Chapter Text
Stave One
Scrooge's Ghost
Marley was dead, as has elsewhere been established, and seldom remembered. When his memory was brought to mind it was among those who still languished in the debtor’s prisons to which he had seen them condemned. Marley’s faint memory was scorned, reviled and without the warm regard of any living soul save, at the last, one: his business partner Ebeneezer Scrooge.
Scrooge owed much of his great and long-hoarded wealth to the partnership and legacy of Jacob Marley, but it was not this for which he now kept Marley in his thoughts. It was rather in light of extraordinary events, instigated by Marley’s own shade, that had wrought upon Scrooge a transformation from unrelenting miser to a generous and philanthropic pillar of the city.
Alas! Every man's brief light must be snuffed from the world, and so it was that Scrooge breathed his last at the dusk of Christmas Eve, upon the fourteenth anniversary of his late partner's death. In stark contrast to his predecessor, Scrooge's deathbed was as well attended as was seemly. There was his junior partner and that partner's youngest son, Mister Bob and Master Tim Cratchit. There also were Scrooge’s nephew, Fred, and the attending nurse. So in good company, Ebeneezer Scrooge departed the mortal realm.
Yet Scrooge was, when all was said and done, a man of business. Although its execution no longer consumed his every waking thought, as once it had done, he nonetheless would not permit his own death to obstruct that which he considered the proper course of his affairs. To this end, as might any man, he had made certain provisions in his last will and testament; yet more pressing matters now, upon his timely passing, occupied Scrooge’s latterly-grown spirit.
The shade of Ebeneezer Scrooge arose, shedding his worldly remains as easily as bedclothes. He made stay to thank, unheard, those who had kept his company in his final hours and, having done so, turned his attention to his own unearthly self. He saw, without the familiar motions of head and eye, that his spirit wore the form to which it had in life been accustomed: he was well, but not extravagantly dressed according to his station. On his breast, however, a strange token hung; a single, broken ring as the link of a chain.
He chuffed, as much as a shade might, to see it there. Once, he knew too well, that would have been merely the first link in a ponderous and heavily weighted chain of his own mortal making. He had begun to shed those fetters seven years before. Redemption was wrought by his own deeds, but such would never have been if not for the lessons of three noble spirits of christmas, visited upon him at the behest of the immortal, tormented ghost of Jacob Marley.
The Last Ghost
Upon lifting his attention from that ethereal ironmongery Scrooge perceived a figure newly arrived to the room, one which recalled his final visitor of that significant night. This imposing spirit loomed tall over those assembled souls, as though a shadow made solid and inevitable. Yet Scrooge perceived a character in that spirit of which he had not, in the former visitation, taken note. For where a standing man might throw his shadow, this towering shade shed curious light.
The spirit was unmoving; it might have been a statue for all sign it gave of mobility, and in such rendered the appearance of infinite patience. The ghost of Scrooge felt still some trepidation in addressing the figure, so implacable in their previous encounter, but steeled himself to the task even as he knelt in supplication.
"Spirit," said he, diffidently, "am I addressing the last of three ghosts visited upon me some years ago?"
Still no sound, no gesture of head or limb that might serve for communication. Except, perhaps, a slight increase in the light of the visitor's strange shadow.
Scrooge would have swallowed, had he still a throat more than memory, but said, "Spirit, I must make petition; not on my own behalf—I will accept what is coming to me—but for the sake of another man's soul. The soul of," briefly he hesitated, "Jacob Marley."
This, at last, moved the spirit to respond. It raised one arm, without haste or flourish, from which extended a long, pale finger. It pointed, in silent command, towards the chamber door.
Scrooge hesitated, then asked, "Will my petition be heard?"
Yet the spirit's only response was to remain still, to maintain its gesture toward the portal. Scrooge supposed he had better obey that silent command, and hope to be heard thereafter. He arose, turned and took the memory of a walk towards that door, and through it without opening.
On the far side he found not the familiar rooms of his home, but utter darkness. A far deeper darkness than any of his mortal experience, or any that might be pierced by candle or lamp. Yet as he looked, a point of light did appear.