A Ghost Story

The chill moved through the air in my bedroom and settled at the foot of my bed. I forgot to close the window. I’d been restless enough and now I was cold. I ignored it for a few minutes then rolled over to get up and close it. The dog was on the foot of the bed sleeping. The cold air didn’t bother her. I threw the covers back half angrily and sat up to make the ten step walk to the window.

The old house was built in 1863. It wasn’t that big, or grand. It had been added onto; updated and repaired numerous times, but it was in remarkably excellent condition. I purchased it from a builder who felt he could never recoup his money and still had thousands of dollars in electrical repairs ahead of him. Since I was an electrician by trade, we struck a deal. I bought the house for too much money and updated the electrical myself. Now, the only current issues to date were that the wood floors were cold and the old divided light windows were hard as heck to open and close.

I walked across the cold floor to the south facing window and brushed the curtains out of the way. The window was closed. Huh. Drafty old house. I closed the curtains and turned back to my bed. I stopped, stunned. I was shocked to see an older looking man sitting at the foot of my bed right next to my dog. The dog was calm. In fact, still asleep.

“Where did you come from?” It was all I could think to say.

No answer. He sat slumped over like he was dejected, sad. His long grey hair flowed out from under an old time sleeping cap.

“Where did you come from, how did you get here”, I asked again.

He turned slightly and partially faced me. “Sit down”, he whispered.

He was dressed in a sleep gown out of the 1860’s. He had a grey scraggly beard. He looked familiar.

“Do I know you?”

“You do not”, he said. “Sit and keep me company for a moment.”

So I did. I sat down in the rocking chair at the foot of my bed, threw a quilt around my shoulders.

“Please tell me, before you begin, what is your name. You look familiar, after all.”

“I’ve been long gone, but many people know of me. Once upon a time. I became famous for writing stories of problems of the day. Stories of greed, stories of poverty, stories of suffering, a famous story of redemption. My name is Charles Dickens.”

“Of course”, I muttered. “Yes, Mr. Dickens, of course, your story of Christmas, A Christmas Carol, with Scrooge and the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future and Bob Cratchit and his son Tiny Tim is one of the most well known Christmas stories in history. Numerous plays and movies have been made of the story!”

“Is that why you are here? Have you stopped here as a ghost of Christmas Past? Why are you here? Of all the places, why here, why now?”

“No”, he said wearily. He appeared semi-transparent and although so, I could see the expression on his face and he seemed tired. Dreary.

“You are of no consequence. I simply know this place from the last time I visited America in the year 1868. That year I read publicly, the story, A Christmas Carol. Americans have always enjoyed that story. But, while here, I did not stop and say hello to the friend of mine who built this home, even though I had time to do so. I sent a courier with a note that I was departing for London and would see him again in the summer. Which would have been the summer of 1869. Of course, I never returned to America. I should have seen my wonderful friend one more time.”

“I have only traveled this time to see his home. The home he designed and built to house his family. The home he invited me to see. The home I never came back to visit. And to meet the person who lives here now. Which must be, you.”

“For real? Can this be real? I mean, you are here. I'm not dreaming. So surreal. My friends and family will think I’m crazy. No one will believe me when I tell them you were here.”

“They are not meant to. I am here on a personal accord. You may write of your experience, but you are quite right. No one will believe you had an encounter with the most famous ghost story author of all time.”

“Yes, of course, you’re right! This is beyond cool though!” I remarked. “May I ask you a question about your stories?”

“First, I will take your word regarding the temperature. It is Winter. I’m quite sure it’s cool if not purely cold. Is the house heated by fired coal?”

“No sir”, I explained. “It was, many, many years ago. Now, the house is warmed by a furnace which uses natural gas. The furnace burns the natural gas and at a certain temperature, a fan, which uses electricity, comes on and forces warm, heated air through a system of duct works to each room in the house.”

He looked perplexed and then smiled, “Really? It seems complicated. But surely it’s a much more effective method of heating a home than firing coal or keeping fires burning in a fireplace. My, what all I have missed. Now, what is your question before I must go?”

He looked more translucent than a moment ago as if he were fading away. “Because of it’s masterful storytelling and it’s popularity over the decades, would it be safe to assume, A Christmas Carol is your favorite story?”

He smiled very slightly and patted my dog on the head. The dog stayed asleep, didn’t flinch.

“No, it isn’t!” He said emphatically. “My favorite story is and always has been, Oliver Twist. The suffering of the poor, of the orphans, of the children in London during that time was painful to me. There were no laws, no rules regulating the use of children in the workplace. The filth in manufacturing, in the factories, in the mines of the day was cruel. Especially to children, to orphans who were deemed by the ruling class of London to be expendable. It was a deplorable situation.”

“I believed I had enough of a following then, through my stories, through the newspapers, that I could possibly effect some kind of change for the poor souls. And the story did, somewhat. Some labor laws were passed protecting children before Oliver Twist was printed. Many more were passed after that. I believe Oliver Twist helped bring to the public eye, the reality that orphans and children were suffering under a cruel and abusive system. Once the story was written into theatre, more sympathy for the downtrodden followed. Orphanages were cleaned up. Child labor was regulated and workplace conditions improved in the factories. Which is why, despite it not being as popular, Oliver Twist is my favorite work.”

I sat there staring at him. He didn’t look as weary. He was still smiling. I could see completely through him now. He patted my dog on the head but his hand passed through her. He looked at me and nodded. “Cheers”, he whispered and faded away entirely, still smiling.

“Cheers”, I responded. But it was too late. He had vanished.

“Remarkable.” I reached over and patted my dog. She opened her eyes and curled into a tighter ball. I took the quilt off my shoulders and spread it over her. The room didn’t seem cold anymore.

It only seemed like ten minutes, but I woke up three hours later. I dressed and walked to the kitchen. I grabbed a notepad and paper, took a sip of hot coffee and began writing a ghost story, a real ghost story. I don't expect anyone to believe it. But that's okay.