Vasilios Birlidis Presents: The Gayest Man in the United Kingdom, Dr. Sebastian Brackenridge in A Very Brackenridge Christmas Carol Special: Part 1

You are listening to DBN. Demigod Broadcasting network and this is Exploring Olympus. 
 
Happy Holidays, Chickens! Yes, it is I, your adorable, delightful, delicious, and most importantly, DeLovely Dr. Sebastian Brackenridge, coming to you from my Ancestral home Brackenridge Hall, located    just outside of Windsor, England. As this is my first holiday season with you, my dear, dear listeners, I’ve decided to start a holiday tradition, A Very merry Brackenridge Christmas special. Each year I will share personal stories, holiday folklore and legends, and anything else that crosses my demented holiday mind.  So grab your favorite holiday drink, I shall be grabbing a very tall pour of Royal Lochnagar 1969 Highland Malt Whisky and let’s settle down for a long winter’s tale. And with a little bit of luck, I won’t pass out in a pool of my own sick before this lecture ends. Now is everyone all comfy? Drink in hand. Fire in the fireplace? All the lights must be turned off. Candlelight, only. Good.
 I want to take you back to a time before the public relations and advertising agencies created the modern Christmas full of noise, blinking lights and the mad rush to purchase that gift that will most likely be returned for cash. Before Oprah’s favorite things and that damned Elf on a shelf, way before a Kardashian released a sex tape, and certainly way before Malaria Trump proclaimed her Christmas wishes by stating, “Nobody cares about those Bleeping Christmas decorations.” This was a time when Christmas was at its purest form, and the gift of an Orange was indeed a treasure. Scurvy be damned! I’ve got citrus.  
Life was indeed hard and depended on something as simple as having enough coal or wood to keep a house warm and where all there was in the larder was a morsel of bread and cheese to calm the grumbling stomachs of a family in need.  And the tradition wasn’t about ‘twas the night before Christmas’ but was all about the Christmas Ghost story. For you see, my dear chickens, no matter how lovely and bright your Christmas tree is, or how many presents are under the tree, there is always a darkness before the dawn. The same darkness a man, leading a donkey with his pregnant bride riding its’ back had to travel through as they escaped the horror of King Harrod’s wrath, because if there is one thing I know from personal experience, King Harrod was the biggest drama queen in history! 
The year was 1815. King George III occupied the throne. The Napoleonic wars had come to an end, thanks to a decisive victory by the Duke of Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo. Everything was calm, and quiet. This Christmas should have been a time of celebration, but, my dears, Rupert, the newly installed Duke of Brackenridge, was going to experience a Christmas that was neither merry, nor bright. 
Like many grand estates of its time, the Brackenridge Estate encompassed thousands of acres, a working vineyard and farm, remember, our estate is home to the rare Brackenridge sheep, and of course many other farmers and their families who rented the land from us to produce their crops, raise animals, thereby earning an income.  
Christmas Eve, 1815 marked another less known milestone in British history. It was exactly a year to the day that Rupert, the Duke of Brackenridge, and of course my ancestor, had become the new Duke, after burying his father, Arthur.  Yet, even though 365 days had passed,  Brackenridge hall still remained shrouded in its mourning blacks. The mirrors, statuary and a lot of the furnishings remained covered in black crape, and the former duke’s study was locked tight, untouched, left the same as it had been on the day the poor Duke drew his last breath. The rest of the house remained as silent as the grave, except for the occasional rustling of one of the many servants going about their business and of course the occasional outburst from the new Duke, as he spewed profanities, smashed empty bottles of wine, cursed his father for dying,  cursed Christmas for showing its yuletide face in his presence,  reminding him of his loss and how ill-prepared he was to be the Duke of Brackenridge. 
 Although his father had been known for his kindness, the real truth behind the plotting and social climbing Duke was much more darker. When it came to his son, Rupert,  Arthur had over-indulged him, bestowing upon the lad anything and everything he desired, as some misguided parents of the gentry are apt to do. It was said the former duke died of a broken heart full of resentment, disappointment  and bitterness when he realized what he had done to his son. 
For you see, although his father, who had cultivated a surface only façade of kindness, Rupert did not see the benefit in doing the same and therefore treated everyone with the same disdain and abuse he truly felt for them. It was said his heart suffered from a complete inability of being able to love. Love, he considered to be a weakness, leaving a person vulnerable to hurt. He only concerned himself with the business of gold, pounds and shillings, and his uncaring and somewhat cruel behavior to family, those he employed and  those that depended on his land for their existence, seemed to have no end. In fact, the only person he didn’t hesitate to spare no expense for was himself.   And when it came to Christmas…well, allow me to tell you, chickens, when your heart is as hard and black (don’t you dare turn this into something dirty  ) as his HEART was, there wasn’t a way for the spirit of Christmas to find its way in. 
On this Christmas Eve night, in 1815, we find Rupert dining alone, in the opulent, private club he preferred to stay in, thereby avoiding Brackenridge Hall and its’ many ghostly memories. Standing next to his table, clearly not invited to partake of the feast before Rupert, was his secretary, Robert, who was rabidly scribbling notes on the orders the Duke was giving to him. 
 
Now that our tale is set, let us begin by establishing one main fact. Arthur, Duke of Brackenridge was dead and there was little doubt of this. If one were to ask the undertaker, who had witnessed the tragic pallbearers stumble, which shot the poor Duke’s body out of the coffin and half-way down the church’s central aisle, they would all testify that the duke was dead.  The Priest and the hundreds of mourners, made up of Royalty and Nobility alike would concur with the undertaker, as during the service they had witnessed one of the altar candles fall over and into the coffin, thereby setting the corpse on fire. It was noted by all attendees that the corpse did not attempt to put out the fire itself, proving once again, the Duke was dead. One would only have to get within smelling distance of the then smoldering Duke to conclude that yes, that is a dead man. 
This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of this story I am going to relate to you. What would be the point of any vampire story if the vampire wasn’t dead? They wouldn’t be a vampire, but some strange person who had a biting fetish, and that would not play very well for the Twilight Book Sagas, nor the Vampire Diaries.  Wouldn’t that suck, both literally and figuratively?  But I digress.
 
 
Oh, how surprising it was for a man who was only 30 years and five, to be so cruel, nasty, a tight-fisted man of business. Rupert was a scraping, grasping, clutching, covetous man who could squeeze out of each shilling he had, 2 pounds and 8 pence. He did this at the peril of anyone who worked with him, borrowed money from him or worst of all, owed him a favor. His voice, although deep and melodious, was not a joy to hear as every word that dropped from his silver tongue could cut down even the most innocent persons he encountered. 
 
No one ever stopped to ask after him and all beggars scattered when they saw Rupert walking towards them in fear of being swatted away by Rupert’s silver-topped walking stick. Even the blind beggar’s dog could sense when Rupert was about and would tug his master’s coat and lead them away from the cruel Duke.
 
So, where did we leave Rupert…. Ahh yes, dining on oysters and beef, and drinking enough wine to contribute to his constant state of drunkenness. 
 
As he cut into his bloody steak, a voice cheerfully cried out, “A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!” It was Rupert’s nephew, Fred, who had the annoying habit of being able to enter a room silently and startling Rupert each and every time he encountered him. 
 
“For the love of God, man, hasn’t someone gotten around to putting a bell on you and as for Christmas, I say Bah! Humbug! And I would kindly remind you to address me as ‘your grace’.” 
 
“Well, Sir” said Fred, his face handsome flushed and his eyes sparkling with merriment and mischief. “I wouldn’t want to offend you, your Grace, my sincerest apologies.” He said, bowing so deeply Rupert was sure the man would fall over. “ Wait… did you say Christmas a humbug? Surely not…. Your grace.” 
 
“I do,” said Rupert. “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas? What right or reason have you to be merry? You’re presently without any decent means, save for the allowance I deem to give you and I only give you that out of a promise I gave my late sister after you were born.” 
 
“Come, then,” returned the nephew gaily. “You’re the Duke of Brackenridge and vastly wealthy. What reason have you to be such a dismal bore?” 
 
“Bah, Rupert replied, clearly peeved that his nephew had bested him in this conversation. “Humbug!” 
 
“Don’t be cross, uncle!” said Fred. 
 
“What else can I be,” returned the uncle, “when I am surrounded by fools like you who go about wishing everyone a Merry Christmas! How is Christmas any different from any other day? You still go about paying bills with my money and the only other thing to be gained by the end of the year is that you are one year older and not a second more richer. If I had my way, each person with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips would be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.” 
“Uncle!” pleaded the Fred. 
“Nephew!” returned the Duke sternly, “you do what you like with Christmas and allow me the ability to pretend it doesn’t exist.” 
 
“I would like to believe there are many things I have done in my life that I have done without consideration of how it will benefit me, including celebrating Christmas.  But I do know this for sure, dear uncle, it is this season that allows our fellow man to open what were previously shuttered hearts and minds and see the goodness in others that they have overlooked. Reminding them that they are not alone in their life’s journey. So, even though this spirit of goodness offers no profit into my pocket, I will embrace Christmas and rejoice in it!” 
 
Profoundly moved and foolishly unable to contain himself, Robert dropped his papers and applauded. 
 “I was not aware that you were part of this conversation, Robert. So kindly remove yourself or you may be celebrating Christmas unemployed. You’ll be wanting tomorrow off to celebrate your Christmas, stealing from me without the decency to feel guilty for it as you expect to be paid for a day of no work.” The Duke threw the secretary’s weekly earnings, a meager 15 shillings at Robert. Embarrassed, the secretary picked up his wages and his papers and left.
 
“Don’t be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us tomorrow.” 
“Why would I dine at your meager table, when this club supplies me with everything I need.”
 
 “But why?” Fred asked. 
“You married too young.” said Rupert. 
“I fell in love.” 
 
 “Good day, Sir!” 
 
“You’ve always treated me with cruelty and disdain, even before I married. Why make that excuse?” 
“I said Good Day,” shouted the Duke. 
“I want nothing and ask for nothing. Why can’t we be friends?” 
“Good day,” said the Duke. 
“I wish there was something I could say or do, for even though your dislike of me is clear, I do know of the love you held for my mother, may she…” 
“I told you to never to speak of her, as you are the reason she is no longer here.” 
 Fred sucked in a breath, shocked. “Your words are horribly cruel, Uncle and are a slap in the face of the memory of my late mother, but I will not lose hope in you, your Grace. I wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.” 
 
His nephew left the room and to toast his leaving, the Duke ordered another bottle of wine, which he drank greedily.  
 
“Your Grace!” Cried two rather robust gentleman, who stopped in front of the Duke as he was being helped into his coat, hat and gloves. “May I have the pleasure of greeting his Grace, Arthur, Duke of…”
“You may not,” Rupert stated dryly, “As my father, Arthur, has been dead since last December.”
“My apologies to you, your grace, and may I offer you my sincerest condolences. I meant Rupert, Duke of Brackenridge.”
 
“What business, if any, do you have with me, gentlemen, as I am about to leave and my time is very valuable to me.”
 
“Of course, your Grace. At this festive time of year, we men of means are reminded to offer thanks for what we have by making slight provisions for the poor and destitute, whose continuing suffering seem to greatly increase during the winter months.” 
“Well, gentlemen, you have managed to do something few have been able to do: Ruin a perfectly good evening by offering such very sobering conversation.”
 
“But sir,”
“Do not interrupt me, sir, you forget yourself. Are there no prisons or union workhouses? And don’t answer that. That was a rhetorical question. Those who would rather die than go there should do us all a favor and get it over with. Decrease the surplus population. Weak or sickly provide no value but to drag all of us down. I am also to assume that the treadmill as a form of punishment and the poor houses are still in full force, because this would disturb me greatly should these fine institutions have met an untimely death. You may put me down for nothing, sir, as my taxes, which are great, pay for the before mentioned institutions. So, I say to you and your partner, Good Day. 
 
“Clearly I cannot find any peace, even in my very own club,” The Duke mumbled, as he climbed into his private carriage. “Brackenridge Hall,” he shouted to the driver and settled back fuming at the injustice of Christmas.
 
The journey to Brackenridge Hall did not help Rupert’s humor, in fact the closer he got to his ancestral home, the more his demeaner soured. Dosing slightly, the Duke was jolted awake when the carriage came to an abrupt halt, in front of the grand house’s front door. Without a word to the driver, Rupert stumbled out of the carriage and remained still until the carriage made its way to the stables. 
“This miserable pile of rocks,” The duke commented as he looked upon his home. “You are a millstone around my neck, pulling me down into deeper waters.” 
He made his way towards the front door, failing to notice the ice that had formed and went headfirst into the door and its massive door knocker. 
Feeling a knot swell up on his forehead, the Duke rubbed it, glaring at the offending door knocker, but stopped short as he gazed upon it. Although a somewhat simple design, a lion’s head, with teeth bared and a ring clenched in them, as a small child  he was often frightened by the blacked head, but it wasn’t the blackened lions head that greeted him, but rather it was the face of his Father, glowing brightly and glaring down on him. 
 
“Father….” The Duke said as he cowered from his father’s gaze, closing his eyes against the vision. When his teeth began to chatter and he felt quite foolish, Rupert opened his eyes and found the Lion’s head restored into its rightful place. 
“A humbug indeed,” Rupert muttered as he opened the door and stepped in, making sure to lock it behind him.
 
Even in the best of times, Rupert disliked Brackenridge Hall, with its endless passages and darkened corners, historical significance and ceaseless traditions associated with the house and being the Duke of Brackenridge. The house he faced this night felt dead, which was appropriate since Rupert thought of the place as an exceptionally large tomb.
“I am drunk. Very, very drunk,” Rupert said, his words echoing back at him in the dimly lit entry hall, the only light coming from the massive stone fireplace that the main staircase wrapped around it, almost resembling a serpent crushing the last breath out of its victim before swallowing it whole. Embers crackled, sending sparks into the air, shocking the Duke out of his drunken stupor long enough for him to pass out, fall to the floor and piss himself.
He awoke in his bed chambers, a few minutes before midnight, stripped naked of his sodden clothes and dressed in his long night shirt. The beginnings of what would he knew would be a mind-shattering headache began to throb and he moaned while rubbing his temples.
A moan answered back and it was definitely not his moan. He knew his moan. It was a very respectable moan and this other moan….well, it wasn’t his. He sat bolt upright in his bed, the room becoming chilled enough that his breath came out in a vaporous cloud.
The sound of heavy chains dragging up and down the hall’s stone floors, made him wince. The moaning, not his own, came again as the sound of the dragging chains ceased just outside his chamber door. Three deliberate, echoing knocks came, as the fireplace glow grew dimmer and the room’s cold increased to the point that he began to feel nauseous. The sound of his chamber doorknob being turned broke him out of his paralysis and he fell from his bed and scurried to the door, slamming the lock’s bolt into place.  All was quiet. Unsure what to do next, he put his ear to the door, which was now frost covered and listened. No sound came, although his rapidly beating heart was noisy enough. Relieved, he put his forehead on the door, hoping to numb the ache in his head, but finding little solace. Turning to return to bed, his eyes locked on the specter of his dead father, glaring at him.
“I, in life, was the father that left you wanting for not, and you reward me in death by denying me an audience. Rather rude when you think about it.”
 
“Well, if you’re going to nit-pick, the whole doorknocker business was a bit much, not to mention your hideous moaning. Allow me to remind you that you’re—"
 
“Well, you have once again proved that the money spent on your education was money well spent. So, let’s dispatch with the obvious observations as we have already covered that a few pages back. I am dead. If I were a parrot, you would have to nail me to my perch to keep me from falling off. If I were not here, floating about, I would be pushing up the daisies.”
 
“Clearly, which is very dead indeed,” Rupert gestured at his father’s ghostly appearance. “I, naturally would prefer you to lie in peace.”
 
“Peace? Peace you say” his father replied, voice rising in anger while the apparition rose slowly from the ground, his chains rattling as they joined him mid-air. “Do I look at peace?”
 
“Certainly not, father. If anyone were to look upon your overall appearance, they would find it neither restful nor peaceful. A bit dramatic, especially the way you strode your way across the boards in a Macbeth fashion—”
 
The ghost burst out in booming laughter, “Ahh, the utter cheek of you, my dear boy. The utter cheek.” The ghost slowly lowered itself to the ground, chains falling with a large clatter. 
“For the past 365 days I have traveled the Earth, and not first class, but coach, might I add, and have witnessed the utter bitchiness of my fellow men for those who are in need. Like many, I chose to ignore these miserable sods when it is I who should have lifted them up from their poverty, sickness and destitution. I and my fellow travelers, we get a group rate on British Airways, are damned to wonder aimlessly and bear witness to all the suffering that exists in our world and unable to do anything about it.”
“Sounds rather bleak and extremely common, if you ask my opinion. Haven’t you signed up for the ghostly equivalent of frequent flyer miles so that you can get an upgrade or two?” 
“I did not come here to ask your opinion, boy.” The chains slammed down in emphasis.
“Well, aren’t you the bossy one still. Well, you’re dead and I don’t have to listen.” Rupert asked.
“You will hold your tongue, Sir, for my time here grows short. Do you see this chain? This is the chain that tethers me to this spiritual plane of never-ending suffering.”
 
“Did it come in a little blue box? Standards, sir, we must have standards!”
“ A chain created from my failures and regrets with you, my son and those of my fellow man I should have helped and didn’t. I forged each and every link of this chain myself, damned to drag it behind me as a reminder of what could have been and wasn’t.”
 
“Nobody said anything about DIY or crafts. Besides you were always generous of nature.”
“Generous? Bah. More like foolish and vain. I turned a blind eye to things that were difficult and required both thought and sacrifice, for those  that would provide me with instant gratification. And when it came to you, my boy, well, I gave you your hearts delight, forgetting my responsibilities to help nurture the man you could have been.”
“Now see here, sir. It is often said at the club that I need no more nurturing as I have developed into quite the striking example of manhood, both on length and girth.” Rupert protested.
“I said hold your tongue!” The Ghost roared, its mouth elongating to the point that it nearly split the spirit’s head in two. 
“Time is of the essence. There is still hope for you, but know this, sir, the chain of selfishness, misery and callousness that you have wrought was twice as long and twice as heavy as mine one year ago.”
“ Is there nothing I can do, father?” Rupert begged, knelling in front of his father to plead. “Do not leave me to the same fate as you. The only thing I enjoy that is coach related is my luggage and gloves.”
“You will be visited by three ghosts…” his father began.
 
“Wait one moment, sir. If I have any say in this, I would drink my spirits and not be visited by some. Granted, I’d rather not, sir. Perhaps there might be some other way. Going to church or giving my word as a gentleman and a scholar?”
 
The ghost shifted and was upon the Duke, face-to-face, pulling his son into the air. “The first ghost will appear as the clock strikes one and the other two ghosts will follow at strikes two and three. Unclog your ears, boy, and for once in your life, listen. Both of our souls depend on it and from what I can tell the only coach you’ll be able to get will be on public transportation or at best on the Mega Bus or Greyhound.” And with a quick shove the ghost shot through the wall and disappeared, leaving Rupert to crash down onto his bed and pass out, and of course piss himself.
 
Rupert woke up with a start, striking his head against his headboard. It was dark, his fire having given up the ghost. 
 
He laughed to himself. “It was a dream”, he said, trying to convince himself and any misguided spirits, sprites and fairies floating about unseen in his chambers.  
 
“ A dream,” Rupert shouted up to the ceiling.
 
Reaching over, he pulled on the servant’s bell cord several times, but no one came. He pulled it several times more and still, nothing. Frustrated he jumped out of his bed and stripped off his sodden clothes and threw them into the corner. He walked to his dressing room, took down another night shirt, put it on and strode over and quite angerly threw another log on the fire and stirred the ambers back to life. When he was satisfied, he turned to climb back into bed. The clock on his mantel struck one.
A loud, ear shattering banging came from the direction of his chamber door.
“It’s about bloody time,” Rupert shouted, reaching for a riding crop he kept in his chambers to properly correct any disobedient servants. I’ll give them a Merry Christmas indeed. A Christmas they will never forget.
 
In one swift movement, Rupert threw open his door, which slammed against the wall, sending a painting crashing to the ground, and raised his crop. No one stood in the doorway. He took a step into the hallway. It was vacant and before he could turn around and return to his warm bed, the chamber door slammed shut, shoving him deeper into the darkened hallway.
“Someone is clearly Off One’s Chump and is in need of a good anointing.” The duke said through gritted teeth.
A tinkling giggle came from the other side of the door.
“What sort of game do we have here, sir!” The duke roared and kicking the door open, which was rather stupid considering he was barefoot.
 
Standing in the center of the room was a curious site. 
A rather tall woman of what appeared to be African origins. He changed his mind, it wasn’t a woman, but  a man but then changed it back, deciding to go with woman. The “woman lay across a fainting couch in the center of his bed chamber. Now, notwithstanding the fact that a stranger was in his room, dressed in a rather attractive Grecian gown of white, with a face covered with a large amount of make-up, which the Duke couldn’t help admiring how artistry of it, with the largest mass of curly hair piled on top of her head, bejeweled within an inch of its life… well, death…. Rupert couldn’t wrap his mind around where the hell the fainting couch came from. Do ghosts bring their own furniture when they go out to haunt   . And where were was all of the twinkling lights showering down upon the apparition coming from? The Duke felt out of place without the customary glowsticks in his hand and dog tags around his neck. 
 
“Oh my,” the ghostly woman said, shifting both her hair and bosom to greater heights and size, “Have you come to give me an unforgettable Christmas? I have been awfully naughty and should be punished,” the woman pouted.
Rupert didn’t know what to say or do, for he was held to the spot he stood in by his visitor’s eyes.
“Or perhaps I have come to give you one. Pray tell, your Grace, is that a riding crop I spy? And sir, it would appear you are well tented!” 
The Duke remained silent and still because, well, he really didn’t have much of a choice, now did he? 
He blinked and the woman was standing in front of him, holding the riding crop and showing off a somewhat stubbly cheek and chin. It smiled.
 
Rupert blinked again and he was on the fainting couch, that wasn’t his, with his dressing gown hiked up to his hips and his bare buttocks exposed, the chilly air making him shiver and certain parts to shrink. He blinked again and the Spector was beside him, humming “Good King Wenceslas”. 
“Now, my darling Duke. My time is short here, which is a shame because I like to take my time emphasizing the importance of Christmas, peace on earth, goodwill to men…blah blah blah.” 
The Duke flinched as he felt the riding crop caressing his left buttock and even finding its way between them. 
“So, I’m going to have to make this portion of our time quick….and dirty.”
Twenty-five times the crop was raised brought down upon the Duke’s posterior, with the most disgusting vulgarity, some of which the Duke, who was a connoisseur of the filthy tongue, had never heard before. Sailors, long shore men and prostitutes would have blushed hearing even one fifth of what Rupert heard, and woven within the profanities were messages of what a wicked, naughty boy he was. The spirit had the decency to ask Rupert several times if he had had enough, which after the Duke’s reply of yes, the Ghost screamed no you haven’t. It was not enjoyable in the least, well, maybe slightly during the first three blows and Rupert has officially gone on record that even though the spirit kept telling him “this hurts me more than it hurts you”, Rupert  found that statement questionable at best or an outright lie at worst.
After the whipping had stopped, the spirit told him to clean himself up, for they had some traveling to do…and unfortunately, he had pissed himself again.
When he had changed into a traveling suit and coat, he said to the spirit, who was patiently waiting for him, “Are you the Spirit, Madam, who’s coming was foretold to me
 
“No, I’m the highest paid girlie man from Mrs. Winslow’s House of Pleasurable Coffee, which can be found just outside of Covent Garden. ”
“Rea—?”
 
The spirit stared back at Rupert and with great suddenness, blurred for a second as a blow hit the back of his head.
 
“Point taken,” Rupert said, rubbing his head.
 
“I,” the spirit said, spinning around and around as the twinkling light that surrounded her grew brighter, “Am the ghost of Christmas Past. Taa Daaa.” The spirit stopped and posed with arms outstretched to its side.
 
“Who’s past?”
 
“Who do you think, King George’s?” The spirit spat back.
 
“Long past?” The duke asked.
 
“No, your past.”
 
“My past? Past what.”
 
“Christmas past,” the woman said, growing irritated. 
 
“Who’s Christmas?” The duke said, smirking.
 
“Your Christmas!”
 
“My Christmas?” The duke asked. “Long past?”
 
“Do you want me to get the crop out again?”
 
Rupert thought for a few seconds. “No. I do not.”
 
“ Your Grace, I am here for your welfare.”
 
“Very kind of you,” Rupert said, “But I don’t believe I qualify for income or housing subsidies.”
 
“Well, your reclamation, then.” The spirit spat out, and then gathering herself in a profoundly serious manner, the spirit dramatically delivered her invitation that Rupert believed wouldn’t receive a nomination let alone an Olivier award. “Heed my warnings and walk with me, Rupert, Duke of Brackenridge! For your soul depends on it.” The spirit said, as it glided towards the window, which flew open.
 
“I’m not going out there!” The duke said. “I’d fall before you could bestow another one of your brilliant, yet compelling performances.”
“Bear but touch my supple nipples here and here,” the ghost said, displaying a somewhat generous bosom, “ and you shall be upheld in more than this.”
 
Shrugging as he did so, Rupert grabbed the right breast and his feet lifted off the floor.
 
“What sort of breasts are these? They are hard as rocks.” The Duke stated, wondering how they could be so unforgiving.
 
“Birdseed.” The ghost replied.
 
“What?” Rupert said.
 
“Never mind. And off we go.” The two figures disappeared.
 
Brackenridge Hall, the grounds, and the night all blurred out of existence and Rupert found himself standing in a snow-covered courtyard of stone, surrounded by many towering buildings that were remarkably familiar.
 
“You really are an emotional mess, standing there, shaking, with tears rolling down your face. Your therapist bills must be enormous” the ghost said. “Do you recognize where we are?”
 
 “Why it is Eton!” The Duke replied. “ Where I spent so many years living and learning.”
 
“It is quite deserted. Wait, there is a scrap of a boy that sits alone in his room.”
 
“Yeah, we can just go ahead and skip this part, ” Rupert said. “I’m good.”
 
“I think not…” The spirit said, pushing Rupert through stone walls until they stood in the room. “But look, I was very mistaken for the boy is not alone. Don’t worry about being called a total pervie bastard, your grace. These are but memories of the past. They can neither see nor hear us.”
 
“Henry. My closest friend.” 
 
“Ahhhh, well, close would be one word I would use for your friendship with Henry. The other would be…”
 
“Don’t you dare, madam, sir, or whatever you are!” Rupert spat. “He was like a cousin to me.”
 
“A cousin, yes, let’s go with that. Upon further inspection, I would update the description to Kissing Cousin.”  
 
“I love you, Henry. With all of my heart.” Little Rupert said in a whisper, under the covers.”
 
“It was common for boys away from home to form these attachments with other boys. Completely natural,” the Duke stated.
 
“Yes, it is.” The ghost replied. “Love is after all, love.”
 
“Promise me we will stay together, forever,” Henry said, hugging his companion closer, nuzzling his face into little Rupert’s neck.
 
“I…” Rupert began.
 
“What have we here?” A voice boomed over the two huddled figures. “A couple of Sodomites?” Ripping the covers off the two boys and exposing their nakedness, the House Master grabbed the boy, Rupert and sent him flying across the room. “I shall have the Headmaster contact both your fathers, whom I am sure will rip out these notions of sodomy out of your minds!”
Shaking, Henry spoke up. “It was Rupert. He forced himself on me. He said he would see that my family was destroyed if I ever told.”
 
The Duke let out a wail. “Why must you show me these things.” The duke’s younger self sobbing equally, barely able to speak.
 
“Is this true,” The House Master asked. “Are you the sodomite. Rupert?”
 
The young Rupert looked at Henry, noticing the pleading in his eyes. He remembered how on several occasions numerous bruises that covered Henry’s body because of his father’s cruel nature. 
 
“Yes,” the young Rupert said, his heart shattering with each word. “It was me. I forced him.”
 
“Henry, get dressed.” Henry did so as the House master grabbed Rupert off the floor and bent him over the bed. “I believe some immediate attention is needed for this situation,” The house Master said, grabbing the birch rod he always carried with him. “You will thank me when you are older, for my generous nature.”
 
Henry stood up to leave. “Where do you think you’re going, boy? You will learn, by watching, on the dangers of giving into filth like Rupert. If you turn your eyes away, your punishment will be worse by two-fold.”
 
“You didn’t deserve this,” the ghost said, watching the tears slide down the Duke’s face. “You were betrayed and still you held your tongue.”
 
“Yes, I did, for Henry’s sake, but I deserved it because I dared to love someone. I was stupid. Vulnerable. This was my reward.”
 
“No. Love is love. It is pure.”
 
“Bah,” Rupert said. “And what has pure love gotten this younger self? Kicked out of Eton, and a sore arse. No, I learned my lesson that Love is for fools.”
 
The roomed blurred and the scene changed to a now dressed Rupert, standing alone, looking expectantly out the window.
 
“Standing alone.” The spirit said.
 
“What choice did I have?” Rupert said. “Sitting was out of the question. The pain was unbearable. I had just managed to stop the bleeding.”
 
A figure rushed towards the young man, the sight causing additional tears to fall from the unseen Duke’s eyes.
 
“Dearest brother!” The younger girl said, throwing herself into the young Rupert’s arms. The motion caused the wounded boy to stumble and hit the wall, screaming out in pain as his buttocks were set on fire. “Oh, Rupert, what have they done to you,” she said, holding her brother tighter. “I am here to take you home from nasty old Eton. Father has grown so much more kinder…”
 
“Dearest little Fran. How I have missed you, but there is no facing father for what I have been caught doing—”
 
“Father has said we are not to speak of it. He loves you, dear brother.” She said, wiping the tears from his cheeks.
 
“But…”
 
“And here is where she soothed my pain. A sav for my heart.” The Duke said to the spirit, bowing his head to listen carefully.
 
“I cannot say I understand. I’m 10 after-all and father says such matters are not for a girl of my innocence, although I think father is a bit silly when you think about it.” The girl snuggled closer to her brother. “But I know this. I love you to the moon and back. You are my dearest Rupert, who has pledged to defend my honor against dragon, wizard and witch alike. I love you  more than my favorite garden pixies.”
 
The boy Rupert laughed. “Oh no! Not the pixies. I wouldn’t tell them about this deep love you have for me because they are jealous and incredibly vain creatures. But your secret is safe with me, beautiful Fan.”
 
“I will love you, Rupert, forever and ever.”
 
The Duke watched the two comforting each other as they walked away to the waiting carriage. 
 
“Always a delicate creature and a bit needy in the attention department. Some might say slightly creepy with her somewhat adult manners. Like that one little girl that you always have to invite to your parties because her parents know your parents. She’s the one who collects the most disgusting things like pasture patties and always had that one easy bake oven that never really bakes the cakes all the way through.”
 
 “Are you done? The Duke asked.
 
“Well, she was unusual and so frail a breath might have withered her,” said the Ghost. “But she had a large and kind heart!”
 
“So she had,” cried Rupert. “She was never meant for the cruelties of this world.”
 
“She died a woman,” said the Ghost, “and had children?” 
“One child,” Rupert returned. 
“True,” said the Ghost. “Your nephew, Fred.” 
“Yes.” Rupert mumbled.
 
“Well, better she went quickly. Those kinds of people are such a burden on society, dragging us all down.”
 
Rupert winced and turned to reply when in a blink Eton was gone and they were in a vast barn.
“Do you know this place?” The spirit asked.
 
“Know it?” Rupert exclaimed. “ This is the barn located at Brackenridge hall. My father had me spend numerous seasons here to understand the physical labors of estate’s main farm.”
 
“But there was more to it, wasn’t there.” The spirit asked, slyly, gliding over to pet the nose of a brown and white maire. 
“It’s what his father had done to him and his father’s father—”
 
The spirit held up a hand. “Paaalease, squi-rl friend. You aren’t fooling anyone with this grand talk of tradition. He thought this would help you out with your ‘condition’, and I’ll have you know that I am using air quotes when referencing your ‘condition.’” 
 
“Well, yes, he thought it would toughen me up and put thoughts of… what happened at Eton out of my mind.”  Rupert said, petting a Brackenridge sheep that was quietly laying in its hay, drowsy with sleep. 
 
“Rupert, are you done with the horse stalls.” A voice called from the hay loft. 
“Almost,” A 19-year-old Rupert said, walking out of one of the stalls and putting his shovel and gloves aside.
 
“Well, look at this young, strapping man you grew into. Mama like.” The spirit said.
 
“You’re no better than a fish wife, Colin. Do this. Do that.” Sweat drenched, with hay and dirt clinging in all the right places to his clothes and face, Rupert looked up at the hay loft. “I have half the mind to come up there and show you what for.” 
 
Colin stepped forward into the light and looked down, smiling. “I’d like to see you try.”
 
“Yes,” the spirit remarked, “time for some man-on-man slap and tickle. “How did that work out?”
 
“Colin,” The duke said, letting out a slight sigh. 
 
“I said, how did that...”
 
“I heard you the first time,” the Duke spat back. “He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Tall, broad, handsome and so kind…” 
 
“Yes, I bet your father was so incredibly pleased as you were lusting after the stable boy. I mean Good God, man, this is all playing out as some really bad romantic paperback at best. You certainly were toughening up. A real man’s man.” The spirit said. 
 
“I resent that. It may be only the 19th century, but I refuse to allow you to try and force me to adapt to my father’s or societies standards.  We were two men, discovering who we were. I could bale hay with the best of them, keeping up with Colin’s brute strength. He was…”
 
Colin arched his right eyebrow and preceded to climb down, walking up to his friend. He took a whiff of Rupert, and grinned. “You stink, your Grace.”
 
“Don’t call me that,” Rupert responded. “Besides, I’ve never known you to complain about a little dirt.”
 
Colin laughed. 
 
“That laugh,” the duke said to the spirit, “would make me weak in the knees.”
 
“Well,” the ghost commented, glancing down at the young Rupert’s trousers, “Something stood up when he laughed and looked at you that way. And if I might be so bold as to say, Colin was an incredibly lucky man.”
 
The duke blushed. “All Brackenridge men are known for their….”
 
“Talent,” the ghost offered.
 
“Well,” Colin said, pulling out a few stray pieces of hay from Rupert’s hair. “You better get scrubbed and dressed. Old Fezziwig will want you respectable.”
“Hush,” Rupert said. “My father will have you bent over for fifty lashes if he hears you call him that.”
 
“Ah, your Grace,” Colin called, stepping forward to greet Rupert’s father who had appeared in the doorway.
 
“Ahh, Colin, my boy. I hope my son isn’t making you do all the work.”
 
“Hello, father.” Rupert said. “We were just getting ready to get cleaned up for the servant’s ball.”
 
“Yes…yes, it’s always good to give back to those who serve. You’ve cleaned up the barn nicely. The staff will begin to set up. Colin, run along and become respectable.”
 
“Yes, your Grace.” Colin said, glancing quickly at Rupert.
 
“And Rupert, come to the house. A bath has been drawn for you.”
 
“Of course you realized your father knew,” The spirit offered.
 
“No he didn’t.” The duke said.
 
“Oh yes, he did, but he loved you so much he turned a blind eye. He wanted you to be happy.”
 
“Yes, happy,” Rupert said. “He was all about making others happy.”
 
“I am sure you jest. What did he do to make Colin and the other servants happy? Throw a little party, which cost him a few shillings here and there. Have two men sweep away the horse shit, because the barn was the best he would do for this lot.”
 
The duke grew flushed with color. “My father could have made the lives of those who worked on the estate a miserable hell. I’ve seen it happen one too many times with other estates. The joy he brought with this single event—”
 
“A poor excuse for a party if you ask me,” the ghost commented. “One step above deli meat and  cheese, crackers, punch and jello-salad.”  
 
“What’s jello-salad?”
 
“Never mind,” the ghost responded, wanting to change the subject. 
 
“He made them feel seen and appreciated.” The duke injected.
 
“Now who is lying to who, sir. For the briefest of moments your father floated down from his pedestal to throw a party, in a barn, just so he could show what a forward-thinking man he is. This wasn’t generosity, sir. It was public relations. Don’t want your food spat on, throw a crumb every now and then to those who cook and serve it. He thought this was a waste but a necessary evil.” 
 
“That wasn’t the point,” the Duke said, and  before he could finish his thought, the room had changed again, now filled with servants from the estate enjoying food, drink, and the fiddler, who was playing a very merry little jig. 
 
The duke and the ghost watched as the revelers enjoyed themselves. 
 
“You really didn’t enjoy these parties.” The ghost said, pointing to the young Rupert, who stood along, leaning against one of the horse stalls.
 
“It was difficult to enjoy when you were caught between two worlds. I was the Duke’s son and yet I worked in the stables, among the grooms and such. Difficult to strike the right balance is what my father would always warn and remind me of.”
 
“Ahhhh, yes. Mustn’t let them believe that they are equal to you.”
 
Collin rejoined Rupert, cleaned up, wearing his Sunday best, the waistcoat barely fitting and containing the horsemen’s broad frame.
 
“Ahhhh, Mr. Brackenridge. Seems like this party bores you.” Collin said, stepping in front of Rupert.
 
“Well, boring is a somewhat harsh term, my good man. I’d prefer to say there are other things I would rather be doing.”
 
“Well, perhaps I have a better idea. How about whiskey in the loft?”
 
“That sounds more to my high-born taste. Lead the way, my most excellent friend.”
 
“I’ve seen enough, Spirit.” The duke said dryly. 
 
“I want you to know I hear you and acknowledge your feeling on this matter and I am choosing to ignore them,” the ghost said, “Let us follow them.”
 
The Duke blinked and the barn melted away, and a memory he never could quite forget came into focus. 
“Not a suitable room for the likes of the future Duke, I’d say.” The spirit commented. “And you seemed to spend a lot of time up here with Colin.
 
Colin and Rupert sat on a wooden bench, in front of a stone fireplace, taking swigs from the Whiskey bottle they passed back and forth. 
 
“This is so much better,” Colin said, holding the bottle in his left hand. “Good Whisky,” he held up the bottle, a suitable bench, (he banged on the bench) a warm fire, (he grabbed the poker and adjusted the logs) and a very good friend.” Colin reached over, putting his arm around Rupert’s neck and pulled him closer.
 
“Yes, very good company.” Rupert said, following suit and putting his arm around Colin’s waist. The two men looked at each other, unable to decide what to do next. 
 
“You were in love with him.” The spirit said.
 
“Yes.” Replied the duke. He meant the world to me and was my friend. I loved him dearly.” 
 
The young Rupert leaned over and rested his head on Colin’s shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of his friend. In return, Colin kissed the top of Rupert’s head tenderly.
 
“Your relationship progressed for quite a time. You spending more and more time in the loft with Colin. Sneaking out of your chambers to meet at night.”
 
The Duke smiled at the two young men on the bench. “Yes. He was the very air I breathed. When he smiled, it was like the sun was shining down upon me. He was my first lover. Not a day would go by when I didn’t ache for him.”
 
The scene changed, finding the two men asleep in each other’s arms, in Colin’s bed.
 
“It was bliss,” The Duke said to the spirit. 
 
“Until it all changed.” The spirit said, turning the Duke away to another scene.
 
“Please, Spirit. No more of this.”
 
“Ahh, when have you had any say  in tonight’s event…. Oh, that’s right, never, but  my time is almost done and we have one final memory to explore.”
 
“I know what it is and I wish not to relive it.”
 
The young Rupert jumped off the mare he was riding and walked it to its stall.
 
“Rupert. It’s been some time since I’ve seen you.”
 
Rupert glanced up, both awkward and irritated to be taken by surprise. “Oh, Colin. My father has had me focusing on other, more important estate matters that require my full attention. I really haven’t had the time.”
 
“Oh. I see. Completely understand. Pardon my abruptness, Sir.” Colin said, pain and anger coloring his cheeks.
 
“My father felt I needed to be among my own kind. I’m sure you understand. How can I possibly be a good replacement for my father, when the time has come, if I’m still mucking around…”
 
“With the mucky stable servant. A right stupid arse I am. To think a lover’s vow—”
 
“Will you shut up!” Rupert hissed. “Someone will hear you and clearly you forget yourself, sir. It meant nothing to me. You mean nothing to me.”
 
“You were cruel to him,” the spirit said at the Duke. “He offered his heart and you crushed it under your boot heel.”
 
“I had no choice,” the duke said quietly, tears once again welling up in his eyes. “I was to be the Duke. My father made it painfully clear that my nonsense must stop.”
 
“Yes, the nonsense of being loved unconditionally and seeing what is valued most in this life, like status, wealth, appearances and most of all, hiding one’s true nature for fear of being rejected by those who wouldn’t care a fig if you dropped over dead during one of their garden parties. Yes, sir, we all have choices we must make. Accepting the cards you are dealt is one thing, but your cruelty must have been your parting gift to someone who deeply loved you and had given you such happiness. If that is your reward, sir, for those who dared to love you,  I greatly pity your enemies.”   
 
“Well,” Colin said, wiping tears away from his eyes with the back of his hand, leaving streaks of mud on his damp face. “Although it means little to you, I release you from your vow. When you made it, we were both different people and it would be dishonorable for me to expect anything from the new man you’ve become. You have replaced your love for me with a different lover: One made of an ever-growing need for wealth, a title, an estate and association with those of the houses of royalty and nobility. So I wish you all the happiness you may create in this new life. I am not ashamed to admit that I will continue to pray for you every night, sir, as I ask to God keep you safe and bless you and yours. ”
 
The duke stood there weeping, with his hands covering his face. 
 
“Naturally, it was what Colin deserved.” The spirit said coldly. “ He clearly forgot himself. After things had quieted down, it was most honorable for your father to give Colin the flogging he deserved for him impertinence. Your father saw to that. Your actions, your grace, carry consequences that are suffered upon the innocent.”
 
“No! That’s a lie. My father wouldn’t—” Rupert turned to berate the spirit, but he was alone, in his chambers, back at Brackenridge Hall.
 
 “That is a lie!” Rupert yelled into the darkness. Comeback here and face me, spirit. “It can’t be. Please. Tell me it isn’t true.” 
 
Rupert fell to the ground in a faint.
 
The third visitor
 
With a somewhat loud snore, he awoke, in his bed, in his night shirt and yes, he had somehow managed to piss himself again. 
 
His mantle clock struck the 2. “Dear spirits,” he said to his dark room, “Can we not accomplish things without me managing not to wet the bed?”
 
“Rupert Brackenridge!”
 
“Here, whomever or whatever you are. Give me a moment to change. I am not presentable.”
 
The voice broke out in a boisterous laugh. “Change away, dear boy. Change.”
 
Changed, Rupert noticed a bright light coming from his study. Over a thousand candles must have caused such a brightness, he guessed, and without pausing, Rupert poked his head into his study.
 
Now, dear listener, after already being visited by two spirits, his rather ashy father, if only his father listened to the benefits of moisturizing and the ghost of Christmas Past, Rupert was fairly sure what he could expect. He surmised the next specter might be headless, talking out a jagged neck stalk or possibly the ghost carried its head around in the crook of its arm. It could be the famously wistful, if not slightly drunk gray lady, as Brackenridge Hall was said to be haunted by such a Spector, but he assumed she would be busy on her own rounds of rattling chains, leaving unsightly vomit stains on the curtains or on the drawing room Turkish rugs. Very unsightly, indeed.   
 
 But, no, what greeted the Duke was something altogether different, if not a somewhat pleasing sight to behold. 
 
Rupert walked into his newly transformed study, where every inch of wall was covered with so much living greenery that it looked like the stage set of a Midsummer’s night Dream had thrown-up all over the place.  The crisp and frosted leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light of the fire that blazed in the fireplace. Heaped up on the floor, to form a  very unusual throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, wrapped Ferrero Rocher candies, great joints of meat, cans of spam, whole roasted pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, Buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken, barrels of oysters, steaming piles of lobsters, red-hot chestnuts, vats of Nutella, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, pomegranates that nobody were sure to bother with because they were always too messy, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, green eggs and ham that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. There were even several fruitcakes from somebody’s aunt, which were naturally thrown into a corner, sure to come in handy as door stops.   In easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike a cornucopia horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Rupert, as he came peeping round the door. 
 
“Come in, Rupert!” exclaimed the Ghost. “Come in! and know me better, man!” 
Rupert did as he was told and hung his head before this Spirit.
 
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” said the Spirit. 
 
“Well, sir, I do love presents.”
 
The spirit smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand and laughed. “If I had a shilling for each time, I heard those same words…Not presents. Present, as in Christmas of today, right now.” 
 
“My apologies. I am sure it must be very miserable to be so misunderstood. So extremely glad to meet you, Mr. Ghost of Christmas Present,” Rupert said, making sure to emphasize the word Present.
 
“Thank you for hearing and seeing me and acknowledging my feelings. I accept your apology. Look upon me, Rupert, Duke of Brackenridge!”
 
 
In front of Rupert was the tallest man he had ever seen. He was clothed in one simple green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. This garment hung so loosely on the figure that its rather broad and muscular chest was bare and showing it was covered with an admirable amount of chest hair that Rupert always found intoxicating. Thoughts of Colin drifted into Rupert’s mind. Its feet, like his hands, were bare and exceptionally large, Rupert noticed with great admiration and could be seen beneath the ample folds of the garment and on its head,  it wore a simple holly wreath, with shining icicles on it. Its chestnut brown curls were long and free, and Rupert wondered what it would be like to bury his face deeply in the curls and breathe in the man’s scent. His face was handsome and  smiling, its sparkling eyes, cheery voice, passionate attitude produced a joyful air around the Duke.  Belted around its waist was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust. The man sat back on his throne, with one leg lazily laying off an armrest and Rupert tried his best not to notice the man’s ample….talent clearly presented for the Duke to see and admire.
 
“Rupert! My eyes are up here.” The spirit said, laughing, showing no degree of shame and yet  somehow managing to show more of his muscular chest, yet covering up his loins in the process of shifting position. 
 
“You have never seen the like of me before!” exclaimed the Spirit. 
“Well,” Rupert hedged. Remembering Colin again. “No, I have not, sir, but I must say you are an enjoyable sight indeed.” 
 
“Thank you. Positive reinforcement is so needed in today’s world. And you’ve never taking a merry stroll, enriched with the spirit of Christmas, with one of my elder brothers?” pursued the Phantom. 
“I don’t think I have,” said Rupert. 
“Perhaps my cousin, the Ghost of St. Patrick’s Day present, or perhaps my one cousin twice removed, the Ghost of Arbor Day present.
“I am afraid I have not.” Rupert replied, shaking his head.
 
“Pity.” The Ghost of Christmas Present said, as he rose to stand. 
“Spirit,” said Rupert submissively, “forgive my boldness, but let’s get on with this. I have been visited by two spirits who have drilled their lessons into my mind and if it is your wish to do likewise, let us begin immediately so that I may benefit from your wisdom.” 
“Grab my—” 
“But sir, can you travel as such…)” Rupert asked.
 
“Robe, your Grace. My R-O-B-E, you naughty little minx.” 
 
Side note, chickens: It was commonly known that the Ghost of Christmas present was indeed a bit of a Jack the Lad and had quite the reputation of never turning down an invitation to a swingers or key party. Of course, just look at the man! How could anyone resist such a giant of a man and if you’ve heard that I’ve taken a turn or two with one or two of his family members, well, you didn’t hear it from me. 
 
Rupert did as he was told, albeit a bit disappointed and grabbed the Spirit’s robe.  
 
The room with all of its greenery and plentiful delights disappeared, replaced by a snowy sky. The two unseen figures flew over the city of London, snow fluttering around them. They witnessed people who were jovial and full of glee as they were shoveling the snow off rooftops, calling out to each other, and even throwing a snowball or two, laughing heartily. Shopkeepers, passerby-ers, customers and other shopkeepers merrily spoke with each other as the glorious sights, sounds and scents filled the air with a glowing essence of good will. The steeples called upon all good people to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, with their gayest faces. 
 
 
Everyone was caught up in the joys of Christmas. 
 
 There were others, who were not merry, nor were dressed in their best clothes, but their only clothes, who emerged from scores of dark side streets: The poor and the lower working class, who wore their struggles on their faces and their stooped shoulders, like a widow’s black shawl and veil. It was these that the Ghost took keen interest in. Leaving Rupert in front of a baker’s shop, the Spirit began to prance among these ignored and forgotten masses. 
 
The Spirit roared with laughter, singing parts of Christmas Carols and waved his blindingly bright torch above the heads of the masses, sending a curious, sparkling dust onto everyone. This dust had the most curious effect on those who came in contact with it. Frowns were replaced with smiles, shouting with laughter, empty bellies became full. The ghost also shouted strange phrases like, “Girls, you better work,” “I’m gonna smack me some yule log tonight,” “You’ll never guess where I hung my mistletoe,”  and most disturbingly, “My figgy pudding brings all the boys to the yard.”   
In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and yet there still was a murmur of the excitement and good will. 
 
 “That is a peculiar dust that comes from your torch. Does it do something?” Rupert asked.
 
“It does. It spreads joy and hope, it is my own formula and is the perfect seasoning on meals.”
 
“Would this magical seasoning work on any meal created today?”
 
“Well, yes, to any kindly given, but particularly to the poor.” The spirit replied.
 
“Why particularly the poor?”
 
“Because they need it the most.”
 
After a moment’s pause Rupert asked, “Spirit, I wonder, you, as a representative of what I assume would be the United Supernatural Workers Union, why is it that you desire to squash any chance of these lowly  men and woman any form of innocent fun.”
 
“I would?” Christmas Present asked back. 
 
“You would deprive them of a certain amount of their wages, which they would spend on fun things, including going out for dinner every Sunday, which may be the only night available to them to dine out by demanding all businesses shall remain closed on every Sunday. That literally is one seventh of their total income. 
“Not sure where you are going with this, your Grace.” The ghost sniffed.
 
 
 “I find it interesting that some believe me to be a hateful, miserly being, who doesn’t give a fig about his fellow man, when I would welcome the opportunity to work and have my secretary work on that seventh day, thereby giving him more income and more opportunities to have some sort of enjoyment in his miserable life.”

 “The message of your ghostly visitors is clearly being lost on you, sir. There is always someone who claims to understand the meaning of Christmas, to proclaim good will for all men, even though as they do this they continue on with their actions of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness. Some will claim whatever they do is in the name of the babe that is born in a manger. Their mouths and sly tongues praise the holy baby’s birth yet turn a blind eye to the suffering of others, resist committing any acts of charity and kindness and forego the very message the Christmas miracle represents. So do not turn to the likes of me to take responsibility, when it is you and others like you who have had the power to truly make a difference. You, sir, would do well to remember that.”
 
Rupert promised that he would do just that. 
 
The Spirit continued its prancing and sprinkling, while Rupert did his best to keep up. Finally, unable to keep up the pace, Rupert jumped onto the spirit’s back and held on, nearly vomiting with all of the spirit’s prancing and dancing, working and twerking, and soft shoe-ing and two stepping. As the spirit slowed down, Rupert slid down, but not without enjoying a final squeeze of the Spirit’s muscular back. 
Much to Rupert’s surprise, they stopped in front of Robert, Rupert’s secretary’s dwelling. It was a dismal affair, with its sagging windows and thresholds, but a cheery light and shouts of excitement came from within.
Mrs. Cratchit and her children bustled around the tiny, four room home, playing, dancing and preparing for their Christmas day meal. All were dressed in clothes that were more than twice turned out and frayed along the edges, while still being presentable as they had been lovely cared for.
And right as she was wondering aloud what could be delaying her husband and their youngest child, Tiny Tim’s return, the door burst open and there stood the two missing Cratchit family members. 
 
Tim was carried on his Father’s shoulder, a little crutch found in the crook of his arm and his frail limbs supported by iron braces.  
 “And how did our Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit. 
“As good as gold,” said Robert, “and better. He gets very thoughtful, sitting by himself so much and thinks of the strangest things. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because his disability would remind them of the Babe born today who later in life made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.” 
Roberts eyes began to mist and he wiped them away quickly. “I believe our Tim is growing stronger and stronger each day.” 
His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tim before another word could be spoken.
Robert smiled down at Tim, and once everything was cooked and set, the family sat down to their meal. A breathless pause came over the table as the Christmas goose was brought out and placed before Mrs. Cratchit. Making sure she had everyone’s attention and building the excitement by carefully examining her carving knife, the goose and the expectant faces, Mrs. Cratchit plunged the knife into the goose’s breast. The long-expected gushing of stuffing issued forth with cries of joy. Even Tim joined in the excitement as he beat his first against the table and feebly cried Hurrah!
 
Once dinner was done and cleared away, the family gathered around the hearth where warm cider was passed around. It was then that Robert proclaimed: 
 
“A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!” Which all the family cheerfully repeated back to him. 
“God bless us everyone!” said Tim, the last of all. 
 
Tim sat very close to his father’s side upon his little stool. Robert held Tim’s withered little hand in his, as he desperately loved the child, praying silently that he would always be by his side and dreaded that he might be taken from him. 
“Spirit,” said Rupert, with an interest he had never felt before, seeing this true, unconditional love a father has for his child, something the Duke had never experienced, “tell me if Tim will live.” 
 
“I see a vacant seat,” replied the Ghost, “in the poor chimney-corner, and a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the child will die.” 
 
“That is not acceptable!” said Rupert. “You, must promise me this boy will live.” 
 
“I must have stuttered. I said if things do not change for the better, no one will find this little boy here after a year’s time. But, sir, does it really matter? If he is likely to die, he had better do it quickly, and decrease the surplus population.” 
 
Rupert cried out in pain, as a searing knife of emotions plunged deeply into his heart. Hearing his own, murderous words applied to poor Tim, crushed the very breath out of the Duke as he was overcome with penitence and grief. 
 
“You have some nerve, Rupert, Duke of give-a-damn,” said the Ghost, “you stand there, crying like a bitch with such passion, demanding that this boy jump ahead of everyone so that he may pass Go and collect 200 pounds, all because you are touched by his plight. Well, we can agree on one thing, you are indeed touched. Touched in the head. Have you conveniently forgotten your all-important surplus, for which you feel the right to determine where it is and who is a part of it?  Will you decide who shall live, who shall die? I believe on great authority to know that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions of souls who are just like this poor man’s child. God weeps hearing an insect like you, munching greedily on tree’s leaf declaring he believes there are too insects among those he leaves starving in the dust!” 
Rupert stood, sobbing uncontrollably, as tears streamed down his face, which was cast down in shame. The sound of his own name quickly lifted his head. 
“The Duke of Brackenridge!” said Robert; “I’ll give you Rupert Brackenridge, the Founder of the Feast!” 
“The Founder of the Feast indeed!” cried Mrs. Cratchit, reddening. “I wish with all my heart that he was here so I could give him several servings of my mind for him to feast upon. I hope he brings his eating pants.” 
“My dear,” said Robert, “Please, it is Christmas Day.” 
“Today would be the only day anyone would drink to the health of such a corrupt piece of nobleman’s filth as the Duke of Brackenridge. You know this for a fact, firsthand!” 
“I know,” was Robert’s answer, “Let us focus on whatever good will he has for us, and drink to him.” 
“I’ll drink to his health for you, my dearest, and of course for the Christ Child” said Mrs. Cratchit. “ Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy new year! I am sure with all of his wealth, position, and all of the income he bleeds from you and those pitiful tenant farmers who managed to scrape together some sort of life from that diseased estate, he’ll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt!” 
The children drank the toast after her. It was a moment which felt false and lacked any sort of heartiness. Tim drank it last of all, not liking the taste. The Duke was the hateful specter that even the mere mention of his name cast a dark, sobering shadow on the party, which took several minutes to dispel it.   
Rupert watched as the family became ten times merrier once the Brackenridge name had been banished, the toast having been completed, and yet he was troubled by the scene before him. 
It had been drilled into Rupert’s head by his father, the Late Duke, the measure of a true man was by his position, the wealth he accumulated, the connections he made in polite society, particularly of similar noble, if not royal birth, where you were educated, what you wore and how you spoke, along with numerous other measurements to ensure you were associated with the right kind of people. 
 
For Rupert’s father, these measurements were the only way to find happiness or satisfaction in one’s life. By these very measurements, the Cratchit family should be very miserable indeed for they were none of these. The celebration was nothing of note. This family would never be considered handsome in dress for items that clothed this family were no better than the rags Rupert’s man would use to clean his riding boots. Remembering how paltry the settings on the table were, the Duke was sure this family was well-acquainted with the local pawn broker. And yet, they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with what little they had. As if they had the riches of the crown available to them. And as they family faded and somehow looked even happier yet, in the light of the bright twinkling dust that were showered upon them by the Spirit’s torch, Rupert couldn’t take his glance away from the family, particularly Tim, whom he continued to stare at until he couldn’t see Tim anymore. 
By this time it was getting dark and snowing pretty heavily; and as Rupert and the Spirit went along the streets, the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens, parlors, and all sorts of rooms, was wonderful to behold.  Lost in the wonderment of the night and reflecting on everything he had seen so far, Rupert was drawn out of his thoughts by a hearty laugh and even more of a surprise, he recognize the person laughing: His nephew in a bright and gleaming room, speaking animatedly to a group of people. The Spirit was moved to join in, also laughing heartedly and unable to resist, Rupert couldn’t help himself and began to laugh also. 
Rupert’s niece, Pamela, by marriage, laughed just as heartily, the couple a pair that those around them couldn’t help but join the merriment and lustily roared with laughter themselves. 
 
 “He said that Christmas was a humbug and the more I pressed the more he dug in his heels!” cried Fred. “I fear he believed it t too!” 
 
“It is his loss, Fred!” said Pamela, indignantly. 
 
Now Chickens, how does one describe Pamela? Yes, it was true that she was breathtaking to behold. The sort of girl that walks into the room and other women both want to be her friend, because she is so sweet natured and never has an unkind word to say about anyone, yet still wish she would face-plant down a long staircase and unceremoniously mute all of her glorious features. For instance, her mouth that begged to be kissed, which one could assume Fred did so, and often. Then there were the adorable dimples that came out especially when she smiled or laughed and who could not take notice of Pamela’s beautifully bright eyes that shone like the sun during a mid-summer’s day. All of this was crowned with the glorious tresses of ginger blonde that was the envy of all who beheld them. So yes, the girl was pretty and to put into question the existence of God, she was also very bright. Here’s to hoping Pam sleeps with one eye open because London women can be ruthless. But I digress.
 
“He’s a funny fellow, to be sure,” said Fred, “and it wouldn’t hurt him to be at the very least a little pleasant. I assume the responsibilities he holds as the Duke of Brackenridge must be extremely taxing.” 
 
“Which, husband, if I may be so bold, you stand to inherit the same title and responsibilities. Yet, he ignores and avoids you. The responsibility will be great on both of us, as you have told me of his extensive holdings, Fred,” Pamela stated.  
“Holdings, a station and responsibility that aren’t mine and there is no guarantee that it ever be. So why dwell on it because even with his vast holdings, it brings him no amount of happiness because he does nothing with it. So I refuse to dwell on it.” said Fred. 
“I have no patience with him,” observed Pamela, an opinion most at the party were in total agreement.  
“Oh, I have!” said Fred. “I feel very sorry for my Uncle, considering he refuses to experience the happiness and love we all have, and quite possibly take for granted. Even worse to not know his incredibly dashing and very charming nephew and his dull as dishwater wife.”
“Oh really, sir, is that your opinion of me?” Pamela said as she playfully punched Fred in the arm.”
 
Fred hugged his wife closer. “I couldn’t be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill will, only himself, always? So what if he takes it into his head to loathe us, to continually shun any contact with us, why should that be a concern for us?”
At this, Fred paused and invited everyone into the large front parlor for dessert, drinks and games.  Walking over to the fireplace to stir the embers with the poker, Fred grew quiet, and began to speak, but hesitated instead.   
 “What were you going to say, Fred,” said Pamela. 
Fred chuckled. ““I was only going to say that the consequence of his decision has taken away the opportunity to create memories with his family and to allow himself to love others and rips away the opportunity for his family to love him in return. It must be very lonely, indeed, drunkenly living day after day in his club or in his crumbling estate, with only his thoughts and secretary to keep him company. But I have faith and possess what I believe a good heart and iron will—” 
“Which you get from your dearly departed mother, God bless her and keep her in his heavenly kingdom.”
 
“Yes, my mother, whom I didn’t know, but as told to me by my Father, was deeply loved by her brother, Rupert. It is because of her that I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not. Let him rail against Christmas till he dies. My hope is not for myself or my wife, but for him to somehow find a way out of all the greed and selfishness he embraces. He may hate me for the rest of his life and find great distaste in me visiting him in fine form and good temper, year after bloody year, wishing him a Merry Christmas and asking how is he doing, if it only puts him in the mind to leave that poor, miserable secretary fifty pounds, that in itself is worth the frustration. As my darling love has told me time and time again, the goodness derived from my close proximity to anyone is great, although I think she oversells my impact.”
The entire party burst into gales of laughter, both agreeing with the opinion of Pamela, while enjoying Fred’s joke at his own expense. 
After tea, they had some music, Pamela on the harp and friends of the couple on harpsichord and violin. The Duke so deeply moved by the beauty of the impromptu concert that a wistful smile broke across his face and the Spirit noticed once or twice, when the musical pieces was lively, the Duke tapping his feet, while his hands went through the motions of whatever dance was being performed by the guests.   
 
But they didn’t devote the whole evening to music. After a while they played numerous games, both unknown to Rupert and some he remembered playing in his youth.  As each minute passed and each game was completed, only to introduce another game, the Duke grew more and more animated and would participate in them even though he knew no one could hear him. 
The Ghost was greatly pleased to see this, and looked upon him with such favor and kindness, as Rupert begged like a child to be allowed to stay until the guests had departed. But this the Spirit said could not be done. 
 But Fred, still pondering on the thought of his unhappy Uncle, begged everyone’s attention. 
“It is true, over the years that my Uncle Rupert has given us plenty of merriment through the stories I relate to you, my dear friends and family,” said Fred, “and it would be ungrateful indeed not to drink his health. So I ask each of you to raise your glasses and say, ‘To Uncle Rupert!’ ” 
“Well! To Uncle Rupert!” they cried. 
“A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the Duke, whatever he is!” said Fred. 
The speech, such words of kindness from a person Rupert had gone out of his way to dislike, left the Duke feeling incredibly gay and light of heart. So much so that if the spirit had given him the time, Rupert would have pledged to return and thank his Nephew for such an enjoyable evening.  But the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by his nephew; and he and the Spirit were again upon their travels. The two traveled far and wide, visiting many homes, visiting almshouse and hospitals to stand by the bedside of the sick and those sufferers were all the more cheerful for their unseen company.
It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Rupert had his doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidays appeared to be jumbled and out of order. It was strange, too, that while Rupert remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older. 
“Are spirits’ lives so short?” asked Rupert. 
“My life is very short and unfortunately there isn’t a pill or change of diet that can help it,” replied the Ghost. “It ends to-night, at midnight. Damn it, where has the time gone, for my end is near.” 
The chimes were ringing the three quarters past eleven at that moment. 
“Forgive me for asking,” said Rupert, looking intently at the Spirit’s robe, “but I see something strange, protruding from your robes.”
 
Don’t you dare, dear listener, take away for this very solemn moment. I won’t say my ancestor wasn’t a thirsty bitch, because he clearly acted like any gay man delighted that it was gray sweatpants season again.” 
 Is it a foot or a claw?” Rupert asked.
“It might be a claw if it weren’t cover in flesh.” was the Spirit’s sorrowful reply. “Look here.” 
 
From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet and clung upon the outside of its garment. And forgetting himself, the Duke wondered what it would be like to be under the Spirit’s robes but put the dirty thought out of his mind.
“Sir! look here. Do not turn away!” exclaimed the Ghost. 
They were a boy and girl. Jaundice, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale, shriveled hand had grabbed the two and deformed and distorted them into an unpleasant sight. The two had fallen from the sky to crash through the ugly tree, smashing their faces against every branch on their way down. If friends of yours tried to set you up on a blind date with one of them and tried to sell the idea by commenting on how funny they were or how pleasant their personality was, that would be a   clear indication that you would not be meeting up with the likes of Angelina Jolie or Ryan Reynolds. These were devils and 
Rupert stumbled back, appalled. Having to see that amount of ugliness and all out evil froze in his throat any attempt to automatically remark what fine children they were. 
“Spirit! are they yours?” Rupert croaked. “They are…. In the right light they could look…, Dear god, what the hell!”
“They are Man’s,” said the Spirit, looking down upon them. “And they cling to me. Trust me there is no shaking these two. That trick of driving into the country and abandoning them doesn’t work with these two. And I won’t even go into what a cock block they are, with them hanging about when you want to chat up a bloke. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both,  but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see written the Doom of humanity in a single word of “Trump”. Hopefully, this foul writing can be erased. Deny it!” cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. 
“Do not use either for your purposes of greed and selfishness!” 
“Have they no refuge or resource?” cried Rupert. 
“Are there no prisons?” said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. “Are there no workhouses?” 
The bell struck twelve. 
Rupert looked about him for the Ghost, but he was alone. As the last stroke of the bell ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of his father, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him. 
 
THE LAST OF THE SPIRITS. 
The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently, approached, somehow dragging with it a full symphony orchestra that played the most ominous music. 
It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed it completely, leaving little access to the spirit within, except for one outstretched, deathly pale hand in need of a decent manicure, for grave dirt was clotted underneath its nails. The shroud that hid its face was so black that it was difficult for Rupert to determine where the spirit ended and the blackness that surrounded it began.
He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved. 
“I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?” asked Rupert. 
The Spirit answered not but pointed onward with its hand. 
“You are about to show me shadows of things that have not happened, but will eventually happen,” Rupert pursued. “Is that so, Spirit?” 
There was a slight dip in the garment for an instant, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received. 
Although well used to ghostly company by this time, the Duke feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand let alone follow it. An audible sigh of frustration was heard from deep inside the cloak and Rupert felt that he could sense the spirit was rolling its eyes, if it indeed had eyes to roll. 
 “Ghost of the Future!” he exclaimed, “You’re a quiet one, which freezes my blood because  the whole spookiness thing you’ve got going on is not pleasant. But I know you are here to do good, although it wouldn’t be a stretch to conclude your dance card is quite vacant considering your vile fashion sense. I am prepared to go with and learn from you, with a thankful heart so that I may change into the man you wish and not the man I was. Will you not speak to me?” 
It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them. 
“Lead on, sir!” Rupert said. 
The Phantom moved away as it had come towards him. Rupert followed in the shadow of its dress, which then surrounded him, carrying him along.
They scarcely seemed to enter the city; but suddenly they were there, witnessing humanity and its hustling about their business. There seemed to be a dismal feeling blanketing the city. The two weaved in and out of conversations as one after the other people discussed the death of some person of prominence, who had the misfortune to die in scandal. Another group revealed that this was indeed true, as the man in question had died a fortnight ago, only having been found yesterday. Apparently, a good portion of the man’s face and body had been eaten away by some sort of wild barn cats also known as wild pussies, a rather vulgar term some preferred to use when speaking of such things. But it was the final group of noblemen whom Rupert knew very well, who elaborated the more filthy details of this poor man’s death, as the man was discovered with a somewhat large rolling pin shoved deep into his posterior. 
 “Dear Lord!” Remarked Rupert. “I would think being devoured by barn pussies would be enough of a degradation for this poor soul, but the idea of what I am sure is a very fine rolling pin to be crammed up the man’s ass is too much!” 
Rupert was confused at how the Spirit held such importance on what the Duke would have referred to deep dish gossip being tossed around. He wished he could be seen and heard so that he might open the library for the reading these bitches desperately needed.  He couldn’t place whom they might be speaking of, certainly not his father, for Rupert had been in attendance at his death.  
He looked about, searching for any sight of himself in this somewhat dank future being presented to him, but could find no trace of his future self. He searched the night hoping to see the new Rupert, in his new way of life, demonstrating the many resolutions he promised to take to heart, but found none.  
Quiet and dark, beside him stood the Phantom, with its outstretched hand. 
They left the busy scene and went into an obscure and dodgy part of the town, where Rupert had never visited. 
The path through this portion of the city were foul of stench, dark and narrow, the shops and houses wretched; the people half-naked, drunken, crazed and ugly. 
Far into the black heart of this district there lay a decrepit, festering wound of a shop where iron, old rags bottles, bones and greasy animal entrails used for food, were sold. Upon the floor within, were piled up heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and iron junk of all kinds. Secrets that few would like to know anything about were hidden in mountains of unseemly rags, masses of corrupted fat, and vaults of bones. Sitting in among the items he sold, by a charcoal stove, made of old bricks, was  old Joe, a grey-haired rascal, nearly seventy years of age. 
Rupert and the Phantom watched  as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop, followed by two others: A woman and a man in faded black, who was no less startled by the sight of them. 
“Oh, get over yourself as it should come as no surprise that we all were tearing the very meat off the bones of the same dead man. We can all feel safe knowing that none of us will say a word for to do so would damn the loose tongued idiot the same one-way ticket to the jailhouse. “
The last two, the man in black and the woman who entered with him both opened their bundles and received their money for the items found in there. All the while Old Joe complaining about how generous he was and that this very generous nature would be the ruin of him. 
“And now undo my bundle, Joe,” said the first woman. 
Joe did what she suggested and was puzzled. “ Are these what I think they are? “Bed-curtains?” Joe asked.
“Ah!” returned the woman, laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms. “Bed-curtains!” 
“You don’t mean to say you took them down, rings and all, with him lying there, face half eaten away and the rolling pin sticking out of his arse?” said Joe. 
“Yes I do,” replied the woman. “Why not?” 
“You have bigger balls than I do,” said Joe, “and you’ll make your fortune because of them.” 
“As if a dead body would stop the likes of me, when I can grab anything that is easily within my reach, with no one noticing.” returned the woman coolly. “Don’t drop that oil upon the blankets, now.” 
“His blankets?” asked Joe. 
“No, the Archbishop of Canterbury’s blankets. Of course his blankets?” replied the woman. “He isn’t likely to catch a cold without them.” 
“I hope he didn’t die of anything contagious?” said old Joe, stopping in his work, and looking up. 
“Don’t you be afraid of that,” returned the woman. “He wasn’t the dearest of men so the chances of me hanging around if he had the plague or scarlet fever are next to none. Look at the shirt! The finest he had and they would have wasted it. Well, I put a stop to that. “ 
“How would they have wasted it?” asked old Joe. 
“Putting it on him to be buried in,” replied the woman with a laugh. “Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. If worn cotton isn’t good enough for such a purpose, it isn’t good enough for anything. Considering what he looked like in life and then also in death, there wasn’t a shirt by God and his many angels that would have improve the bastard’s overall appearance.” 
Rupert listened to this dialogue in horror. 
“Spirit!” said Rupert, shuddering from head to foot. “I understand that the case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life was going in that direction, but thanks to you and the other spirits I can change it. Merciful Heaven, why show me this!” 
He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bed: a bare, uncurtained bed: on which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay something covered up, which left Rupert with no hesitation to understand what the thing on the bed was. 
The room was very dark, so dark Rupert couldn’t make out much of the large room. A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight upon the bed; and on it, stolen from, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this man. 
Rupert glanced towards the Phantom. Its steady hand was pointed to the head. A verse came to the Duke:
Oh cold, cold, rigid, dreadful Death, set up thine altar here, and dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy command: for this is thy dominion! But of the loved, revered, and honored head, thou canst not turn one hair to thy dread purposes or make one feature odious. It is not that the hand is heavy and will fall down when released; it is not that the heart and pulse are still; but that the hand was open, generous, and true; the heart brave, warm, and tender; and the pulse a man’s. Strike, Shadow, strike! And see his good deeds springing from the wound, to sow the world with life immortal! 
There wasn’t a voice who said these words aloud, and yet Rupert heard them when he looked upon the bed. He thought, if this man could be raised up now, what would be his foremost thoughts? Extreme greed, cruelty and griping cares? These were the very things that Rupert was guilty of. Was his end to be like this? 
This man lay alone in this dark and empty house, with neither man nor woman there to speak of his acts of kindness and generosity. The only sounds coming from a barn pussy tearing at the door and the sound of rats gnawing beneath the hearthstone. It was clear what these creatures desired and Rupert grew nauseous at the thought of them. 
“Spirit!” he said, “this is a horrific place. I promise, when we leave it, I will take the lessons I have learned to heart. Let us go!” 
Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head. 
“I understand,” Rupert returned, “and I would do it, if I could. But I have not the ability, Spirit. I have not the ability.” 
Again it seemed to look upon him. 
“If there is any person in the town, who feels emotion caused by this man’s death,” said Rupert quite agonized, “show that person to me, Spirit, I beseech you!” 
The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment, like a wing; and withdrawing it, revealed a room by daylight, where a family looked over bills.
“It may look horrible,” the man said to his wife, “but there is hope, for the man who holds our note died last night, or rather a fortnight ago, with a rolling pin stuck up his…”
“Husband!” the woman exclaimed. “Not in front of the child.”
“But,” the man continued, “In the time we will have gained, we should have the money to pay off the note, should the debt be transferred. And if a miracle upon miracles should happen and the debt is lost or forgiven, all the more better. Don’t you see, we have room to breathe and can sleep with light hearts tonight, dear!” 
Rupert wondered how it was possible that pleasure could be derived from the death of this man. 
“Let me see some tenderness connected with a death,” said Rupert; “or my mind will forever be trapped in that dark chamber with the covered body.
The Ghost conducted the Duke to his secretary’s house. They entered and found the mother and the children seated round the fire. 
The house was so very quiet. What once were noisy little children were as still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at their older brother, who had a book before him. The mother and her daughters were engaged in sewing. 
“ ‘And He took a child and set him in the midst of them.’ ” 
Rupert saw the boy could not go on but didn’t know why.  
The mother laid her work upon the table and put her hands up to her face. 
“The color hurts my eyes,” she said. 
Rupert knew it was not the color that caused Mrs. Cratchit to stop her needle work, for tears had formed in the woman’s eyes.
“They’re better now again,” said Mrs. Cratchit. “Working in candlelight makes them weak and I wouldn’t want your father to see the strain in them when he comes home. He should be home shortly.” 
“ But I think he has walked a little slower than he used, these last few evenings, mother,” said the eldest Cratchit boy.
They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once: 
“Even with Tim sitting on his shoulder, I have known your father to get home with time to spare. But then, the boy was so very light to carry,” she resumed, intent upon her work, “and his father loved him so, that it was no bother at all. And, look, there is your father at the door!” 
She hurried out to meet him; and Robert walked in.  His tea was ready for him, and they all tried to be the one who should help him to it most. Then the two young Cratchits got upon his knees and laid against his chest saying, “Please, father, do not be sad!” 
Bob was very cheerful with them and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table and praised the craftmanship. 
“You went today to visit it, Robert?” said his wife. 
“Yes, my dear,” returned her husband. “I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you’ll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there. I….can’t break my promise to… to… my boy! My little boy. How am I to go on without my little Tim?” 
He broke down all at once. He couldn’t help it. He left the room, and went up-stairs into the room above, which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with Christmas. There was a chair set close beside the lifeless child. Poor Robert sat down. He silently cried a little and when it stopped and he was able to think about Tim and the goodness he had represented, he composed himself and kissed the little face for the last time. He was reconciled to what had happened and went down again realizing he still had several other children and a wife that needed him.  
As his family gathered around him, Robert offered, “There will come a time, my dear ones, when you may leave your mother and I to establish happy homes of your own. It is something that your parents must accept and welcome. But however and whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall never forget poor Tim— as he was the first to part from us and we shall forever carry him in our hearts.” 
“Never, father! We will never forget, Tim,” they all cried. 
“You have made me very happy, my loves.”
Mrs. Cratchit kissed him, his daughters kissed him, the two young Cratchits kissed him, and Peter, the older brother, thinking he was too old for fatherly kisses when to shake his father’s hand, but was drawn into an embrace by Robert and kissed many times on his head.  
“Specter,” said Rupert, “I feel that our time is quickly coming to an end and I have only one question I must ask but fear the answer. Tell me who was the man we saw lying dead?” 
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come conveyed him, as before—though at a different time frame to Rupert’s rooms at the club. 
“These are my quarters, and yet someone else occupies them. How is this possible?” Rupert said.
 
The Spirit stopped; the hand was pointed elsewhere as the dark cloak was raised over the Duke and ripped away, revealing the depressing scene of a crumbling church yard filled with eroded and discolored headstones. 
The Spirit stood among the graves and pointed down to One. Rupert moved slowly towards it, trembling with each step. 
“Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,” said Rupert, “answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be?” 
Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood. 
“Spirit, a mere butterfly man change the course of man, should it be placed on top a certain flower and like that butterfly man can also impact his own future by changing the direction of his life. Say there is a chance!” 
The Spirit was immovable as ever. 
Rupert crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, reading upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, Rupert, Duke of Brackenridge. 
“Am I that man who lay upon the bed?” he cried, upon his knees. 
The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again. 
“No, Spirit! Please! Anything but this.” 
The finger still was there. 
“Spirit!” he cried, tight clutching at its robe, “hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I have been in the past due to the lessons you and your fellow spirits have beaten into me.  Why even bother with me, if I am past all hope!” 
 
For the first time the hand appeared to shake. 
“Good Spirit,” he pursued, throwing himself in front of the spirit, clutching at its robes. “Your nature intercedes for me and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life!” 
The kind hand trembled. 
“I will honor Christmas in my heart and keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that each of you have taught. I will fill my heart with kindness and generosity for my fellow man, just tell me if I can but sponge away the writing on this stone!” 
 
In his agony, Rupert caught the spectral hand, and in reaction, the spirit’s hood fell away, revealing the Duke’s half eaten face as the Duke screamed and fell backward into the grave’s hole, a void with no end.  
As he screamed his last prayer, spitting out the soil that sought to suffocate him, he saw an alteration in the Phantom’s hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into nothing but a bedpost. 
 

THE END OF IT. 


Yes, dear chickens! It was not a lube-covered rolling pin, but the Duke’s very own bedpost. It was the duke’s very bed, chambers and yes, it was his own dear Brackenridge Hall. And the delicious icing on top of this delicious, multi-layered cake, because as we all know, everyone loves cake, it was his time to change. Sure, he would have to change out of his dressing clothes because yet again he had pissed himself, who wouldn’t after his last ghostly experience, but he now how the time to change his ways and make amends. Far be it for me to under-estimate how many people he would have to eat crow with. I, myself have been known to be very popular, but my popularity and charm does not always work on some. I know, Chickens, how can this be!
 
And so, Rupert hopped and danced around his chambers, filled with the joy of life and Christmas, as he tore off his sleeping garments, washed up and dressed in his finest clothing.
“I will never forget you and your lessons, Christmas Spirits of Past, Present and Future. Each of you will live in my heart to my dying day and you will rejoice at the good will I will make.  And Father, dear Father, Thank you! I say this on my knees, thank you, thank you.”
He stumbled around, managing to lose his footing, only to break out his hearty laughter, such as he has never experienced. 
“I don’t know what to do!” cried Rupert, laughing and crying in the same breath. “I am as light as a feather and he looked down, surprised to see his Little John Thomas standing at attention, “And apparently stiff as a board. Every inch of me is alive with love for my fellow man and with Christmas! A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world.” 
And once again, broke out in the most brilliant, booming laugh, as he strode out of his apartments, rushing into a servant, an upstairs maid, who was waiting patiently for him to depart so she could change the Duke’s bedding and gather his laundry.
He tore the sheets from the woman arms and threw them up into the air, grabbing the woman in his arms and waltzing. Stunned, the woman screamed, pulled away and ran in the opposite direction.”
“Oh dear, sweet Christ child, save me. He’s crazier than a shit house rat. His Grace has lost his bloody mind,” The woman screamed as she ran down the hall.
Rupert laughed and strode in the direction of the grand staircase.  
Upon seeing the strange sight of the Duke of Brackenridge not only being present in the great house, but laughing and smiling, for who of the servants had seen the Duke in such a state, a lone group of servants stood at the base of the stairs trying to make sense of what the hysterical maid was saying. 
The sight of the Duke loudly rushing towards them stopped all conversation. They all bowed to him, mumbling the standard greeting of “You Grace” to him.
“I don’t know what day of the month it is!” Rupert said to them as he gladly shook the hands of each servant. “I don’t know how long I’ve been among the Spirits. I don’t know anything. I’m quite the fool, am I not.”
The group stood stunned, unable to speak. 
“Never mind. I don’t care!” 
The Duke glanced down upon a short footman whom he believed was the son of the cook he employed at the Hall. “Hello to you, sir. What day is today?”
 
“Begging your pardon, your Grace?” the boy asked, not understanding the question.
 
“Do not be afraid to speak up, my fine fellow. What day is it?”
 
“Your Grace, it is Christmas Day. 
 
“It’s Christmas Day!” Rupert shouted loudly to the group. “How is this possible that the Spirits have bestowed their lessons on a poor sinner like me in a single night!”
“I believe, your Grace,” the footman began timidly, if you speak of spirits, they can do anything, for they are after all, Spirits, and have certain magical abilities.”
 
The group waited to see the Duke’s reaction, as historically such liberties was rewarded by a loss of one’s position. 
 
“Ho, sir! What a brilliant boy you are! So brilliant that I will relieve you of your position—”
 
There was a gasp from the group as the poor little footman began to weep.”
 
“Oh no, Sir, see here!” The Duke cried. “Relieve you from your current position for a better one as my personal valet!” 
 
The group gasped again, causing the Duke broke out in uproarious laughter. A truly infectious laughter that was surprising to be coming from the Duke and most certainly irresistible to the servants, who also began to laugh and roar with shouts of God bless you, your Grace and Merry Christmas, your Grace.
 
“Dear people, you have stood by my late father and, now I ask you to stand by me as I figure out my place here. I was lost and blinded by selfishness and greed, but now I know my way and I see clearly. Know this, a new day has dawned onto this house of sadness, so let’s open the curtains, throw open the windows to banish all shadows from this great house. Take down the sheets off the mirrors and prepare for a great feast in honor of all of you. You, sir,” he said to his new valet, “ alert all of the estate’s staff, all of who are in my employ that the day after Christmas will hence forth be considered a special holiday for you, where we will dine together at the Hall’s great table and boxes upon boxes of gifts will be given out to you. After our merriment you will have the day off, with pay, to enjoy your families and friends.”
 
Now before you step off the curb into smut valley, the boxes he spoke of were gifts. And yes, dear chickens, you guessed it, it was the late Duke of Brackenridge who celebrated the very first boxing day, a tradition that is still celebrated today.
 
But the Duke wasn’t done. He immediately ordered the boy to run to Poulterer’s and purchase the biggest turkey available.
 
“The one,” the boy asked, “as big as I am?”
 
“As big as you are and if possible, even bigger!” Rupert pronounced, raining praise onto the boy. Producing several crowns from his pocket, Rupert gave them to the boy and gave the address for Robert Cratchit’s home. “Bring it to this address, but do not tell who sends it. Keep anything that remains of the crowns I have given you.”
   
Without missing a beat, the Duke called for his carriage and off he went to the City, where he quickly got out to walk among the people, he had so taken for granted. Each person that encountered Rupert, he gave them a smile, a tip of his hat, along with a heart-felt “Good morning! A merry Christmas to you!” 
He had not walked far, when coming towards him were the two portly gentleman he had encountered the day before at his club. It sent a pang across his heart and a blush to his cheek, embarrassed, thinking of how the old gentleman would look upon him with the unpleasant memory. But Rupert knew the promises he made to Past, Present and Future spirits were not for the weak of heart, nor the cowardly. He called out to them.
“My dear, sirs,” said Rupert, quickening his pace, and taking the old gentleman by both his hands. “How do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A merry Christmas to you, sir!” 
“Your Grace?” 
“Yes,” said Rupert. “I am the Duke of Brackenridge and I feel I have not represented my family honorably nor was very pleasant to you. I am embarrassed to admit my faults, but feel I have a lot of ground to make up regarding your charitable work. So allow me to beg forgiveness from you in the form of a donation to your cause in the amount written on this paper.” Rupert handed the gentlemen the paper, who had to examine it closely for they didn’t believe what they saw was correct. 
 
 “Bless me, Sir, this is most generous. It is more than we had hoped to collect from our entire endeavor! Your Grace, are you serious?” 
“Very much so, and not a penny less,” said Rupert. “And I can assure you that this is only the first of many generosities I plan to make for your noble cause. My only ask is that I do this anonymously and that two days from now both of you come and be my guest for luncheon at Brackenridge Hall so we may discuss other opportunities where I may be of assistance. 
“It is done, sir, and we look forward to your hospitality.” 
 
Rupert left the men with cheerful Merry Christmas and then attended church. After he had thanked God and the Spirits for their abundance of wisdom, kindness and grace, he left the place of worship and traveled to his nephew Fred’s house. 
He passed the door a dozen times as he attempted to gather his courage to go up and knock. Before he could think further about it, he rushed to the door and gave it a knock.  
After a few moments passed, he knocked again, but received no answer, and just as he turned to leave, the door open. 
Not recognizing the back of his Uncle, Fred said, “Sir? A Merry Christ—” but was cut short with Rupert’s greeting.
“Fred!” said the Duke. 
Fred, immediately recognizing his Uncle could only gawk at first, but recovered quickly as he broke out in a huge grin. 
“Who is it, Fred.” Pamela asked and nearly fainted away at the sight of the Duke of Brackenridge. Giving a curtsy, she grabbed Fred’s hand to steady herself. 
 
“Uncle!” Fred shouted with happiness and he eagerly shook the Duke’s hand, drawing his uncle into a hug that Fred had yearned to give him for years, and within 5 minutes of being ushered into the house Rupert felt at home. And like the night before, he was surrounded by his nephew’s friends, because not one of them believed Fred when he called upon them in haste to discuss the Christmas miracle that had been delivered to his doorstep. As the group enjoyed their dinner and later moved into the parlor for games, Rupert went to Pamela and sat down next to her near the hearth. 
“My dearest Niece, “ he began solemnly,  I have been a complete and utter jackass towards you and dear Fred, and it is my dearest hope that you can look beyond my shortcomings and ignorance to forgive this foolish man that sits next to you. The time I have wasted not being a proper Uncle to you and Fred gives me great shame. I fear, deep in the recesses of my previously corrupted mind, our Fred, who is so much like his mother, my sister, that he served as a reminder of everything I lost.  Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?”
 
With a smile as bright as the Christmas Star, Pamela leaned in and bestowed a kiss on Rupert’s cheek. “Jewelry would certainly help me on this journey of forgiveness, perhaps you could visit  Jared’s fine jewelers, “ his niece said with a wry smile and a wink. “Forgive you, dear Uncle? Whatever for?” Without shame, Rupert broke down in tears of happiness and thanks, pressing his niece’s hand to his lips and bestowing many kisses upon it. 
 
The next morning The Duke rose early and awaited the arrival of his Secretary Robert Cratchit at Brackenridge Hall in the late Duke’s very imposing study, which had been previously locked up and was now dusted and gleaming with polish. He hoped to catch Robert arriving late, which he did. 
 
“Sir,” Rupert growled behind his vast desk. What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?” 
“Your Grace, I am so very sorry, sir,” said Robert. “ I am late for the very first time.” 
“Yes, for the very first time and it occurring the day after Christmas makes it all the more insulting.” Rupert said. “Come here, Robert.” 
“Please, sir,” pleaded Bob, “It will never happen again.” 
 
“I can guarantee it won’t, sir,” said Rupert, “I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,” he continued, leaping from his desk and giving Robert a small dig into his waistcoat so quickly that the secretary staggered back, “ and therefore I am about to give you a promotion and a handsome raise to your salary!” 
Robert stood in shock and trembled, unsure of what to do. Had the Duke finally lost his mind and in need of some special help that included a straitjacket? 
“A merry Christmas, Robert!” said Rupert, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken. “A merrier Christmas, Robert, my good fellow, than I have given you, for many a year! I’ll raise your salary, gift one of the more generous cottages that lay empty on this estate, in desperate need of your wonderful family to move into it and endeavor to assist your struggling family. We will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a day after Christmas feast being thrown for everyone in my employ. Bring your family so I may introduce myself to my soon to be neighbors, dear Robert. And I can, more importantly, meet your brilliantly kind, Tiny Tim.” 
 
The Duke left Robert, who had to take a moment to compose himself as wrapped his mind around the new, much improved state of his circumstances. Rupert, concerned that the poor man may hurt himself attempting to understand what had changed The Duke in such a way, ordered a hot toddy brought to the secretary to help steady his trembling hands. But there was one more act of kindness Rupert needed to complete immediately. 
 
Making his way towards the place he had spent so much time of his youth, Rupert entered the stables and walked upstairs to the loft. Sitting alone by the hearth with a mighty blaze was Colin, who immediately jumped to his feet at the sight of his employer. They both may have aged, but the Duke  looked upon his former friend as if he had seen him just a minute ago. 
Colin could not bring his eyes to meet Rupert’s and looked at the floor. 
 
“Your Grace,” Colin said, his face stern and unmoving. 
 
Rupert walked to him and stopped, close enough to see the pulse in Colin’s neck throb at a rapid pace. The Duke was unable to speak because of the shame of what he and his father had done to this kind and generous man, fell heavy on his heart choking the voice from his throat. He reached over and took one of Colin’s hands in his and pressed it first to his cheek and finally to his lips. Colin cautiously retracted his hand from the Duke’s embrace. It was this painful action that allowed Rupert to find his voice.
 
“I am so sorry, Colin, for what my father did to you, for my selfishness and for the way I hurt you. How I wish I could go back and be the better man you deserve.”
 
Colin took a shaking breath, as Rupert’s words brought back a rush of memories and emotions the horseman had buried deep inside him, never expecting to deal with them ever again.
 
“Your Grace—” he choked out, “Please—"
 
“Please, Colin, don’t call me that. I am no more deserving of that title for I am a worthless and foolish man. To throw away your love, for nothing more than the association of what my father considered to be the proper people of proper status, marks me as the greatest fool of all time. I am not worthy to be in the same room as you or dare to think you could forgive me for what was done to you. But know this that there wasn’t a day in my past that I didn’t think nor dream of you, and I will spend the rest of my days wondering what might have—”
 
Colin bridged the gap between them and raised his face to Rupert’s, the horseman’s face wet with tears. Rupert knees gave way and Colin caught him and drew Rupert close to him in a lingering hug. The scars, anger, loneliness and bitterness that had built a wall between the two men came crashing down and Rupert covered Colin’s tears with kisses. 
 
“I will spend the rest of my life loving and cherishing you, helping those in need and keeping the spirit of Christmas and this moment in my heart.”
 
“Merry Christmas, Rupert.”
 
“Merry Christmas, Colin.”  
 
 
And Rupert was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became known for his grin and the same booming laughter his dear Nephew was known for, and everyone looked upon him with great fondness as his generosity, grace and loving nurturing nature grew with each passing day. 
 
He never had any more interactions with spirits and both he and Colin lived together, happier than any other couple before or after them, and welcomed both Pamela and Fred into their home, while also taking Fred under his wing as the responsibility of the estate and title would eventually be passed onto dear Fred.    
And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tim observed, God bless Us, Everyone! 
 
The end.