after seven years of badgered servitude, implied friendship between them, he did not let on. He had long since learned during his tenure that drunks were manipulative beyond remorse and that regardless, there was always work to be done.
“Is it the same creature as before?”
“It’s cousin, yes.” Oh! Such a lie was never uttered. The tugging of guilt pulled at his conscience, but he did not dare trust Cratchit with the complete truth, the full identity of the creature come to take his son.
Cratchit dropped quite unexpectedly to his knees and seizing a threadbare rug, tossed it back from the floor exposing the wood planks beneath. There he started to work his finders along the worn floor until, finding what purchase he needed, yanked back a board to reveal a cubby beneath.
Scrooge could not have been more shocked than if his own Ghost had sauntered in and struck up a jig. For secreted away under the floorboards of Cratchit’s house was a small arsenal of weapons whose design and purpose was in the dispatchment of ghosts, ghouls and other supernatural creatures.
Mrs. Cratchit, who had struck up a cry when her poor rug had been tossed aside and nearly gone into the fireplace, now stood peering over her husband’s shoulder, quite as shocked as Scrooge at the cache of weaponry under her kitchen floor. “Bob,” she whispered, scandalized. “What have you done?”
“I know we agreed never to discuss that night, dear.” Mrs. Cratchit opened her mouth, but to deny, agree or protest, Scrooge could not be sure. Bob raised his hands as if gently patting the air between them and continued hastily, “I know you never
quite believed it all in the first place. You tended Tim’s wounds and turned a blind eye to the cause of their affliction. But I couldn’t.” There was steel now in his voice, a metal Scrooge had never heard from Bob before.
“These are our children, this is our home and you are my wife. What sort of man am I, if I cannot protect these things? Duty compelled me to collect these defenses, to horde them under our floor boards in case anything came to hurt us again. I know you are angry, good wife, I’ve dreaded your discovery of it for some time now, but I am a father first, and I must provide and protect our brood, whether you can face the truth or not!”
Mrs. Cratchit had stood as if rooted to the spot and stared quite agog at Bob through this entire discourse, at times her eyebrows furrowed in anger or raised in surprise, always with her mouth slightly ajar as if the she had lost the ability to move any muscles below her nose. This behavior continued into the silence that followed Bob’s speech, her eyebrows still twitching furiously to express some sort of emotion before her face crumpled altogether and Mrs. Cratchit let out a low wail. “His eyes glowed!” she managed before burying her face and her tears in the palms of her hands.
As Bob moved to embrace and comfort his wife, Scrooge crouched at the hole in the floor boards to inspect the armory. The collection was, while dusty, surprisingly diverse and well made. The craftsmanship looked solid and, although most of the rune work showed the mimicry of a child copying adult letters, it seemed serviceable enough. There were weapons for slaying all sorts of supernatural creatures, some real, some imagined, and a silver cistern (plated no doubt) for holy water, at least Scrooge presumed. That’s what his was for.
Ebenezer Scrooge Page 10