n open fireplace serves little purpose than to coat a thin layer of charity across
whatever appears in its light. Don’t count on it to warm your room, much less
your heart. Turn from the fire on a winter’s night, and the shadows wrap you up
cold.
But it does
burn.
The night of
which I write had me facing the fire in my study, while behind me, beyond my
candle-lit desk, where paper and pen waited for inspiration, snow assaulted the
windows. The power was out, so I welcomed the flames more than they usually
deserved. The north corner of the house shivers at times like this.
I stood
contemplating the temperature at which paper burns and how, thanks to Mr.
Bradbury, we all know what that means. We who are readers, that is. We readers know
individuals who have spilled out of pages and into our minds, heroes and
heroines who, like us, have simple needs, simple goals. We know what happens
when you toss water on a witch. What a child can achieve by saving a runt pig.
How to find Wonderland, where the Wild Things are.
It was Marley’s
ghost who menaced me that night.
I had pulled
books from the shelves, books with ghosts in them, to surround myself in their
wealth, to revisit the tales that had gone before, to nudge my urge to write a
ghost story. On the footstool lay Beagle’s A
Fine and Private Place, a bittersweet novel inhabited by lovers Michael and
Laura, who manage to hold to their memories; near it, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, that timeless tale haunted by the
headless horseman; the classic Wuthering
Heights; the grief-stricken Hamlet;
and Sebold’s contemporary The Lovely
Bones, where Susie Salmon wanders her personal purgatory and the
neighborhood she once thought harmless. A
Christmas Carol spread open at my feet, the fire lighting half an
illustration of Marley, poor soul, anchored to his money and remorse.
As I poked the
fire in thought, searching for something new, his chains clinked suddenly nearby,
and there stood Marley himself, in the flesh—or rather, spirit.
Leaving the
poker ember-bound, I straightened up, and in an effort to not be unnerved, said
loudly, “How’s Ebenezer?”
Marley loosened
the rag that held up his jaw. “I’ve been watching you,” he said. “And my advice
is—do not.”
In another
attempt, I laughed, but it came out unsteady. “What business is it of yours?”
He leaned toward
me, a tug on his weighted chains. “There are enough of us already!”
I looked him in
the eye then (just one, for the other was lost to the dark), and said, “I have
every right to my own ghost story.”
He flopped a
hand toward me. “I entreat you—”
“I am not your
beloved Scrooge!”
“—there are
enough of us who suffer, fated, doomed!”
“Why do you
trouble me? Had I known you’d object, I’d have left you on the shelf.”
After a long
silence, in which a pine knot spat among the flames, Marley said, “I shall call
out the others.”
I thought then
of his plight, and that of those who began to whisper from the books.
One
whisper became a girl’s voice, and she said, “You don’t know what it’s like.”
I turned to see
Catherine, standing by the snow-spattered window. “What’s it like?” I asked.
Flashing her
eyes at me, she said, “Sorrow and regret all your days.”
“Most foul,”
moaned a voice from the dark of the door. It was the ghost of Hamlet’s father,
too much of a shadow to be distinct, and the light was too feeble to reach him.
“Sulph’rous and tormenting flames.”
Feeling a chill,
I stabbed at the fire, and here was the headless horseman, sitting on the
floor, holding in his lap a large pumpkin, which grinned brutally into the
blaze. I knew the blotches on the man’s shoulders had once glistened red.
Marley spoke
again. “I’m here to haunt you until you see sense.”
I pivoted. “Is
that a threat?”
“The power of
death,” said Hamlet’s father, sounding like the poisoned king he was, “is in
the tongue.”
“Which, in your
case,” said Marley to me, “is in the pen.”
“Sorry I’m
late.” It was Michael, from the Yorkchester Cemetery, with Laura right behind.
“We’re late,”
she corrected.
Michael smiled
carelessly. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
“I wish,”
murmured Laura.
“I’m here, too,”
said a young voice from above. It was Susie, sitting on the blades of the
ceiling fan, pale as a clouded moon. “Though I’m not sure why.”
“I know why,” I
said. “Marley thinks—”
“Would you add
torment to torment?” Marley asked.
The king cried
from the door. “I stumble through my sins!”
I held myself to
reason. “Marley thinks there are enough ghost stories in the world. He does
fine to advise a miser. But he’s no author’s friend.”
Dragging a
ledger across the floor, Marley turned to Michael. “Do you want to see another
soul lost?”
Michael
shrugged. “Naturally, living where I do, I’ve seen plenty of ghosts. Most of
them don’t last a day.”
“Those of us who
do,” explained Marley.
Michael coughed.
“I suppose there are enough of us to fill a lifetime. Yes, several lifetimes.” He smiled at his own response.
"See?” said
Marley. “Agreed.”
"I’m not so sure
he does.” I looked at each one questioningly. “Anyway, I certainly don’t.” I moved toward the desk. “I will write what I
will.”
Marley blocked my way, though it took effort to heave forth his chains. “Shall I enumerate your sins?”
I hesitated. Catherine,
who had been gazing at the snow, glanced sharply back at me. King Hamlet
moaned. Laura hiccuped. Realizing it was
a bluff, I said, “I’m not Scrooge, Jacob. I’m a
writer, that’s all. Let me write.”
“Obviously,”
said Michael, a smile in his voice, “that carries no weight with him.” His humor froze in the cold,
though the pumpkin’s grin seemed to widen.
“How can you say
that?” I said. “What do you know?”
Laura
immediately took his defense. “More than you. You think we dead haven’t learned
a thing from this dreadful life?” Her words were followed by a quick laugh.
“See? I’m desperate to still call it life!”
“You know?” said
Michael. “I’m with Marley. Why create another character to suffer as we do?
Yeah, I’m with Marley.”
“I’m with no
one,” said Catherine. “Just release me from this place.”
I blew out my
breath. “You don’t suffer, Michael—you’re in love.”
Michael’s smile
fell, and his look sank into my heart. I knew I had spoken wrong. “Have you
ever been in love,” he whispered, “and couldn’t do a thing about it?”
The candles
flinched. The snow drifted high outside. The fireplace dimmed. Susie now sat on
the floor, gazing at the space where the horseman’s head had been.
She said, “It’s
not so bad. Once you get used to it.”
Laura blurted,
“Spoken like a victim! You have no idea—”
“I do,” said
Susie, softly. “It’s you who have no idea.”
I smiled to
myself. This wasn’t working for Marley. Then he spoke,
hauling his chains in close. “I’m haunting you till you give this up.” He
looked around. “Other than Michael, anyone else?” One by one they
nodded, even the pumpkin. All but King Hamlet, who was weeping in the dark.
“Why?” I argued.
“What’s in it for you?”
Marley said
mournfully, “I have forever. I can wait.”
“Some
inspiration you’ve been,” I said, and strode to my desk. I sat down hard, my
story now filling my mind, and began to write. But nothing came out, only
scratches on the page. Shaking the pen thermometer-quick, I got the ink to squirm, and I wrote and wrote and wrote. Catherine was at
the window, fidgeting with the latch. I continued to
write. Michael coughed
now and then, or pretended to. I continued to
write. Marley was
trembling—with rage or the cold—it was nothing to me. I pressed the
last period in place and held the page up. “There!” I said. “My ghost story!”
Marley moaned.
No one else made a sound.
“With no new
ghosts.”
Marley stared.
Everyone else, even Pumpkinhead, looked puzzled.
“Satisfied?” I
said. “You’re now in another setting.”
They gaped at
me.
“All of you. Consider
it your home away from home.”
“You’ve ...”
Marley gasped. “Where have you put
us?”
“Here. In this
very room.”
“But—”
“I hope you’re
better at being sociable than you’ve been so far tonight.”
The ceiling
light flickered a single-frame moment, freezing the ghosts in an instant
sketch, then died again. Snow was shifting.
Marley regained
his composure. “I don’t believe you. This cannot be.”
“See for
yourself,” I said, offering him my story. He peeked at it
uncertainly. “I’ll read you a
line.” I scanned the page. “How’s this? ‘He flopped a hand toward me. “I
entreat you—”’
After blinking
twice, Marley protested, “That’s no proof! That’s merely an observation, from
memory.”
I searched for
something specific. “This, then,” I said, and read, “‘A Christmas Carol spread open at my feet, the fire lighting half an
illustration of Marley, poor soul, anchored to his—’”
“No!” cried
Marley, stopping his ears.
I went back to
the fire and jabbed it to life. And with one delicate toe, Susie—out of
compassion, I think—nudged the open book, with Marley’s tortured image, away
from the heat. Marley himself stepped back, his expression lost to shadow.
But Michael
resumed the case. “Wait a minute! What if we don’t care to be here? This isn’t
right!”
“Yet here you
are,” I said quietly, gripping the story in hand.
The ghosts
gathered near. King Hamlet became more defined, and his presence contorted the
flames. He addressed me directly. “Thy threat holds nothing more than I ever
condemn’d bear. To my prison house I must yield.”
“You have a
second prison now,” I said. “Besides, you cannot escape your sins.”
He shuddered,
and retreated to the door.
“I’m weary,”
sighed Laura, her words not far from my ear, and she yawned in validation. “Let
me go.”
“You’re free to
go,” I said. I was weary, too—of this wretched company.
“No,” said
Marley, reviving himself. “No! Not till you disown what you’ve done.”
Catherine
murmured agreement. “The living world’s behind us, true, and we cannot escape
our fates. But don’t damn us all the more.”
“Call it what
you like,” I replied.
“I’ll ever haunt
you,” said Marley, and he loosened his rag so that his face gashed in half.
Repulsed, I
turned from him and dangled the page toward the fire. “Leave me now, or into
the pit you’re cast.”
Marley mumbled,
“You wouldn’t!”
I kept my back
to him. “One toss,” I insisted, “and you burn.” I considered just then that
when the make-believe realm, in which exist all manner of beings, spills into
that of our own, which we commonly and perhaps lazily call reality, equilibrium
goes kilter. There’s no logical ground on which to stand, and anything can
occur. I felt the ghosts considered this, too.
The page glowed
perilously bright.
“Leave me,
Marley, and my story remains. Haunt me, and into the fire you go. All of you.”
Before he disappeared,
Marley tied up his bandage again, and said with gritted teeth,
“You’re harder
to crack than old Scrooge!”
I turned to look
at the rest. King Hamlet was no longer there. Beyond my desk, a window stood
open, the snow swirling heedlessly in, and the candles had blown out. Susie
fingered her charm bracelet, while the horseman shuffled his feet. He stood,
pivoting his pumpkin to study her momentarily, then vanished. Susie vanished
too, her charms tinkling in the dark.
Michael and
Laura lingered before the flames, hands out, yearning for warmth, I guessed.
Michael sighed.
“You’re right,” he said. “A writer is always right.” And taking Laura’s hand,
though they both had no sense of touch, he declared, “It’s stifling in here.” Laura only laughed,
a small, contradictory laugh, and they were gone.
I went to the
window and latched it, opened the desk drawer, and dropped my story in. I
gathered up the books and returned them to the shelves.
It was then I
heard Susie’s voice, like an echo, saying, “Good thing you didn’t burn
it—you’re in this story, too.”
I sat down
speechless, right where the horseman had sat, and stayed the cold night
through, watching the flames die out.
____________________________________________________________________
text & illustration © 2013 by Troy Howell / illustration is graphite, ink, and acrylic on paper
