A Ghost Tale for Christmas Time (7 page)

“But—” started Jack.

“It’s
magic
, Jack,” said Annie. “We have to trust the magic.”

“But Charles doesn’t even want us around,” said Jack.

“That’s okay,” said Annie. “He doesn’t have to see us. He can believe it’s all happening in his imagination. He has a great imagination, you know. Come on, before he leaves.”

Jack sighed. “Okay,” he said. “But I hope we don’t give him a heart attack.” He unbuckled the green velvet bag and pulled out the violin and the bow.

Jack rested the bow against the strings of the violin. Then he began moving the bow back and forth. The violin’s music was soft at first, but as it grew louder, it seemed to come from every direction.

At the bottom of the hill, Charles lifted his head.

Annie started singing in a soft, whispery voice:

The streetlamp flickered and went out. Then a hazy glow surrounded Charles. He stood up and looked around. In the haze, a ghostly figure swirled into shape.

Jack’s heart pounded as he kept playing.

Charles cried out and stumbled back.

The ghost looked like both a child and an old man. He had long white hair, but there was not a wrinkle on his face. He wore a white tunic with a silver belt and carried a holly branch in his hand.

Annie sang on:

The ghost waved his hand, and a scene slowly appeared in the glowing fog: a small, frail boy was lying on a heap of rags.

“Who are you? And why do you show me this poor child?” cried Charles.

The boy rolled over and sat up. He had big eyes and wavy brown hair.

Charles gasped. “Oh, my!” he said. “Is that … is that
me
?”

The boy reached under the rags and pulled out a book. On the cover was a picture of a flying carpet. The boy opened the book and smiled.

“I remember that book! It
is
me!” cried Charles. “I loved to read
The Arabian Nights!
I felt as if I could ride on a flying carpet myself! Books gave me hope when I had no hope. But why do you show me this now?”

The ghost did not answer. He raised his pale hand in farewell.

“Wait!” cried Charles.

But the ghost faded into the haze. And the vision of young Charles Dickens faded with him.

The glow still surrounded Charles. Jack’s violin music swelled with deep tones. Annie sang on.

The haze became rose-colored. It swirled in the shape of a small cyclone. The funnel of vapor spun wider and wider, until out from its center stepped a giant in a green robe. He had a bushy brown
beard and wore a crown of icicles. He held a flaming torch high into the air.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?” cried Charles.

The ghost pointed into the mist and bellowed:

Charles stared as human shapes began to form in the mist: a young Victorian couple stood at a bookstall. “I’m getting the new book by Charles Dickens! I love Mr. Dickens!”

“I know you do, my dear! And so do I!”

The couple laughed joyfully, and another scene appeared beside them: a teacher stood in front of schoolchildren. “So what did we learn today from Mr. Dickens’s book?” she asked.

“We learned to be more generous and kind!” a small girl answered.

“Yes!” the class shouted.

As the children cheered, another scene took shape: Queen Victoria was sitting on her throne!

“I say,” the queen said to a lady-in-waiting. “This
Oliver Twist
book is exceedingly interesting. Poor Oliver. I had no idea children in our kingdom lived such dreadful lives.”

The queen faded away. The couple faded away—and the teacher and the children. Everything faded away except the giant ghost.

“They were all speaking about my books,” Charles said in a voice filled with wonder.

The giant ghost boomed:

“Yes! No! Yes, but …,” said Charles.

The ghost shook his head sadly. Then he, too, vanished into the fog.

Annie sang on:

The rosy glow faded to an eerie silver light. The air grew very cold. Then, like a dark shadow, a third ghost silently appeared. This ghost wore a black cape with the hood pulled over its head.

Charles raised his walking stick to protect himself. Jack trembled with cold and fear, but he kept playing the violin.

The ghost glided slowly toward Charles.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Charles cried.

A scene swirled into view beside the ghost: a group of people stood in a graveyard. A young woman was weeping near a tombstone.

“Why—why do you show me this scene of grief?” asked Charles.

The ghost pointed a bony finger at the tombstone.

Charles lowered his walking stick and crept
closer. He squinted at the writing on the tombstone. He gasped. “It’s
my
name!” he cried. “My name is on that stone!”

“Poor Papa,” the young woman said to the other mourners. “How sad that he stopped writing when he was so young. So many beautiful words might have been written. So many wonderful characters might have lived. If only he’d given more stories to the world, he might have touched the hearts of millions.” The woman broke down in tears again.

“Stop! Stop!” cried Charles. “I can’t bear it!”

The scene began to fade.

“Wait!” Charles shouted to the ghost. “I’ve changed my mind! Tell her I
will
keep writing! Wait!”

But the ghost and the mourners and the tombstone had already disappeared into the fog. Charles Dickens stood alone in the cold silver light.

Jack played one long, low note on the magic violin.

Then there was silence.

T
he gas streetlamp flickered back on. Charles began pacing back and forth.

“Come on, Jack,” said Annie. “Let’s go talk to him! Quick!”

Jack packed up the violin and bow. Then he and Annie hurried down the hill to Charles.

“Charles!” cried Annie. “Hello!”

Charles whirled around. “Annie! Jack! You can’t imagine what just happened!” His voice was shaking. “I had the strangest visions! Three ghosts came to me! They showed me visions of myself
in the past, the present, and the future!”

“Really?” said Annie. “That sounds like a scene in a book.”

“Yes, yes, it certainly does!” Charles said, laughing and wiping his eyes. “The ghosts made me want to keep writing. They taught me that I can truly help the world with my books! I—I must go home! I must find a cab and go home and get to work at once! I cannot waste another day! Another hour! Another minute! I must write! I love to write!” He laughed with joy.

“Then I guess we’ll be going home, too,” said Jack, smiling. “Our job is done here.”

“Shall I tell the cab to let you off somewhere?” asked Charles.

“We need to go to Hyde Park,” said Annie.

“Wonderful! It’s on the way. Come along!” said Charles. He took off running up the hill, dashing ahead of Jack and Annie. When they caught up with him, they saw a horse and cab clattering over the cobblestones.

“Stop, sir! Give us a ride, please!” Charles shouted to the driver.

The driver brought his horse to a halt. Jack and Annie followed Charles to the cab. “Hyde Park! Then One Devonshire Terrace! Please hurry!” said Charles.

The driver looked delighted. “Yes, Mr. Dickens, sir!” he said.

The three of them crowded into the cab, and the horse began to trot through the dark, foggy city, its hooves clopping on the cobblestones.

“Ah!” said Charles, clapping his hands. “I know now what I shall write about! I will write a Christmas story about a man whose life is changed by three ghosts! The Ghost of Christmas Past! The Ghost of Christmas Present! And the Ghost of Christmas Future! What do you think of that?”

“It sounds brilliant,” said Jack.

“I agree!” said Charles. “I’ll write about a greedy, selfish man who helps no one. Like—like Mr. Pinch! But I’ll call him—what shall I call him?”

“How about Scrooge?” said Annie.

“Wonderful name!” Charles laughed. “Mr.
Scrooge!
I love it. The three ghosts will change Scrooge’s life! Do you like that idea?”

“Love it,” said Jack.

“Good!” said Charles. “I think I shall just be able to write the story in time for Christmas. Hah! Perhaps I’ll call it
A Ghost Story of Christmas.”

“Hmm. Or maybe you could just call it
A Christmas Carol,”
said Jack.

“Oh! I love that!” said Charles. “Yes, perhaps I’ll call it
A Christmas Carol.
And then underneath those words, I’ll write:
Being a Ghost Story of Christmas!”

“That sounds good,” said Annie.

“That should make people want to read it,” said Charles. “Everyone loves a ghost story, don’t they?”

“Well …,” started Jack.

“Of course they do!” said Charles. “It all makes sense to me now. I will keep using my books to
fight greed and cruelty. My pen is my sword. Except my books will never celebrate wars and fighting. They’ll always show the joys and sorrows of real people. They’ll show how good always triumphs over evil.”

“Great,” said Jack.

Charles sat back in his carriage seat and chuckled, his eyes shining in the lamplight. “I’m as light as a feather, as happy as an angel. Am I not the luckiest man on earth?”

“I think you might be,” said Annie.

The horse came to a stop. “Hyde Park, Mr. Dickens, sir,” the driver called down.

“Well, Jack and Annie, I hope you have enjoyed your time with me. I trust I have been of some help to you,” said Charles. He sounded like the old Charles, pleased and proud of himself.