The thought struck Scrooge funny and he turned to Mr. Cratchit. “I do wonder where you came upon such tools.”
And Bob, looking ashamed now when had not to his wife, replied, “I fear I must admit a sin against you and ask for forgiveness, Mr. Scrooge.” Mrs. Cratchit made a noise of dissent, indicating that while her memory may have changed in regards to that long ago evening, her opinion of him had not.
Bob cleared his throat before continuing. “I came to your service to learn from you, not about numbers and books, though I was willing to be paid for that work. When it became apparent that your interest in this other type of work had waned, I -” and here Bob swallowed audibly, “borrowed the key to your store room.”
Scrooge raised an eyebrow but said not a word.
Hastily, Bob continued, “I did not steal! I’d never condemn my soul to the torment saved for thieves! I borrowed your key, I’m sorry to say, and after the work was done for the day, I would sit in the store room and draw these objects. Draw them for the blacksmith to work. He thought I was stark mad when I first came to him, but was willing enough to make them in trade for my working his books too. It didn’t harm anyone.”
“And how many times did you ‘borrow’ this key?”
“Many, sir.”
Scrooge felt within him a war of emotions. Proprietary anger, shame that his clerk would stoop so low or that he had not availed himself freely. Finally Scrooge settled on the best of these mixed emotions and told Bob, “It is a good thing you did, or we would have no defenses against this Ghoul tonight.” Gratitude, being a feeling long absent from Scrooge’s life, filled him with a surprising warmth which he was shocked to find, made itself known with a twitch of a smile on his lips.
Bob was quite baffled by this change in demeanor and began to suspect that something more miraculous than resurrection had befallen his employer. A vague thought tickled the back of his mind that in fact, his employer may have regained something more precious than life; he may have found his soul.
“Have you put these to use as of yet?”
“In practice, sir.”
“Much practice?”
“Enough, I’d wager.”
“Good. Then let us come up with a plan.”
The details, to Scrooge’s mind, turned out to be quite more complicated than he had anticipated, his previous experience being with supernatural elements that he chased rather than defended from. In this, Mrs. Cratchit was enormously helpful in planning, arranging with the neighbours to shelter the younger children, assigning the older to clearing the furniture from the center of the room and barricading all but the front door. Scrooge set about pulling out the arsenal and examining each weapon for flaws and dividing them into piles based on their usefulness in this situation. Bob secured the windows with nails and planks, shouting back and forth with Scrooge to confer about the weapons.
The Ghost, for its part, stood to the side and watched the proceedings. Scrooge noted that although the Cratchit’s did not acknowledge the Ghost nor seemed to perceive him at all, they did avoid him, as if the Spirit lowered the temperature unpleasantly in it’s vicinity and therefore the live inhabitants of the room gave the area a wide berth. It was strange, and yet not the strangest thing Scrooge had seen this evening, and so went about his own business.
Soon enough, the work was done and the family broke bread in a hasty meal, for according to Mrs. Cratchit, “The men need their strength and I will not send children to the neighbours with rumbling bellies, we ask too much already!”
Then the time was upon them to divide, the younger children, Martha and Belinda to the neighbours, Peter and Tiny Tim to stay. Scrooge was unsure if the creature hunted by some warped memory or if it could find Tiny Tim by other means, such as an odor or a supernatural pull like iron filings to a magnet. Whatever the method, Scrooge would not risk letting Tiny Tim out of his sight. Peter was of an age to bare arms, Martha and Belinda were as well, but Bob would not see them armed for the world. It was therefore a shock upon Bob to see his good wife take up a fire iron and take a preliminary swing.
“My Dear!”
“Don’t look like that at me, Mr. Cratchit. These are my babes, did I not birth them and tend them? Have I not washed laundry until my hands bled and some nights starved to see them better fed and taken care of? Would you deny me this chance to defend them now?”
“Mrs. Cratchit,” Bob attempted to cover both of her hands with his, but she would not let go of the weapon and he settled himself to wrapping his hands around her closed fist. “Your mother did not do you justice. She should have named you Diana, goddess of the hunt, goddess of childbirth, and I have worshipped you since I met you. It pains me now to see you like this, armed and fierce, because if I fall tonight, you must go on. Our children could not survive in the poor houses and orphanages. They must have one of us, or succumb to destitution and starvation of the body, if not soul.”
“That’s not fair,” she moaned.
“It isn’t. And yet, it’s the truth. The other children will be hidden, but undefended. Take this,” he squeezed her weapon hand, “protect them. I will mind the rest. Mr. Scrooge helped us once before. We can do it again.”
In the end, Mrs. Cratchit took the fire iron as well as a small amulet of protection. Before she hastened out the door, she turned and touched each member of her family, as if soaking up their images, the texture of their hair, the mark of their smile. For Mr. Scrooge, she spared a reproving look, her very countenance impressing upon him that her family was alive at her departure and she fully expected them to be living when she returned. She did not utter the threat, but Scrooge felt it all the same and decided he would not risk her wrath for the world.
With only four people, the flat seemed quite empty. Cratchit’s family numbered eight, including the adults, and Scrooge imagined that even asleep they would make a frightful commotion. To see their numbers halved was indeed an act of desolation to the house.
Scrooge made to help Bob settle Tiny Tim for the duration, but he waved him off. “He is very light to carry,” Bob said, “It is no trouble, no trouble.” Scrooge felt a chill come over him at these words, but could not divine the reason why.
Bob set Tiny Tim on the threadbare rug in the centre of the room. Peter took turns entertaining Tiny Tim by playing jacks and other such small activities to pass the time, and very so often, he would join the men and take a turn staring out into the street from a chink between the boarding. He put on a brave act for Tiny Tim, but his eyebrows would draw together in worry each time he traversed the room to peer out.
Scrooge also found himself worrying. Not so much about the defenses nor the imminent attack. Scrooge, having years of experience hunting combined with more years of cantankerous confrontation with his fellow man, had learned long ago not to over anticipate the moment. To execute the most devastating impact, either by words or blows, one need have a plan, but no script. He had learned that scripted words or deeds stripped the aggressor of the ability to think on ones feet. Flexibility was key.
As the clock ticked by the hours, he finally settled on the source of his discomfort. No, he was not worried about the creature, nor the fight to come, but he did wonder about his companions, most concernedly, how they might react at the sight of the creature and whom it resembled.
Scrooge cleared his throat. He had not noticed when Tiny Tim had fallen asleep but now it seemed like the first time anyone had spoke in hours and the silence had become sacrosanct. But now the silence was broken, and having done so, it was up to Scrooge fumble towards his confession.
“Mr. Cratchit, I might –“
Out of the corner of Scrooge’s eye, he caught a flicker of motion as the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come shifted. Scrooge had quite forgotten him there in the corner, with his robes blending him to the shadows. Now a hand stirred and lifted. A skeletal finger, stripped entirely of flesh and shockin
gly white, emerged from the folds of the black cloak to point. As if on it’s command, there was a rattle at the door.
“Wh- Who is there?” Bob asked.
There was no reply.
“Dear is that you?” Bob called again, this time more loudly and in better control of his voice.
In a sudden crash, something slammed into the door, shuddering the house, jolting the piled furniture and trembling the boarded up windows. A second blow sounded, not as powerful as the first but just as frightening. The silence that followed was dreadful, for it was not still as the grave, there was a snuffling and groaning coming from outside.
Scrooge pressed his eye to a gap in the boards and spotted the creature. It was his form, still, made all the more gruesome for the blood smeared chest and trousers. It spotted Scrooge and hissed before throwing itself against the boarded window. The BOOM of his impact seemed to knock the air out of the very house.
The creature continued on in this fashion, testing each door and window. Inside Tiny Tim whimpered crouched on the rug. Bob and Peter stood over him as if guarding against advancing creature inside the room, all the while Bob speaking words of comfort from the Good Book. The Spirit continued to point in warning to where the creature would strike next, though none but Scrooge could see and heed those indications.
Finally, after what seemed like the darkest hours of Scrooge’s life, the Spirit lowered his hand. The house grew deathly still, as if no one dared breathe. The attack was over.
“Is he gone, sir?” Peter whispered.
It pained Scrooge to say it, so he indicated with his head that it was not.
“Did you see…it?” inquired Bob. Scrooge nodded. “Like the last one,” Bob assumed and Scrooge found he was at a loss to tell him any different.
“He was looking for weaknesses,” Scrooge explained. “He will return, with some craftier device - ”
A scream of terror cut Scrooge off. The Spirit stood pointing into the street. The men stuck on the spot, stricken in terror. Another scream, this time decidedly feminine, chilled Scrooge to the marrow.
“Mother!” cried Peter.
“Emily!” cried Bob and both threw themselves to unbarricading the door. It was a small matter, throwing back the beam and scattering the salt. The protection runes were on the door and therefore broken upon the opening.
It was clever and a trap and Scrooge had hardly opened his mouth before the two bounded out into the street to save Mrs. Cratchit with Tiny Tim left bereft in the home still struggling to gain his feet. Torn between the two, Scrooge hastened to the doorway but would not take one step beyond to leave Tiny Tim undefended.
In view of any window, should a neighbour have looked out at the cries, the thing wearing Scrooge’s corpse stood. Mrs. Cratchit was restrained within its arms, her left hand in his right, her right in his left, her back to him so as not to see the horrible thing that was tormenting her. And tormenting it was. As Scrooge watched, the creature dipped its head down and tore another bite from her already bleeding shoulder.
Mrs. Cratchit screamed again.
Bob and Peter ran towards danger without a care for themselves, their duty to Tiny Tim swept from their minds in the frantic race to save Mrs. Cratchit. The corpse of Scrooge watched with his dead eyes as the two charged and smiled, revealing pitted teeth glistening with blood.
He released Mrs. Cratchit’s arms, grabbing her by the neck, as if to twist it off like some goose for Christmas dinner. Never to be thought of as helpless, she grabbed the amulet of protection, which she had hung about her neck by a chain, and being made of stout material, shoved it over her shoulder and into her attacker’s eye. The creature snarled in pain and having managed to lure two out of the three guardians out of the house, proceeded with the next step of his plan.
Mrs. Cratchit flew from his arms and came to an abrupt stop, head-first into a neighbours house. A sickening crunch accompanied the impact and Mrs. Cratchit collapsed as a puppet does with cut strings. The trajectory of her rescuers changed, towards her, while the ghoul sprinted towards Cratchit’s small flat.
The thing moved fast and Scrooge hardly had time to contemplate the terrible danger that was coming for Tiny Tim. He shook himself and deciding the most prudent course, set about slamming the door to secure Tiny Tim’s protection. The door was hardly closed before the ghoul was pressing upon it. The bar could not be latched and Scrooge was loath to find his corpse had an edge. Slowly, the ghoul gained traction, forcing the door open wider until its head popped though the gap followed quickly by its shoulders. When a taloned hand emerged Scrooge was forced to retreat, putting himself between the creature and Tiny Tim.
It wouldn’t have matter much if Scrooge had been equipped with the finest armory of the age. The thing was fast, strong and relentless. No sooner had it advanced through the doorway, that Scrooge found himself thrown across the room, dazed with no memory of the events in between. His mouth tasted coppery where he had bitten his tongue and his head ached worse than any self-inflicted sickness in recent memory. But those concerns ceased to alarm him as he heard Tiny Tim scream.
Scrooge willed himself into motion, lurching to his feet and attempting to put aside the abrupt swooping of the room, stumbled toward the source of the screaming. Tiny Tim had attempted to retreat, or perhaps the weight of the ghoul’s impact had landed them both in the passage. The screams had turned from fear to pain and Scrooge knew instinctively that time was short.
Weaponless and reeling, Scrooge scooped up the threadbare carpet and deposited half in the fireplace. The worn thing caught instantly and Scrooge pulled it out, unfurling it like a blanket and, holding the corners, advanced on the creature.
It’s back was turned. Tiny Tim had gone ominously quiet. Scrooge approached as if to lay the flaming rug on the creature, as you would tuck a small child in with a blanket. The flames were already hot and quickly licking up the rug, making it difficult to hold. Perhaps the ghoul was alerted by the increase in light, or the approach of the heat, or the click of Scrooge’s shoes as he attacked.
It turned, suddenly, and its face was a mess of blood and gore. It hissed, squinting into the light, and at last, broke form and ran. There was a crash in the back room as the creature escaped, but Scrooge had no intention of pursuing it as he dropped the rug and ran for Tiny Tim.
The boy lived, though Scrooge wished he did not, and he would not for very much longer. His face was torn, his tongue was missing, long gashes in his throat exposed his windpipe. The blood pooled here, it gurgled and bubbled with every laboured breath. His eyes caught up Scrooge’s and he held them bright and brave. He fought on, as he had his entire life, struggling for every moment. When the light began to dim, Scrooge took up the child and held him to his bosom. He broke down all at once. He couldn’t help it. If he could have helped it, he and this child would have been farther apart, perhaps, than they were.
Behind him Peter was stamping out the last of the embers from the flaming rug. Scrooge hadn’t heard him come in and didn’t know how long he had been there. He suspected it was not long, as Bob had just made the doorway, propping up Mrs. Cratchit who seemed to be having difficulty focusing. For all the world Scrooge wished he could shelter them from the sight of their son’s corpse. Life was full of casual joinings and partings, but this last parting would be a blow to them all, Scrooge included, for he felt that there was a hole in the world, which he wished to fall into without expectation of return.
Bob spotted Tiny Tim in Scrooge’s arms first. He froze upon the spot, which unfortunately gave Mrs. Cratchit the time she needed to regain her senses.
“GET AWAY FROM MY SON!”
Mrs. Cratchit launched herself at Scrooge, clawing at his face and pushing between him and Tiny Tim until Scrooge was forced to retreat entirely.
“MONSTER!” she screamed at Scrooge as she took Tiny Tim in her arms and rocked him. Scrooge wasn’t sure
if she even realized the boy had perished. She was too intent on him and really, she wasn’t far wrong, the monster that killed her son had worn his face. Bob, Scrooge noted, had slipped to his knees, as if Mrs. Cratchit had been supporting him and not the other way around. Scrooge recognised the look on the man’s face as despair and failure, a look he had worn too many times himself.
It was in this moment that Peter sucker punched him. He was still young and his muscles not fully developed, and being part of Cratchit’s brood, not raised to fighting naturally. All the same, Scrooge had already taken a blow to the head from the creature and now found his head buzzing with his face on the floor a second time in a very short while.
“Out.” Peter commanded as man would; matter of fact, low in voice and absolutely not to be challenged unless willing to do damage to oneself. Scrooge gathered himself from the floor and, surprised to find himself wearing his hurt and sorrow on his brow and in his step, hastened to the door, only stopping to give a silent squeeze to Bob’s shoulder. Peter followed him to the door and forced the door shut behind him.
The Ghost, Scrooge observed, was already upon the street. He stared at Scrooge silently and Scrooge stared back.
“Spectre,” said Scrooge, with resignation in his voice, “something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. Tell me, are there no chains and for me to carry? No spit and flames to roast my soul upon? Am I doomed to chasing my corpse around London, impotent to stop him and bound to watch the havoc it wreaks?
The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him, as before--though at a different time, he thought: indeed, there seemed no order in these latter visions, save that they were in the Future--into the homes and places of businesses of men he knew, showing him the blood and gore his ghoul would yet wrought. Indeed, the Spirit did not stay for anything, but went straight on, as to the end just now desired, until besought by Scrooge to tarry for a moment at the graveside proceedings of one of his future victims.
Ebenezer Scrooge Page 11