A Vampire Christmas Carol (12 page)
Read A Vampire Christmas Carol Online
Authors: Sarah Gray
23
T
hey were in another scene and place, a room, not very large or handsome, but full of comfort. Near to the winter fire sat a beautiful young woman with a babe in her arms.
hey were in another scene and place, a room, not very large or handsome, but full of comfort. Near to the winter fire sat a beautiful young woman with a babe in her arms.
“My sister, Fan,” Scrooge observed.
The noise in this room was perfectly tumultuous, for there were more children there than Scrooge in his agitated state of mind could count, and, unlike the celebrated herd in the poem, they were not forty children conducting themselves like one, but every child was conducting itself like forty. The consequences were uproarious beyond belief, but no one seemed to care; on the contrary, the mother laughed heartily.
“Her nieces and nephews,” Scrooge muttered. “Her husband had a large family. They were always having them to dine; so many mouths to feed!”
“She is ill, your sister,” the ghost observed.
“After the birth of the boy. She was never well again. She died because of him, like my—”
“Like your mother?” the ghost questioned.
Scrooge gazed at his sister, who was still beautiful, but her face was pale, her eyes lacking some of the spark he had once known. “I intended to visit more often. She invited me, she and her husband, for Christmas and other such events, but I was busy. And they always had so many people in the house, so many children. I am not good with children.”
A knocking at the door was heard, and such a rush immediately ensued that she with laughing face and plundered dress was borne toward the center of a flushed and boisterous group, just in time to greet Fan’s husband, who came home attended by a man laden with Christmas toys and presents. Then the shouting and the struggling, and the onslaught that was made on the defenseless porter! The scaling of him with chairs for ladders to dive into his pockets, despoil him of brown-paper parcels, hold on tight by his cravat, hug him round his neck, pommel his back, and kick his legs in irrepressible affection. The shouts of wonder and delight with which the development of every package was received!
And now Scrooge looked on more attentively than ever, when the children were ushered out the door to their homes, and the master of the house took his infant son in his arms and sat down with Fan at his own fireside.
“Fan,” said the husband, turning to his wife with a smile. “I have found another doctor who will see you. I am certain this one will make you stronger.”
She smiled, leaning back in her chair to rest. “I am certain you are right, dear husband.”
“He says those marks on your neck, he knows what they are.”
“We know what they are, my love,” she said softly.
Scrooge, standing beside the spirit, stiffened. “She has marks on her neck? Vampires? He let the vampires get to her?”
“I thought you did not believe in vampires,” the spirit observed with more sarcasm than one might think such a figment of one’s imagination should have. (And Scrooge was still not entirely certain that was not all that the Ghost of Christmas Past was.)
“Let us talk of something else, my love,” Fan said, closing her eyes. “What did you do today? Who did you see?”
“Funny you should ask. I saw your brother,” he said.
She opened her eyes, and Scrooge felt a strange tightness in his chest.
“Did you invite him to Christmas dinner? I sent a note, but it came back without reply again.”
“I passed his office window, and as it was not shut up, and he had a candle inside, I could scarcely help seeing him. I tapped on the door and the window. I know that he saw me and recognized me, but he would not grant me admittance.”
“Poor Ebenezer,” she said, closing her eyes again.
“Yes, poor Ebenezer,” agreed the husband. “Since he turned Belle away, he is quite alone in the world, I do believe.”
“Spirit,” said Scrooge in a broken voice, “remove me from this place.”
“I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,” said the ghost. “That they are what they are, do not blame me.”
“They kill her, don’t they? The vampires, they kill my sister, Fan. They killed my mother and then my sister.”
“You did not even attend her bedside when her husband sent word that she was dying.”
“Remove me,” Scrooge exclaimed. “I cannot bear it.”
He turned upon the ghost, and seeing that it looked upon him with a face, in which in some strange way there were fragments of all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with it.
“Leave me. Take me back. Haunt me no longer.”
In the struggle, if that can be called a struggle in which the ghost with no visible resistance on its own part was undisturbed by any effort of its adversary, Scrooge observed that its light was burning high and bright, and dimly connecting that with its influence over him, he seized the extinguisher-cap, and by a sudden action pressed it down upon its head.
The spirit dropped beneath it, so that the extinguisher covered its whole form, but though Scrooge pressed it down with all his force, he could not hide the light, which streamed from under it, in an unbroken flood upon the ground.
He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom. He gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which his hand relaxed, and had barely time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep.
STAVE 3
THE SECOND OF THE THREE SPIRITS AND MORE VAMPIRES
24
A
waking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, Scrooge had no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of one. He felt that he was restored to consciousness in the nick of time, for the particular purpose of holding a conference with the second messenger dispatched to him through Belle’s and Jacob Marley’s ghost’s intervention. But finding that he turned uncomfortably cold when he began to wonder which of his curtains this new specter would draw back, he put every one aside with his own hands, and lying down again, established a sharp look-out all round the bed. He decided he wished to challenge the spirit on the moment of its appearance, and did not wish to be taken by surprise, and made nervous.
waking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, Scrooge had no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of one. He felt that he was restored to consciousness in the nick of time, for the particular purpose of holding a conference with the second messenger dispatched to him through Belle’s and Jacob Marley’s ghost’s intervention. But finding that he turned uncomfortably cold when he began to wonder which of his curtains this new specter would draw back, he put every one aside with his own hands, and lying down again, established a sharp look-out all round the bed. He decided he wished to challenge the spirit on the moment of its appearance, and did not wish to be taken by surprise, and made nervous.
Gentlemen of the free-and-easy sort who plume themselves on being acquainted with a move or two, and being usually equal to the time of day, express the wide range of their capacity for adventure by observing that they are good for anything from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter, between which opposite extremes, no doubt, there lies a tolerably wide and comprehensive range of subjects. Without venturing for Scrooge quite as hardily as this, I don’t mind calling on you to believe that he was ready for a good broad field of strange appearances, and that nothing between a baby and a rhinoceros would have astonished him very much. Not after the vampires.
Scrooge still could barely believe the truth of what he had seen at the side of the previous spirit. All those past events Scrooge had watched with the Ghost of Christmas Past! Could they really have taken place as the ghost had shown him, rather than the way he had experienced them . . . or remembered them? The vampires at his birth, in the school, following him as he climbed the ladder of success . . . Could the vampires truly have been there all along, as the spirit suggested? Could they have manipulated his life as the ghost had demonstrated? Could Scrooge really have been right about so many things in his lifetime (at least in matters of business and investment) and yet so wrong about this? Or was what the ghost had shown him all untrue? Was this “visiting of spirits” some monstrous hoax perpetrated on him for who-knew-what reason? Perhaps a business rival thought to throw his ventures into chaos, or it might be that the quality of gruel at Mother Chow’s cook shop had taken a turn for the worse and all this madness was the result of too much Thames water and sawdust stirred into the cook pot and passed on to unsuspecting customers.
It was a question so enormous to ponder that it made Scrooge’s head ache to think of it.
Which brings the question to light, dear reader, as to whether or not the same vampires exist in our lives. Are they there as they were in Scrooge’s life and we merely do not see them? What choices have you made, paths have you taken, not of your own free will, as you assumed, but due to control by the vampires? Are you—are our government leaders—merely puppets of scheming vampires seeking to control the human world? And taking into consideration the outlandish and costly boondoggles that our elected officials put into play in direct conflict with the wishes of those who put them into office and the manner in which perfectly sane-appearing individuals seem to lose all reason once they are in power, do vampires not seem the most logical answer? The idea makes my head ache, as well. But back to the story at hand.
Now, being prepared for almost anything there in his bedchamber, Scrooge was not by any means prepared for nothing, and, consequently, when the bell struck one, and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came. All this time, he lay upon his bed, the very core and center of a blaze of ruddy light, which streamed upon it when the clock proclaimed the hour, and which, being only light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to make out what it meant, or would be at, and was sometimes apprehensive that he might be at that very moment an interesting case of spontaneous combustion, without having the consolation of knowing it. At last, however, he began to think—as you or I would have thought at first, for it is always the person not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and would unquestionably have done it too—at last, I say, he began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room, from whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine. This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly and shuffled in his slippers to the door.
The moment Scrooge’s hand was on the doorknob, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed.
It was his own parlor, the one where he had found his housekeeper, Gelda, and the boy lurking in the dark. There was no doubt it was his own place. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove, from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrifaction of a hearth had never known in Scrooge’s time, or Marley’s, or for many and many a winter season gone. Naturally, considering the cost of faggots or even the poorest grade of coal, what reasonable businessman would throw money into a fireplace merely for the purpose of heating a room when, if one had patience, summer would come, and the sun would give the same results? Nevertheless, what Scrooge saw he saw, and here, in his own parlor, a reckless squandering of hard-earned pounds and shillings went on before his eyes. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, suckling pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince pies, plum puddings, tubs of pickled eels, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly giant, glorious to see, who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike plenty’s horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Scrooge, as he came peeping round the door.
“Come in,” exclaimed the ghost. “Come in, and know me better, man.”
“Are you alone?” Scrooge dared.
“Alone?”
“No . . . vampires? It has been suggested to me by a previous visitor that vampires may reside in my own home.”
“There are no vampires here at present time,” the ghost said kindly. “Join me.”
Scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before this spirit. He was not the dogged Scrooge he had been, and though the spirit’s eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them.
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” said the spirit.
“Of course you are. I should have known.” He glanced around. “You are certain you have not let any vampires into my parlor?” The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as if by chill, although the artificial heat of the parlor due to the excess of fire should have prevented that same sensation.
“I am certain. Now look upon me.”
Scrooge reverently did so. It was clothed in one simple green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. This garment hung so loosely on the figure, that its capacious breast was bare, as if disdaining to be warded or concealed by any artifice. Its feet, observable beneath the ample folds of the garment, were also bare, and on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath, set here and there with shining icicles. Its dark brown curls were long and free. They were as free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanor, and its joyful air. Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard, but no sword was in it, but rather a long, vicious-looking pike.
“What is that for?” Scrooge asked suspiciously. He had seen such similar weapons in the corners of shops and offices, set amongst umbrellas and walking sticks. When he had inquired to the owners of the pikes what purpose they served, he had always gotten queer looks and quick answers that had never made great sense: to chase away stray dogs, to support the clothes-line on wash day, to brace up a leaning May Pole, to fish stray buckets from the well.
The spirit glanced at the pike he carried. “It is a symbol of what we all battle.”
“Stray dogs and wayward buckets?”
The spirit chuckled, but did not answer the question. Instead, he pursued his own agenda. “You have never seen the like of me before?”
“Never,” Scrooge made answer to it.
“Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family, meaning (for I am very young) my elder brothers born in these later years?” pursued the phantom.
“Are they in any way related to the vampires?” Scrooge asked suspiciously.
“They are not.”
“Then I don’t think I have,” said Scrooge. “I am afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit?”
“More than eighteen hundred,” said the ghost.
“A tremendous family to provide for,” muttered Scrooge.
The Ghost of Christmas Present rose.
“Spirit,” said Scrooge submissively, “conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learned a lesson, which is working now. Tonight, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it. My only request is that we avoid the vampires . . . if at all possible. If, that is, they truly exist.”
“Oh, they exist.” His eyes twinkled. “Touch my robe.”
Scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast.
Other books
The Caller by Alex Barclay
Dean and Me: A Love Story by Jerry Lewis, James Kaplan
The Wizards of Venus Book One: Magic Touch by Dakota Trace
Cast in Ruin by Michelle Sagara
Deceptions by Cynthia Eden
The Foretelling by Alice Hoffman
Reunion by Meg Cabot
The Black Jackals by Iain Gale
Adrastia (The God Chronicles Book 4) by Kamery Solomon
Murder in Court Three by Ian Simpson