THE CHRISTMAS GHOST
The old man sat in his favourite armchair and, slowly, deliberately disappeared. He reappeared, disappeared and appeared once more. He could not settle, but this time he chose to remain visible – on the off chance – and gave a long, deep fed-up sigh.
“This ghosting business isn’t what it’s cracked up to be,” he complained to the room, which was empty, even with him in it.
“Christmas Eve and no-one to haunt,” he muttered looking around at a room decked out for festivities which weren’t happening. There were presents already opened, stacked and abandoned. Lights that had twinkled on the tree had been switched off; there were sprigs of mistletoe and holly and greeting cards on parade in every available flat space.
“It’s like the ruddy Marie Celeste,” said the old man. He knew what would have happened. What his family had longed for when he was alive they had done now he had passed on: Christmas abroad. Christmas had happened yesterday, today they would have been on a beach in the Canaries and right now in a hotel bar. They’d never said, but then why would they, or how would they, he’d been dead dead months and hadn’t exactly been involved in their everyday conversations.
But a promise is a promise and he’d told them he’d find a way of letting them know if, as he put it, things carry on after they stop. Life after life, as he put it. They did – they do – and he found those things so convivial he’d almost forgotten his promise. Only almost. That’s what he was here to do, somehow. Let them know he was enjoying his death immensely.
He made no indentation in his favourite armchair and he was neither cold nor warm, though he sat before an empty grate in a darkened room at just before midnight on a frosty December 24.
Then someone knocked on the door and the old man was suddenly alert. Very dead, but wide wide awake. Were they back? No, why would they knock? A second knock followed and, almost as if the person had gained confidence from the silence within, they pushed at the door. Then kicked it and pushed it hard and noisily. And waited. Silence. Which was what they wanted to hear, of course. No human voices, no music, no barking dog – and no lights being switched on.
The old man, who had just decided give it up as a bad job and sod off back to where he was less ephemeral, also waited for what he feared might happen next did. A window smashed – the kitchen, he thought – but there wasn’t much point into going to look. He was now firmly of the opinion people should come to ghosts, not the other way round. He heard the muffled sounds of someone climbing in through the window and opening the back door. “I’ll drift a little” he thought and faded from view, but remained in the room, into which entered Father Christmas. Not the Father Christmas, of course, and he was followed by another Father Christmas. They were carrying empty sacks. Ho, ho, ho.
They dropped their hoods, pulled their cotton wool beards down around their necks, looked all around, sized things up, relaxed and smiled. The job was as good as done. No matter what, thought the old man, wrong ‘uns, always looked shifty. Couldn’t help it. Here they were with an entire house at their mercy and a whole night stretched out in front of them, but their faces couldn’t lie. There was a look about wrong ‘uns and these two had it.
“Told yer, didn’t I,” said Father Christmas, “piece of bleedin’ cake.”
“Rather have the bleedin’ booze,” said the other Santa Claus
“Help yourself. Take the lot, take anything worthwhile that’ll go in your sack,” said Father Christmas, and Santa guessed rightly which cupboard contained the alcohol. They worked their way round the room, taking anything that caught their fancy and began loading in the presents.
The old man had to hand it to them, they had executed a plan efficiently and had the perfect disguises. On a night of fancy dress parties who would look twice at two men in red suits carrying sacks. Yet he was more appalled than respectful, but what could he do to stop them?
“Upstairs next,” said Father Christmas.
“Hang on. Take a look at this,” exclaimed Santa, holding a mobile phone. “It’s an Intermec Android. Worth a grand, that,” he said turning the instrument on. “C’mon, selfie. Gotta have a selfie,” he added, holding the android at arm’s length and grinning at it inanely. Father Christmas joined Santa and they struck their pose giving the old man just long enough to materialise and stand behind them with a smile of his own.
“Say cheese,” said Santa.
“Cheese,” said Father Christmas
‘Cheddar,” said the old man, and simultaneously the camera flashed, the old man disappeared and the men screamed. Not a womanly scream, but guttural and from the chest, more a uuurrrgghhh than an aaarrggghhh.
Santa caught sight of the photo: two laughing, triumphant, Father Christmases and an old man’s face between them with big smile between them. He dropped the phone.
“Gerrrrr out” he shouted, but Father Christmas was already through the back door.
Suddenly swag had disappeared from their thoughts. They dropped the sacks and left them. The phone lay on its back on the living room carpet, its screen alive with the fresh smiles of three people, an image that would eventually answer two mysteries for its owner.
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