A Romantic Christmas Ghost Story

Happy Christmas Eve! It's now been a decade since I began my traditional annual posting of Christmas ghost stories. It's a centuries-old tradition, the only remaining remnants being Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol and that old Andy Williams chestnut that promises that:

There'll be scary ghost stories
And tales of the glories
of Christmases long, long ago.

Of the stories I've posted, most have been scary, some have been sad, a few have even been humorous. I believe this is the first one that is a love story. According to Wikipedia, "Frank Richard Stockton (April 5, 1834 – April 20, 1902) was an American writer and humorist, best known today for a series of innovative children's fairy tales that were widely popular during the last decades of the 19th century." His most famous story is "The Lady, or the Tiger?", which has been anthologized many times.

The Great Staircase at Landover Hall
by Frank R. Stockton (1898)

I was spending a few days in the little village of Landover, simply for the purpose of enjoying the beautiful scenery of the neighborhood. I had come up from Mexico because the weather was growing too warm in that region, and I was glad of the chance to vary my interesting and sometimes exciting travels with a little rest in the midst of this rural quiet.

It was early summer, and I had started out for an afternoon walk, when, just upon the outskirts of the village, my attention was attracted by a little group at a gateway which opened upon the road. There were two women and an elderly man. The women appeared to be taking leave of the man, and one of them frequently put her handkerchief to her eyes. I walked slowly, because I did not wish to intrude upon what seemed to be an affecting leave-taking; so when I reached the gate the women had gone, but the man was still standing there, looking after them.

Glancing over the low fence, I saw a very pretty grove, apparently not well kept, and some distance back, among the trees, a large, old house. The man was looking at me with a curiosity which country people naturally betray when they see a stranger, and, as I was glad to have someone to talk to, I stopped.

“Is this one of the old family mansions of Landover?” I asked. He was a good-looking man, with the air of a head gardener.

“It is not one of them, sir,” he answered; “it is the only one in the village. It is called Landover Hall, and the other houses growed up around it.”

“Who owns it?” I asked.

“That is hard to say, sir,” he said, with a grim smile; “though perhaps I could tell you in the course of a couple of weeks. The family who lived there is dead and gone, and everything in it is to be sold at auction.”

I became interested, and asked some questions, which the man was very willing to answer. It was an old couple who had owned it, he said. The husband had died the previous year, and the wife about ten days ago. The heirs were a brother and sister living out in Colorado, and, as they had never seen the house, and cared nothing about it, or about anything that was in it, they had written that they wished everything to be sold, and the money sent to them as soon as possible.

“And that is the way it stands,” said the old man. “Next week there is to be a sale of the personal property—a ‘vandoo’ we call it out here—and every movable thing in the house and grounds is to be sold to the highest bidder; and mighty little the things will bring, it’s my opinion. Then the house will be sold, as soon as anybody can be found who wants it.”

“Then there is no one living in the house at present?” said I.

“Nobody but me,” he answered. “That was the cook and her daughter, the chambermaid, who just left here. There is a black man who attends to the horses and cows, but he will go when they are sold; and very soon I will go too, I suppose.”

“Have you lived here long?” I asked.

“Pretty near all my life,” said he.

I was greatly interested in old houses, and I asked the man if I might look at the place.

“I have not had any orders to show it,” he said; “but, as everything is for sale, I suppose the sooner people see the household goods the better; there’s many a bit of old furniture, candlesticks, and all that sort of thing, which strangers might like to buy. Oh, yes; you can come in if you like.”

I shall not attempt to describe the delightful hour I spent in that old house and in the surrounding grounds. There was a great piazza in front; a wide hall stretched into the interior of the mansion, with a large fireplace on one side and a noble staircase at the further end, a single flight of stairs running up to a platform, and then branching off on each side to the second floor.

On the landing stood one of the tallest clocks I have ever seen. There were portraits on the walls, and here and there a sporting picture, interspersed with antlers and foxes’ heads mounted on panels, with the date of the hunt inscribed beneath. There was an air of largeness and gravity about the furniture in the hall, which was very pleasing to me, and when I entered the long drawing room I found it so filled with books and bric-à-brac of the olden days, with many quaint furnishings, that, had I been left to myself, even the long summer afternoon would not have sufficed for their examination. Upstairs was the same air of old-fashioned comfort. The grounds—the grass rather long, and the bushes untrimmed—were shaded by some grand old trees, and beyond there were gardens and some green pasture-fields.

I did not take the walk that I had proposed to myself. When I left the old house I inquired the name of the agent who had charge of the estate, and then I went back to the village inn, where I sat communing with myself for the rest of the afternoon and all the evening.

I was not yet thirty, I had a good fortune, and I had travelled until I was tired of moving about the world. Often I had had visions of a home, but they had been very vague and fanciful ones.

Now, for the first time in my life, I had seen a home for which I really might care; a house to which I might bring only my wearing apparel, and then sit down surrounded by everything I needed, not even excepting books.

Immediately after breakfast I repaired to the office of Mr. Marchmay, the lawyer who had charge of the property. I stayed there a long time. Mr. Marchmay took dinner with me at the inn, and in the evening we sent a telegram to Colorado. I made a proposition to buy everything for cash, and the price agreed upon between Mr. Marchmay and myself was considerably higher than could have been expected had the property been sold at auction. It is needless to say that my offer was quickly accepted, and in less than a week from the day I had first seen the old house I became its owner. The cook and the housemaid, who had retired in tears from its gateway, were sent for, and reinstalled in their offices; the black man who had charge of the horses and cows continued to take care of them, and old Robert Flake was retained in the position of head gardener and general caretaker, which he had held for so many years.

That summer was a season of delight to me, and even when autumn arrived, and there was a fire in the great hall, I could not say that I had fully explored and examined my home and its contents. I had had a few bachelor friends to visit me, but for the greater part of the time I had lived alone. I liked company, and expected to have people about me, but so long as the novelty of my new possessions and my new position continued I was company enough for myself.

At last the holiday season came around, and I was still alone. I had invited a family of old friends to come and make the house lively and joyous, but they had been prevented from doing so. I afterward thought of asking some of my neighbors to eat their Christmas dinner in the old house, but I found that they all had ties and obligations of their own with which I should not seek to interfere. And thus it happened that late on Christmas eve I sat by myself before a blazing fire in the hall, quietly smoking my pipe. The servants were all in bed, and the house was as quiet as if it contained no living being.

For the first time since I lived in that house I began to feel lonely, and I could not help smiling when I thought that there was no need of my feeling lonely if I wished it otherwise. For several years I had known that there were mothers in this country, and even in other countries, who had the welfare of their daughters at heart, and who had not failed to let me know the fact; I had also known that there were young women, without mothers, who had their own welfare at heart, and to whom a young man of fortune was an object of interest; but there was nothing in these recollections which interested me in these lonely moments.

The great clock on the landing-place began to strike, and I counted stroke after stroke; when there were twelve I turned to see whether I had made a mistake, and if it were now really Christmas day. But before my eyes had reached the face of the clock I saw that I was mistaken in supposing myself alone. At the top of the broad flight of stairs there stood a lady.

I pushed back my chair and started to my feet. I know my mouth was open and my eyes staring. I could not speak; I doubt if I breathed.

Slowly the lady descended the stairs. There were two tall lamps on the newel-posts, so that I could see her distinctly. She was young, and she moved with the grace of perfect health. Her gown was of an olden fashion, and her hair was dressed in the style of our ancestors. Her attire was simple and elegant, but it was evident that she was dressed for a festive occasion.

Down she came, step by step, and I stood gazing, not only with my eyes, but, I may say, with my whole heart. I had never seen such grace; I had never seen such beauty.

She reached the floor, and advanced a few steps toward me; then she stopped. She fixed her large eyes upon me for a moment, and then turned them away. She gazed at the fire, the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. There came upon her lovely features an almost imperceptible smile, as though it gave her pleasure thus to stand and look about her.

As for me, I was simply entranced. Vision or no vision, spirit from another world or simply a mist of fancy, it mattered not.

She approached a few steps nearer, and fixed her eyes upon mine. I trembled as I stood.

Involuntarily the wish of my heart came to my lips. “If—” I exclaimed.

“If what?” she asked, quickly.

I was startled by the voice. It was rich, it was sweet, but there was something in its intonation which suggested the olden time. I cannot explain it. It was like the perfume from an ancient wardrobe opened a hundred years after a great-grandmother had closed and locked it, when even the scent of rose and lavender was only the spirit of something gone.

“Oh, if you were but real!” I said.

She smiled, but made no reply. Slowly she passed around the great hall, coming so near me at one time that I could almost have touched her. She looked up at the portraits, stopping before some old candlesticks upon a bracket, apparently examining everything with as much pleasure as I had looked upon them when first they became mine.

When she had made the circuit of the hail, she stood as if reflecting. Fearful that she might disappear, and knowing that a spirit must be addressed if one would hear it speak, I stepped toward her. I had intended to ask her if she were, or rather ever had been, the lady of this house, why she came, and if she bore a message, but in my excitement and infatuation I forgot my purpose; I simply repeated my former words—“Oh, if you were but real!”

“Why do you say that?” she asked, with a little gentle petulance. “I am not real, as you must know. Shall I tell you who I was, and why I am here?” I implored her to do so. She drew a little nearer the fire. “It is so bright and cheerful,” she said.

“It is many, many years since I have seen a fire in this hall. The old people who lived in this house so long never built a fire here—at least on Christmas eve.”

I felt inclined to draw up a chair and ask her to sit down, but why need a ghost sit? I was afraid of making some mistake. I stood as near her as I dared, eagerly ready to listen.

“I was mistress of this house,” she said. “That was a long, long time ago. You can see my portrait hanging there.”

I bowed. I could not say that it was her portrait. An hour before, I had looked upon it as a fine picture; now it seemed to be the travesty of a woman beyond the reach of pigments and canvas.

“I died,” she continued, “when I was but twenty-five, and but four years married. I had a little girl three years old, and the very day before I left this world I led her around this hall and tried to make her understand the pictures. That is her portrait on this other wall.”

I turned, and following the direction of her graceful hand my eyes fell upon the picture of an elderly lady with silvered hair and benignant countenance.

“Your daughter?” I gasped.

“Yes,” she answered; “she lived many years after my death. Over there, nearer the door, you may see the picture of her daughter—the plump young girl with the plumed hat.”

Now, to my great surprise, she asked me to take a seat. “It seems ungracious,” she remarked, “that in my own house I should be so inhospitable as to keep you standing. And yet it is not my house; it is yours.”

Obedient to her command, for such I felt it to be, I resumed my seat, and to my delight she took a chair not far from me. Seated, she seemed more graceful and lovely than when she stood.

Her shapely hands lay in her lap; soft lace fell over them, like tender mist upon a cloud. As she looked at me her eyes were raised.

“Does it distress you that this house should now be mine?” I asked.

“Oh, no, no,” she answered, with animation; “I am very glad of it. The elderly couple who lived here before you were not to my liking. Once a year, on Christmas eve, I am privileged to spend one hour in this house, and, although I have never failed to be here at the appointed time, it has been years, as I told you, since I saw a fire on that hearth and a living being in this hall. I knew you were here, and I am very glad of it. It pleases me greatly that one is living here who prizes this old place as I once prized it. This mansion was built for me by my husband, upon the site of a smaller house, which he removed. The grounds about it, which I thought so lovely, are far more lovely now. For four years I lived here in perfect happiness, and now one hour each year something of that happiness is renewed.”

Ordinarily I have good control of my actions and of my emotions, but at this moment I seemed to have lost all power over myself; my thoughts ran wild. To my amazement, I became conscious that I was falling in love—in love with something which did not exist; in love with a woman who once had been. It was absurd; it was ridiculous, but there was no power within me which could prevent it.

After all, this rapidly growing passion was not altogether absurd. She was an ideal which far surpassed any ideal I had ever formed for the mistress of my home. More than that, she had really been the mistress of this house, which was now my home. Here was a vision of the past, fully revealed to my eyes. As the sweet voice fell upon my ears, how could I help looking upon it as something real, listening to it as something real, and loving it as something real.

I think she perceived my agitation; she looked upon me wonderingly.

“I hoped very much,” she said, “that you would be in this hall when I should come down tonight, but I feared that I should disturb you, that perhaps I might startle or—”

I could not restrain myself. I rose and interrupted her with passionate earnestness.

“Startle or trouble me!” I exclaimed. “Oh, gracious lady, you have done but one thing to me tonight—you have made me love you! Pardon me; I cannot help it. Do not speak of impossibilities, of passionate ravings, of unmeaning words. Lady, I love you; I may not love you as you are, but I love you as you were. No happiness on earth could equal that of seeing you real—the mistress of this house, and myself the master.”

She rose, drew back a little, and stood looking at me. If she had been true flesh and blood she could not have acted more naturally.

For some moments there was silence, and then a terrible thought came into my head. Had I a right to speak to her thus, even if she were but the vision of something that had been? She had told me of her husband; she had spoken of her daughter; but she had said no word which would give me reason to believe that little girl was fatherless when her mother led her around the hall and explained to her the family portraits. Had I been addressing my wild words of passion to one whose beauty and grace, when they were real and true, belonged to another? Had I spoken as I should not have spoken, even to the vision of a well-loved wife? I trembled with apprehension.

“Pardon me,” I said, “if I have been imprudent. Remember that I know so little about you, even as you were.”

When she answered there was nothing of anger in her tone, but she spoke softly, and with, I thought, a shade of pity.

“You have said nothing to offend me, but every word you have spoken has been so wild and so far removed from sense and reason that I am unable to comprehend your feelings.”

“They are easy to understand!” I exclaimed. “I have seen my ideal of the woman I could love. I love you; that is all! Again I say it, and I say it with all my heart: Would you were real! Would you were real!”

She smiled. I am sure now she understood my passion. I am sure she expected it. I am sure that she pitied me.

Suddenly a change of expression came over her face; a beaming interest shone from her eyes; she took some steps toward me.

“I told you,” said she, speaking quickly, “that what you have said seems to be without sense or reason, and yet it may mean something. I assure you that your words have been appreciated. I know that each one of them is true and comes from your heart. And now listen to me while I tell you—” At that moment the infernal clock upon the landing-place struck one. It was like the crash of doom. I stood alone in the great hall.

The domestics in that old house supposed that I spent Christmas day alone; but they were mistaken, for wherever I went my fancy pictured near me the beautiful vision of the night before.

She walked with me in the crisp morning air; I led her through the quiet old rooms, and together we went up the great staircase and stood before the clock—the clock that I had blessed for striking twelve and cursed for striking one. At dinner she sat opposite me in a great chair which I had had placed there—“for the sake of symmetry,” as I told my servants. After what had happened, it was impossible for me to be alone.

The day after Christmas old Mr. Marchmay came to call upon me. He was so sorry that I had been obliged to spend Christmas day all by myself. I fairly laughed as I listened to him.

There were things I wanted him to tell me if he could, and I plied him with questions. I pointed to the portrait of the lady near the chimney-piece, and asked him who she was.

“That is Mrs. Evelyn Heatherton, first mistress of this house; I have heard a good deal about her. She was very unfortunate. She lost her life here in this hall on Christmas eve. She was young and beautiful, and must have looked a good deal like that picture.”

I forgot myself. “I don’t believe it,” I said. “It does not seem to me that that portrait could have been a good likeness of the real woman.”

“You may know more about art than I do, sir,” said he. “It has always been considered a fine picture; but of course she lived before my time. As I was saying, she died here in this hall. She was coming downstairs on Christmas eve; there were a lot of people here in the hall waiting to meet her. She stepped on something on one of the top steps—a child’s toy, perhaps—and lost her footing. She fell to the bottom and was instantly killed—killed in the midst of youth, health, and beauty.”

“And her husband,” I remarked, “was he—”

“Oh, he was dead!” interrupted Mr. Marchmay. “He died when his daughter was but a mere baby. By the way,” said the old gentleman, “it seems rather funny that the painting over there—that old lady with the gray hair—is the portrait of that child. It is the only one there is, I suppose.”

I did not attend to these last words. My face must have glowed with delight as I thought that I had not spoken to her as I should not. If I had known her to be real, I might have said everything which I had said to the vision of what she had been.

The old man went on talking about the family. That sort of thing interested him very much, and he said that, as I owned the house, I ought to know everything about the people who formerly lived there. The Heathertons had not been fortunate. They had lost a great deal of money, and, some thirty years before, the estate had passed out of their hands and had been bought by a Mr. Kennard, a distant connection of the family, who, with his wife, had lived there until very recently. It was to a nephew and niece of old Mr. Kennard that the property had descended. The Heathertons had nothing more to do with it.

“Are there any members of the family left?” I asked.

“Oh yes!” said Mr. Marchmay. “Do you see that portrait of a girl with a feather in her hat? She is a granddaughter of that Evelyn Heatherton up there. She is an old woman now and a widow, and she it was who sold the place to the Kennards. When the mortgages were paid she did not have much left, but she manages to live on it. But I tell you what you ought to do, sir: you ought to go to see her. She can tell you lots of stories of this place, for she knows more about the Heathertons than anyone living. She married a distant cousin, who had the family name; but he was a poor sort of a fellow, and he died some fifteen years ago. She has talked to me about your having the old house, and she said that she hoped you would not make changes and tear down things. But of course she would not say anything like that to you; she is a lady who attends to her own business.”

“Where does she live?” I asked. “I should like, above all things, to go and talk to her.”

“It is the third house beyond the church,” said Mr. Marchmay. “I am sure she will be glad to see you. If you can make up your mind to listen to long stories about the Heathertons you will give her pleasure.”

The next day I made the call. The house was neat, but small and unpretentious—a great drop from the fine hall I now possessed.

The servant informed me that Mrs. Heatherton was at home, and I was shown into the little parlor—light, warm, and pleasantly furnished. In a few minutes the door opened, and I rose, but no old lady entered.

Struck dumb by breathless amazement, I beheld Evelyn Heatherton coming into the room!

I could not understand; my thoughts ran wild. Had someone been masquerading? Had I dreamed on Christmas eve, or was I dreaming now? Had my passionate desire been granted?

Had that vision become real? I was instantly convinced that what I saw before me was true and real, for the lady advanced toward me and held out her hand. I took it, and it was the hand of an actual woman.

Her mother, she said, begged that I would excuse her; she was not well and was lying down.

Mr. Marchmay had told them that I was coming, and that I wanted to know something about the old house; perhaps she might be able to give me a little information.

Almost speechless, I sat down, and she took a chair not far from me. Her position was exactly that which had been taken by the vision of her great-grandmother on Christmas eve. Her hands were crossed in her lap, and her large blue eyes were slightly upraised to mine. She was not dressed in a robe of olden days, nor was her hair piled up high on her head in bygone fashion, but she was Evelyn Heatherton, in form and feature and in quiet grace. She was some years younger, and she lacked the dignity of a woman who had been married, but she was no stranger to me; I had seen her before.

Encouraged by my rapt attention, she told me stories of the old house where her mother had been born, and all that she knew of her great-grandmother she related with an interest that was almost akin to mine. “People tell me,” she said, “that I am growing to look like her, and I am glad of it, for my mother gave me her name.”

I sat and listened to the voice of this beautiful girl, as I had listened to the words which had been spoken to me by the vision of her ancestress. If I had not known that she was real, and that there was no reason why she should vanish when the clock should strike, I might have spoken as I spoke to her great-grandmother. I remained entranced, enraptured, and it was only when the room began to grow dark that I was reminded that it was incumbent upon me to go.

But I went again, again, and again, and after a time it so happened that I was in that cottage at least once every day. The old lady was very gracious; it was plain enough that her soul was greatly gratified to know that the present owner of her old home—the house in which she had been born—was one who delighted to hear the family stories, and who respected all their traditions.

I need not tell the story of Evelyn and myself. My heart had been filled with a vision of her personality before I had seen her. At the first moment of our meeting my love for her sprung into existence as the flame bursts from a match. And she could not help but love me. Few women, certainly not Evelyn Heatherton, could resist the passionate affection I offered her. She did not tell me this in words, but it was not long before I came to believe it.

It was one afternoon in spring that old Mrs. Heatherton and her daughter came to visit me in my house—the home of their ancestors. As I walked with them through the halls and rooms I felt as if they were the ladies of the manor, and that I was the recipient of their kind hospitality.

Mrs. Heatherton was in the dining room, earnestly examining some of the ancestral china and glass, and Evelyn and I stood together in the hall, almost under the portrait which hung near the chimney-piece. She had been talking of the love and reverence she felt for this old house.

“Evelyn,” said I, “if you love this house and all that is in it, will you not take it, and have it for your own? And will you not take me and love me, and have me for your own?”

I had my answer before the old lady came out of the dining-room. She was reading the inscription on an old silver loving-cup when we went in to her and told her that again Evelyn Heatherton was to be the mistress of the old mansion.

We were married in the early winter, and after a journey in the South we came back to the old house, for I had a great desire that we should spend the holidays under its roof.

It was Christmas eve, and we stood together in the great hall, with a fire burning upon the hearth as it had glowed and crackled a year before. It was some minutes before twelve, and, purposely, I threw my arms around my dear wife and turned her so that she stood with her back to the great staircase. I had never told her of the vision I had seen; I feared to do so; I did not know what effect it might have upon her. I cared for her so earnestly and tenderly that I would risk nothing, but I felt that I must stand with her in that hall on that Christmas eve, and I believed that I could do so without fear or self-reproach.

The clock struck twelve. “Look up at your great-grandmother, Evelyn,” I said; “it is fit that you should do so at this time.” In obedience to my wishes her eyes were fixed upon the old portrait, and, at the same time, looking over her shoulder, my eyes fell upon the vision of the first Evelyn Heatherton descending the stairs. Upon her features was a gentle smile of welcome and of pleasure. So she must have looked when she went out of this world in health and strength and womanly bloom.

The vision reached the bottom of the stairs and came toward us. I stood expectant, my eyes fixed upon her noble countenance.

“It seems to me,” said my Evelyn, “as if my great-grandmother really looked down upon us; as if it made her happy to think that—”

“Is this what you meant?” said I, speaking to the lovely vision, now so near us.

“Yes,” was the answer; “it is what I meant, and I am rejoiced. I bless you and I love you both.” and as she spoke two fair and shadowy hands were extended over our heads. No one can hear the voice of a spirit except those to whom it speaks, and my wife thought that my words had been addressed to her.

“Yes,” said my Evelyn; “I mean that we should be standing here in her old home, and that your arm should be around me.”

I looked again. There was no one in the hall, except my Evelyn and myself.

Illustration from Harper's Weekly, 17th December 1898

In Defense of Libraries

 

I don't post much these days, but this week is National Library Week, and in view of current events, I felt the need to say something in defense of our public libraries.

First, a little history. I suppose libraries, in one form or another, have been around since people first began to write things down, but here in America we owe most of our public libraries to one man: Andrew Carnegie. Carnegie, a Scottish immigrant, amassed a fortune in the steel industry in the late 19th century. A philanthropist who believed in giving away most of his money to good causes, he used much of it to establish public libraries.

I have always been an avid reader, so I have always had a close relationship with libraries. When I walk into one, it's like walking into a time machine. The hushed atmosphere and the smell of old books takes me back in time...

…to 1958. I'm three years old. My parents have just moved from Fort Wayne, Indiana, to the nearby town of Warsaw. I'm walking with my mother from the apartment house where we are temporarily living to the old Carnegie library in the next block. The building is not large, but to me it seems a vast palace of high ceilings, tall windows, and shelf after shelf of books. My mother tells me I can pick out a children's book to borrow. I choose The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins, by Dr. Seuss.

…to 1968. We now live in Goshen, Indiana, and they've just opened the new library right across the street from our house. I just have to walk a couple of dozen steps from our door to be in this beautiful new steel and glass palace of—not just books, but record albums and movies. There is even a row of state of the art turntables with headphones, where I can listen to record albums in glorious stereophonic sound. (I still sometimes dream of that place!)

…to the late seventies. I'm with my father at the Allen County Public Library in Fort Wayne, Indiana. It's the biggest, most glorious library I've ever seen, and it still doesn't have enough space to display all of the books. Many of them are in storage: you go to the card catalog, look up the Dewey Decimal Number, write it on a small sheet of paper, and give it to the librarian, who has the book sent up from the basement. But this time we're here to visit the library's genealogy department, where Dad is pursuing his hobby of researching our family tree. Genealogy doesn't particularly interest me, so I wander off and discover a rack of EC comic book reprints. I'm in heaven.

…to the early 90's. Loretta and I have been married for just a few years. We've just purchased our first home in North Tonawanda, NY, and we can barely afford the mortgage payments. We have no money for books, but luckily we live just a couple of miles from the public library. When the weather is nice, we ride our bicycles there. I've checked out Stephen King's latest, The Dark Half, and I can't wait to read it.

…to November of 2002. Loretta and I are visiting her Aunt Jean Carol, who volunteers at the Riverside Public Library. Knowing I'm a fan, she's invited us to attend "An Afternoon with Ray Bradbury." Bradbury, a passionate supporter of public libraries, has done scores of such events, donating all proceeds to the library, which he deems "the center of our lives." When he signs my copy of The Martian Chronicles, I want to tell him how much his books and his support of libraries mean to me, but all I can get out is, "Thank you."

…to a few months ago. Our power has been shut off for two days, a precaution the electric company has taken to prevent fires due to the fiercest Santa Ana winds we've seen in our thirty years in California. Following a neighbor's suggestion, we go to the Moorpark Public Library to charge our phones. A friendly librarian directs us to a table in the fiction section, with comfortable chairs and multiple outlets. We sit down, plug in our phones, and relax. The light, the warmth, the quiet, the smell of the books, are all comforting. It feels more like home than our home, which is presently a cold, dark, cheerless place. After reading for a while, I get up and explore. There are books, audio books, music CDs, DVDs. There are a few other people. Perhaps some, like us, are without power, and are looking for light and warmth. Perhaps some are without homes. At the end of a shelf, I see a poster with a list of "Tough Topics"—abuse, pregnancy, drugs, etc.—and their respective Dewey Decimal Numbers. At the bottom is the message, "Librarians are here to help, not judge."

Libraries are funded by tax dollars, which means that some people think that, as taxpayers, they should be allowed to determine which books go into the library and which people can take them out. Other people resent any of their tax dollars going to fund any library at all.

This is absurd. We need libraries for so many reasons. Of course they're places where people who can't afford to buy books can borrow them. But they're also places where people who don't have access to the internet can go for information, where people can find light and warmth, where people can charge their phones, where people can go for help and not be judged.

To quote Ray Bradbury, “Without libraries what have we? We have no past and no future.”

 

It's the Spook, Spookiest Season of All

 

Seasons greetings to one and all! It's that “most wonderful time of the year” when Andy Williams promises us, among other things, that there will be "scary ghost stories.” Ha! The only ghost story you are likely to encounter this Christmas is that over-roasted chestnut by Charles Dickens, in one of a myriad different adaptations currently streaming and/or running on one of the cable channels. But believe it or not, long before Jim Carey, the Muppets, Mickey Mouse, Mister Magoo, or even Alistair Sim, ghost stories—truly scary ghost stories—were as much a part of Christmas as Hallmark movies are today.

I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? It is the darkest time of the year.

I've been trying to revive the Christmas ghost story tradition for almost a decade, having now posted seventeen examples of the genre on this blog. This year I'm happy to report that I'm not the only one who has shown an interest in reviving the tradition. I'm currently reading a brand new collection of contemporary horror stories: Christmas and Other Horrors, edited by Ellen Datlow. It includes a deliciously chilling ghost story by Nadia Bulkin, the climax of which occurs during the traditional “airing of grievances” at a Festivus party.

I wish I could post that story; it's better than the one that follows. This one isn't bad, though, and it has the distinct advantage of being in the public domain. It was written by Hugh Walpole, who had a successful career in the early 20th century as a writer of novels, short stories, and plays. However, soon after his death his writing was considered old-fashioned, and his works have been largely forgotten.

The Snow
by Hugh Walpole (1929)

The second Mrs. Ryder was a young woman not easily frightened, but now she stood in the dusk of the passage leaning back against the wall, her hand on her heart, looking at the grey-faced window beyond which the snow was steadily falling against the lamplight.

The passage where she was led from the study to the dining-room, and the window looked out on to the little paved path that ran at the edge of the Cathedral green. As she stared down the passage she couldn’t be sure whether the woman were there or no. How absurd of her! She knew the woman was not there. But if the woman was not, how was it that she could discern so clearly the old-fashioned grey cloak, the untidy grey hair and the sharp outline of the pale cheek and pointed chin? Yes, and more than that, the long sweep of the grey dress, falling in folds to the ground, the flash of a gold ring on the white hand. No. No. NO. This was madness. There was no one and nothing there. Hallucination …

Very faintly a voice seemed to come to her: ‘I warned you. This is for the last time… .’

The nonsense! How far now was her imagination to carry her? Tiny sounds about the house, the running of a tap somewhere, a faint voice from the kitchen, these and something more had translated themselves into an imagined voice. ‘The last time …’

But her terror was real. She was not normally frightened by anything. She was young and healthy and bold, fond of sport, hunting, shooting, taking any risk. Now she was truly stiffened with terror—she could not move, could not advance down the passage as she wanted to and find light, warmth, safety in the dining-room. All the time the snow fell steadily, stealthily, with its own secret purpose, maliciously, beyond the window in the pale glow of the lamplight.

Then unexpectedly there was noise from the hall, opening of doors, a rush of feet, a pause and then in clear beautiful voices the well-known strains of ‘Good King Wenceslas.’ It was the Cathedral choir boys on their regular Christmas round. This was Christmas Eve. They always came just at this hour on Christmas Eve.

With an intense, almost incredible relief she turned back into the hall. At the same moment her husband came out of the study. They stood together smiling at the little group of mufflered, becoated boys who were singing, heart and soul in the job, so that the old house simply rang with their melody.

Reassured by the warmth and human company, she lost her terror. It had been her imagination. Of late she had been none too well. That was why she had been so irritable. Old Doctor Bernard was no good: he didn’t understand her case at all. After Christmas she would go to London and have the very best advice …

Had she been well she could not, half an hour ago, have shown such miserable temper over nothing. She knew that it was over nothing and yet that knowledge did not make it any easier for her to restrain herself. After every bout of temper she told herself that there should never be another—and then Herbert said something irritating, one of his silly muddle-headed stupidities, and she was off again!

She could see now as she stood beside him at the bottom of the staircase, that he was still feeling it. She had certainly half an hour ago said some abominably rude personal things—things that she had not at all meant—and he had taken them in his meek, quiet way. Were he not so meek and quiet, did he only pay her back in her own coin, she would never lose her temper. Of that she was sure. But who wouldn’t be irritated by that meekness and by the only reproachful thing that he ever said to her: ‘Elinor understood me better, my dear?’ To throw the first wife up against the second! Wasn’t that the most tactless thing that a man could possibly do? And Elinor, that worn elderly woman, the very opposite of her own gay, bright, amusing self? That was why Herbert had loved her, because she was gay and bright and young. It was true that Elinor had been devoted, that she had been so utterly wrapped up in Herbert that she lived only for him. People were always recalling her devotion, which was sufficiently rude and tactless of them.

Well, she could not give anyone that kind of old-fashioned sugary devotion; it wasn’t in her, and Herbert knew it by this time.

Nevertheless she loved Herbert in her own way, as he must know, know it so well that he ought to pay no attention to the bursts of temper. She wasn’t well. She would see a doctor in London …

The little boys finished their carols, were properly rewarded, and tumbled like feathery birds out into the snow again. They went into the study, the two of them, and stood beside the big open log-fire. She put her hand up and stroked his thin beautiful cheek.

‘I’m so sorry to have been cross just now, Bertie. I didn’t mean half I said, you know.’

But he didn’t, as he usually did, kiss her and tell her that it didn’t matter. Looking straight in front of him, he answered:

‘Well, Alice, I do wish you wouldn’t. It hurts, horribly. It upsets me more than you think. And it’s growing on you. You make me miserable. I don’t know what to do about it. And it’s all about nothing.’

Irritated at not receiving the usual commendation for her sweetness in making it up again, she withdrew a little and answered:

‘Oh, all right. I’ve said I’m sorry. I can’t do any more.’

‘But tell me,’ he insisted, ‘I want to know. What makes you so angry, so suddenly?—and about nothing at all.’

She was about to let her anger rise, her anger at his obtuseness, obstinacy, when some fear checked her, a strange unanalysed fear, as though someone had whispered to her, ‘Look out! This is the last time!’

‘It’s not altogether my own fault,’ she answered, and left the room.

She stood in the cold hall, wondering where to go. She could feel the snow falling outside the house and shivered. She hated the snow, she hated the winter, this beastly, cold dark English winter that went on and on, only at last to change into a damp, soggy English spring.

It had been snowing all day. In Polchester it was unusual to have so heavy a snowfall. This was the hardest winter that they had known for many years.

When she urged Herbert to winter abroad—which he could quite easily do—he answered her impatiently; he had the strongest affection for this poky dead-and-alive Cathedral town. The Cathedral seemed to be precious to him; he wasn’t happy if he didn’t go and see it every day! She wouldn’t wonder if he didn’t think more of the Cathedral than he did of herself. Elinor had been the same; she had even written a little book about the Cathedral, about the Black Bishop’s Tomb and the stained glass and the rest …

What was the Cathedral after all? Only a building!

She was standing in the drawing-room looking out over the dusky ghostly snow to the great hulk of the Cathedral that Herbert said was like a flying ship, but to herself was more like a crouching beast licking its lips over the miserable sinners that it was for ever devouring.

As she looked and shivered, feeling that in spite of herself her temper and misery were rising so that they threatened to choke her, it seemed to her that her bright and cheerful fire-lit drawing-room was suddenly open to the snow. It was exactly as though cracks had appeared everywhere, in the ceiling, the walls, the windows, and that through these cracks the snow was filtering, dribbling in little tracks of wet down the walls, already perhaps making pools of water on the carpet.

This was of course imagination, but it was a fact that the room was most dreadfully cold although a great fire was burning and it was the cosiest room in the house.

Then, turning, she saw the figure standing by the door. This time there could be no mistake. It was a grey shadow, and yet a shadow with form and outline—the untidy grey hair, the pale face like a moon-lit leaf, the long grey clothes, and something obstinate, vindictive, terribly menacing in its pose.

She moved and the figure was gone; there was nothing there and the room was warm again, quite hot in fact. But young Mrs. Ryder, who had never feared anything in all her life save the vanishing of her youth, was trembling so that she had to sit down, and even then her trembling did not cease. Her hand shook on the arm of her chair.

She had created this thing out of her imagination of Elinor’s hatred of her and her own hatred of Elinor. It was true that they had never met, but who knew but that the spiritualists were right, and Elinor’s spirit, jealous of Herbert’s love for her, had been there driving them apart, forcing her to lose her temper and then hating her for losing it? Such things might be! But she had not much time for speculation. She was preoccupied with her fear. It was a definite, positive fear, the kind of fear that one has just before one goes under an operation. Someone or something was threatening her. She clung to her chair as though to leave it were to plunge into disaster. She looked around her everywhere; all the familiar things, the pictures, the books, the little tables, the piano were different now, isolated, strange, hostile, as though they had been won over by some enemy power.

She longed for Herbert to come and protect her; she felt most kindly to him. She would never lose her temper with him again—and at that same moment some cold voice seemed to whisper in her ear: ‘You had better not. It will be for the last time.’

At length she found courage to rise, cross the room and go up to dress for dinner. In her bedroom courage came to her once more. It was certainly very cold, and the snow, as she could see when she looked between her curtains, was falling more heavily than ever, but she had a warm bath, sat in front of her fire and was sensible again.

For many months this odd sense that she was watched and accompanied by someone hostile to her had been growing. It was the stronger perhaps because of the things that Herbert told her about Elinor; she was the kind of woman, he said, who, once she loved anyone, would never relinquish her grasp; she was utterly faithful. He implied that her tenacious fidelity had been at times a little difficult.

‘She always said,’ he added once, ‘that she would watch over me until I rejoined her in the next world. Poor Elinor!’ he sighed. ‘She had a fine religious faith, stronger than mine, I fear.’

It was always after one of her tantrums that young Mrs. Ryder had been most conscious of this hallucination, this dreadful discomfort of feeling that someone was near you who hated you—but it was only during the last week that she began to fancy that she actually saw anyone, and with every day her sense of this figure had grown stronger.

It was, of course, only nerves, but it was one of those nervous afflictions that became tiresome indeed if you did not rid yourself of it. Mrs. Ryder, secure now in the warmth and intimacy of her bedroom, determined that henceforth everything should be sweetness and light. No more tempers! Those were the things that did her harm.

Even though Herbert were a little trying, was not that the case with every husband in the world? And was it not Christmas time? Peace and Good Will to men! Peace and Good Will to Herbert!

They sat down opposite to one another in the pretty little dining-room hung with Chinese woodcuts, the table gleaming and the amber curtains richly dark in the firelight.

But Herbert was not himself. He was still brooding, she supposed, over their quarrel of the afternoon. Weren’t men children? Incredible the children that they were!

So when the maid was out of the room she went over to him, bent down and kissed his forehead.

‘Darling … you’re still cross, I can see you are. You mustn’t be. Really you mustn’t. It’s Christmas time and, if I forgive you, you must forgive me.’

‘You forgive me?’ he asked, looking at her in his most aggravating way. ‘What have you to forgive me for?’

Well, that was really too much. When she had taken all the steps, humbled her pride.

She went back to her seat, but for a while could not answer him because the maid was there. When they were alone again she said, summoning all her patience:

‘Bertie dear, do you really think that there’s anything to be gained by sulking like this? It isn’t worthy of you. It isn’t really.’

He answered her quietly.

‘Sulking? No, that’s not the right word. But I’ve got to keep quiet. If I don’t I shall say something I’m sorry for.’ Then, after a pause, in a low voice, as though to himself: ‘These constant rows are awful.’

Her temper was rising again; another self that had nothing to do with her real self, a stranger to her and yet a very old familiar friend.

‘Don’t be so self-righteous,’ she answered, her voice trembling a little. ‘These quarrels are entirely my own fault, aren’t they?’

‘Elinor and I never quarrelled,’ he said, so softly that she scarcely heard him.

‘No! Because Elinor thought you perfect. She adored you. You’ve often told me. I don’t think you perfect. I’m not perfect either. But we’ve both got faults. I’m not the only one to blame.’

‘We’d better separate,’ he said, suddenly looking up. ‘We don’t get on now. We used to. I don’t know what’s changed everything. But, as things are, we’d better separate.’

She looked at him and knew that she loved him more than ever, but because she loved him so much she wanted to hurt him, and because he had said that he thought he could get on without her she was so angry that she forgot all caution. Her love and her anger helped one another. The more angry she became the more she loved him.

‘I know why you want to separate,’ she said. ‘It’s because you’re in love with someone else. (‘How funny,’ something inside her said. ‘You don’t mean a word of this.’) You’ve treated me as you have, and then you leave me.’

‘I’m not in love with anyone else,’ he answered her steadily, ‘and you know it. But we are so unhappy together that it’s silly to go on … silly… . The whole thing has failed.’

There was so much unhappiness, so much bitterness, in his voice that she realised that at last she had truly gone too far. She had lost him.

She had not meant this. She was frightened and her fear made her so angry that she went across to him.

‘Very well then … I’ll tell everyone … what you’ve been. How you’ve treated me.’

‘Not another scene,’ he answered wearily. ‘I can’t stand any more. Let’s wait. Tomorrow is Christmas Day …’

He was so unhappy that her anger with herself maddened her. She couldn’t bear his sad, hopeless disappointment with herself, their life together, everything.

In a fury of blind temper she struck him; it was as though she were striking herself. He got up and without a word left the room. There was a pause, and then she heard the hall door close. He had left the house.

She stood there, slowly coming to her control again. When she lost her temper it was as though she sank under water. When it was all over she came once more to the surface of life, wondering where she’d been and what she had been doing. Now she stood there, bewildered, and then at once she was aware of two things, one that the room was bitterly cold and the other that someone was in the room with her.

This time she did not need to look around her. She did not turn at all, but only stared straight at the curtained windows, seeing them very carefully, as though she were summing them up for some future analysis, with their thick amber folds, gold rod, white lines—and beyond them the snow was falling.

She did not need to turn, but, with a shiver of terror, she was aware that that grey figure who had, all these last weeks, been approaching ever more closely, was almost at her very elbow. She heard quite clearly: ‘I warned you. That was the last time.’

At the same moment Onslow the butler came in. Onslow was broad, fat and rubicund—a good faithful butler with a passion for church music. He was a bachelor and, it was said, disappointed of women. He had an old mother in Liverpool to whom he was greatly attached.

In a flash of consciousness she thought of all these things when he came in. She expected him also to see the grey figure at her side. But he was undisturbed, his ceremonial complacency clothed him securely.

‘Mr. Fairfax has gone out,’ she said firmly. Oh, surely he must see something, feel something.

‘Yes, Madam!’ Then, smiling rather grandly: ‘It’s snowing hard. Never seen it harder here. Shall I build up the fire in the drawing-room, Madam?’

‘No, thank you. But Mr. Fairfax’s study …’

‘Yes, Madam. I only thought that as this room was so warm you might find it chilly in the drawing-room.’

This room warm, when she was shivering from head to foot; but holding herself lest he should see … She longed to keep him there, to implore him to remain; but in a moment he was gone, softly closing the door behind him.

Then a mad longing for flight seized her, and she could not move. She was rooted there to the floor, and even as, wildly trying to cry, to scream, to shriek the house down, she found that only a little whisper would come, she felt the cold touch of a hand on hers.

She did not turn her head: her whole personality, all her past life, her poor little courage, her miserable fortitude were summoned to meet this sense of approaching death which was as unmistakable as a certain smell, or the familiar ringing of a gong. She had dreamt in nightmares of approaching death and it had always been like this, a fearful constriction of the heart, a paralysis of the limbs, a choking sense of disaster like an anaesthetic.

‘You were warned,’ something said to her again.

She knew that if she turned she would see Elinor’s face, set, white, remorseless. The woman had always hated her, been vilely jealous of her, protecting her wretched Herbert.

A certain vindictiveness seemed to release her. She found that she could move, her limbs were free.

She passed to the door, ran down the passage, into the hall. Where would she be safe? She thought of the Cathedral, where to-night there was a carol service. She opened the hall door and just as she was, meeting the thick, involving, muffling snow, she ran out.

She started across the green towards the Cathedral door. Her thin black slippers sank in the snow. Snow was everywhere—in her hair, her eyes, her nostrils, her mouth, on her bare neck, between her breasts.

‘Help! Help! Help!’ she wanted to cry, but the snow choked her. Lights whirled about her. The Cathedral rose like a huge black eagle and flew towards her.

She fell forward, and even as she fell a hand, far colder than the snow, caught her neck. She lay struggling in the snow and as she struggled there two hands of an icy fleshless chill closed about her throat.

Her last knowledge was of the hard outline of a ring pressing into her neck. Then she lay still, her face in the snow, and the flakes eagerly, savagely, covered her.

AI Image Generated by Google Gemini

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love AI

Several years ago I submitted an entry for a one-act play competition which called for “a comedic take on an Agatha Christie-style mystery.” I never heard back from the organizers of the competition, and my script just sat gathering dust (figuratively speaking, of course—a computer file can’t literally gather dust), with no hope of ever being staged.

About a year ago, I decided I would try to convert the script to a short story, which I could at least publish here on my blog. This is not nearly as easy as it sounds. You have to add quotation marks and scores of ‘he said’s, ‘she said’s, and so forth—not to mention all the descriptions and interpretations that, in a play, are generally left up to the director and actors. After a few paragraphs, I decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Then, after a Windows update, a new icon appeared on my computer taskbar, with the mysterious label “Copilot.” When I clicked on it, I discovered it was Microsoft’s new “AI companion.” I had heard of AI, of course, but I had never tried it. Might my script conversion be something it could help me with?

I asked Copilot, and it replied that indeed this was something it could do, and that it was delighted to help. The script was too big for it to swallow in one chunk, but I was able to feed it in in bites. The result blew me away. Oh, it wasn’t perfect, by any means. It was certainly not written in my style—Copilot used a bit too much elegant variation for my taste (“Patricia observed,” “Patricia ordered,” “Patricia snapped,” “Patricia mused,” etc.). But all of my dialogue and stage directions were there, converted into narrative form. With a little editing, I was quite happy with the result, which I’ve included below.

(Note: For comparison I also tried ChatGPT and Gemini, but they came up short—literally. Both offered much briefer stories that omitted much of my dialogue and plot elements. I did, however, use Gemini to generate the illustration.)

The Agatha Christie Appreciation Society of Little Piddling
By John R. Logue

Lizzie Brown bopped into the sitting room from the kitchen, singing off-key as she listened through bright orange headphones to the tape player she always carried on her belt. The year was 1984, and the song that was playing was the latest hit from her favorite group, Wham!

“Wake me up before you go-go. Don’t leave me hanging on like a yo-yo. Wake me up before you go-go. I don’t want to miss it when you hit that high…”

She pictured George Michael’s luscious bum as she placed a plate of almond biscuits on the tea table and, with a final shimmy, disappeared back into the kitchen.

A few moments later, Patricia Townsend, self-appointed matriarch of the village of Little Piddling, entered from the front hall. She surveyed the tea table critically. Picking up the teapot with one hand, she tested its weight, then gingerly touched it to check the temperature.

“Stupid girl,” she muttered under her breath. She picked up a small bell and rang it. No response. She rang again—still nothing. Impatiently, she called towards the kitchen, “Lizzie!” No reply. “Lizzie!” she called again, more loudly this time. Still no answer.

She took a deep breath and, at the top of her lungs, bellowed, “Elizabeth Ann Brown!”

Finally, the girl emerged from the kitchen, looking perplexed. “Did you call me, ma’am?”

“Yes, I called you,” Patricia snapped. “I called you repeatedly. I shouted loudly enough to be heard in the next parish. I also—” She shook the bell in Lizzie’s face. “Rang the bell. Are you deaf, girl?”

“Sorry,” Lizzie mumbled, “I was wearing my headphones.”

Patricia’s eyes narrowed. “Lizzie, how many times have I told you not to listen to your music while you’re working?”

Lizzie thought for a moment. “Two. Three if you count this.”

“It was a rhetorical question, Lizzie. I didn’t need an actual number. Just see that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lizzie said, turning to leave.

“Just a moment, Lizzie,” Patricia called out, stopping Lizzie in her tracks. “Don’t you wonder why I called you?”

Lizzie turned around. “Oh. Sorry. Why did you call me?”

“When did you make the tea?” Patricia asked.

“About half an hour ago?”

“No wonder the pot is cold. You should have waited until the guests arrived.”

“Sorry, ma’am. Should I make a fresh pot?”

“Obviously,” Patricia replied, handing Lizzie the teapot.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But not until the guests arrive.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The doorbell rang. “And here they are,” Patricia said.

“Then I should make the tea now?” Lizzie asked.

“Of course, you stupid girl!” Patricia snapped.

Lizzie turned and headed towards the kitchen.

“Stop!”

Lizzie stopped.

“Answer the door first,” Patricia ordered.

Lizzie turned and headed for the front door.

“Stop!”

Lizzie stopped.

“The teapot,” Patricia said impatiently, holding out her hand.

Lizzie looked at the teapot in her hand. “Oh,” she said. She returned and handed it to Patricia.

“Well? Answer the door!” Patricia commanded.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lizzie said, finally exiting to the hall.

“Stupid girl!” Patricia muttered.

Patricia put the teapot down, adjusted the table setting, and turned just as a tall, stylish redhead swept into the room, followed by Lizzie.

“Natalie, dear!” Patricia said, greeting her guest warmly.

“Hello, Pats!” Natalie replied.

“Mrs. Whitlow, ma’am,” Lizzie announced.

“Yes, yes. I can see it’s Mrs. Whitlow,” Patricia said impatiently. “And what is it you’re supposed to do when the guests arrive?”

“Make the tea, ma’am?”

“Well? Go and do it!” Patricia snapped.

“Yes, ma’am.” Lizzie turned to leave.

“Just a moment, Lizzie. Aren’t you forgetting something?” Patricia asked.

“Ma’am?”

“The teapot, you fool! The teapot!”

“Oh! Sorry, ma’am.” As Lizzie picked up the teapot, the doorbell rang. Once again, she set off for the front hall with teapot in hand.

“Lizzie!” Patricia called.

Lizzie returned. Patricia spoke slowly, as if to a child. “Take the teapot back to the kitchen. Then answer the door. Then go and make the tea.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lizzie said, exiting to the kitchen.

“Stupid girl!” Patricia muttered.

“Honestly, Pats,” Natalie said, “I don’t know how you put up with her. The girl would try the patience of Job. I’d have given her the sack long ago.”

“Believe me, Nat, I know. She’s utterly hopeless. But after her parents—well, you know. It’s the least I can do.”

“You are a good person.”

“I try to be,” Patricia replied with a faint smile.

Patricia picked up the plate of almond biscuits and offered it to Natalie. “Here, have one of these biscuits. I’m trying out a new recipe.”

Natalie took a biscuit from the plate and bit into it. “Yummy! Aren’t these the same sort of almond biscuits Louisa makes? The ones she refuses to give out the recipe for?”

Patricia grinned. “I’ve been trying to duplicate the recipe for years.”

“Well, congratulations, darling. You’ve succeeded. These are better than Louisa’s. She’ll be livid.”

“Mrs. Barnes and Mrs. Parsons, ma’am,” Lizzie announced, ushering in two more guests.

“Thank you, Lizzie. You may make the tea now,” Patricia said.

As Lizzie returned to the kitchen, Patricia greeted the newcomers: plump, good-natured Helen Barnes, and slender, grey-haired Louisa Parsons, the senior member of their little group. “Helen, Louisa, welcome!” Patricia gestured to the plate held by the latter. “Louisa, dear, what’s this?”

Louisa offered her gift proudly. “I’ve brought you some of my famous almond biscuits.”

“How nice! But really, you shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, it was no trouble,” Louisa assured.

“No, I mean you shouldn’t have,” Patricia said firmly, gesturing to the plate of biscuits on the table. “I have biscuits, as you can see.”

“Yes, but these are homemade,” Louisa insisted.

“So are mine. And as you can see, mine aren’t burnt.”

“Mine aren’t burnt,” Louisa said with a hurt tone. “Perhaps a bit overdone, but definitely not burnt.”

“Well, we’ll let the public decide, shall we?” Patricia said, uncovering Louisa’s plate and placing it beside her own on the tea table. “Come and sit down, everyone. Tea will be ready shortly. In the meantime, there are sandwiches: the white are egg, the brown are chicken.”

Patricia handed out plates and napkins, and the sandwiches were passed around. Holding up one of each, Helen queried, “Which came first?”

“I beg your pardon?” Patricia asked, puzzled.

“You know. The old joke?” Helen prodded.

“What old joke?”

“Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” Helen laughed, though the others did not.

“That’s not a joke, dear. It’s a riddle,” Louisa corrected.

“Oh. Yes, I suppose it is,” Helen said, deflated.

“What’s the answer?” Patricia asked.

“Eh?” replied Louisa.

“What’s the answer to the riddle?” Patricia repeated.

Helen sighed. “Oh. Um. I’m afraid I don’t know.”

Lizzie re-entered with the teapot. “Ah, here’s the tea,” Patricia announced, as Lizzie put the teapot on the table and returned to the kitchen.

“Have all of you met the new vicar?” Patricia asked, as she began pouring tea.

Natalie grinned lasciviously. “You mean Little Piddling’s most eligible bachelor? Rowr!”

Helen took one of Patricia’s biscuits. “He is handsome, isn’t he?” She took a bite and smiled. “Mmm! Louisa, you must try these. I believe they’re as good as yours.”

Louisa, visibly annoyed, tried one of Patricia’s biscuits. “Not quite the same as mine, but not a bad effort,” she conceded grudgingly, then changed the subject back to the new vicar. “As a matter of fact, I introduced myself to Mr. Ambrose after last Sunday’s sermon. He told me he’d be calling on me this week to discuss one or two concerns he has regarding our community.”

“What a coincidence,” Patricia remarked casually. “Dear Edward told me he wanted to discuss one or two concerns with me as well. As a matter of fact, he’ll be dropping by this afternoon. A charming man—it will be a pleasure to introduce all of you.”

“No need,” Louisa said curtly. “As I just told you, I’ve met him.”

Patricia clapped her hands. “Shall we begin the meeting?” There were murmurs of assent. “Very well, then. The Agatha Christie Appreciation Society of Little Piddling is hereby called to order. I believe at our last meeting we were still discussing poisons?”

Louisa made a face. “Ugh! I’m tired of poisons. When are we going to talk about guns?”

Helen chimed in, “What about blunt weapons? If you do it right, it looks just like an accident.”

Natalie shuddered. “Oh, but my dear! The blood!”

Helen shrugged. “No problem at all if you do it in the bath. If there’s any blood, it just washes away down the drain. Did you know that one of the most common causes of death is falling in the bathtub?”

“Yes, dear. You’ve told us that before,” Patricia said with a sigh.

“On several occasions,” Louisa added dryly.

Patricia continued, quoting their literary idol, “Well, we all know Dame Agatha’s opinion on the subject: ‘Poison has not the crudeness of the revolver bullet or the blunt weapon.’”

Natalie nodded in agreement. “But poison is so much more difficult now than it was back in Dame Agatha’s day. Back then, you could walk into any chemist’s, slap down a fiver, and walk out with enough strychnine to poison the entire village, no questions asked. Now you can’t even buy cold medicine without a prescription. Not to mention the advances in forensic pathology that make it easier to trace.”

Louisa sighed again. “Yes, and thanks to mystery writers, everyone knows the properties of all the popular ones. For instance, how are you ever supposed to use cyanide when everyone in the world knows that it smells like burnt almonds?”

Patricia picked up one of Louisa’s biscuits and sniffed it. “You could put it in your biscuits, Louisa. They’re the perfect camouflage. They already smell of burnt almonds.” Everyone laughed except Louisa, who was clearly offended.

“They are not burnt,” she insisted.

Helen spoke up. “Arsenic has no taste or smell. Have any of you tried it?”

The others reacted with shock and disbelief. “You can’t be serious!” Patricia exclaimed. Louisa and Natalie chimed in with their disapproval.

Helen continued, undeterred. “Remember the Dorothy L. Sayers story where the murderer eats the same poisoned food as the victim, but it doesn’t kill him because he’s been taking arsenic over time to build up a resistance to it?”

Natalie nodded. “Strong Poison. The first Harriet Vane story.”

Helen smiled. “Yes. Well, I had some rat poison on hand…”

Natalie interrupted with a laugh. “Don’t we all?” The group chuckled in agreement.

Helen resumed, “Anyway, I thought I’d try a bit of it in an omelet, just as the murderer served it in the story, to see what it’s like.”

Louisa looked horrified. “That was rather reckless of you.”

Helen shrugged. “I suppose so, but it didn’t do me any harm. Although it did numb my tongue for a time.”

“I just read a recent book by an American author where the murderer used a common plant, something that’s found everywhere in California,” said Louisa. “What was it called? Coriander, I think.”

“Coriander isn’t poisonous, dear. It’s a spice. I use it all the time,” Patricia corrected.

“Well, it was something like coriander,” Louisa insisted. “Anyway, she substituted it for something that was in the victim’s allergy capsules. She was miles away when he took them, so she had the perfect alibi.”

Patricia nodded. “There is much to be said for making use of something from one’s own garden. There is no paper trail, as there is when you purchase it from the chemist. And depending on the botanical, it can be difficult to trace. For instance, did you know that the foxglove in my garden contains a chemical that is commonly used in heart medications? It slows the heartbeat; taken in a sufficient quantity, it will stop the heart entirely. Cardiac arrest: death by natural causes.”

Just then, the doorbell rang.

“Ah, that will be the vicar,” Patricia said.

Louisa’s face lit up with a sudden recollection. “Orlando!”

“What’s that, dear?” Patricia asked.

“That’s what she used. Not coriander. Orlando,” Louisa explained.

Helen was confused. “Isn’t Orlando a city in California?”

“Florida,” Natalie corrected.

“Are you sure? I thought Disneyland was there,” Helen persisted.

“Disney World, dear,” Natalie clarified.

“Oh,” Helen said, still puzzled.

Lizzie entered with Edward. The ladies stood as she announced, “Mr. Ambrose, ma’am.”

Patricia stepped forward to greet him. “Welcome, dear Vicar. Delighted to see you again.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Townsend,” Edward replied.

“Please, call me Patricia,” she insisted.

“Thank you, Patricia. I fear I’ve come at a bad time. I see you have guests,” Edward observed.

“Not at all. Just the monthly meeting of the ACASLP—the Agatha Christie Appreciation Society of Little Piddling. Allow me to introduce the other members of our group: Natalie Whitlow...”

Natalie stepped forward and offered her hand, a twinkle in her eye. “How do you do, Vicar.”

“Mrs. Whitlow,” Edward greeted formally.

“My friends call me Natalie, and I do hope we shall be friends,” she said flirtatiously.

Edward looked flustered. “Yes. Well. ‘Natalie’ it is, then.”

“And I shall call you ‘Edward.’ Tell us, Edward, are you a fan of Agatha Christie?” Natalie asked.

“Aren’t we all?” Edward responded.

“Which book is your favorite?” she pressed.

Edward thought for a moment. “Well, I love all the Miss Marple stories, but I suppose if I had to narrow it down to one, it would be—“

Natalie couldn’t resist. “Let me guess. Murder at the Vicarage?”

Edward chuckled. “Why, yes!”

Helen laughed, then abruptly stopped, embarrassed. “Natalie, how on earth did you—? Oh! Because he’s a vicar!”

“Vicar, may I introduce Helen Barnes,” said Patricia.

Helen, nervously stepping forward to shake his hand, stammered, “How do you do, Mr. Handsome—I mean, Mr. Vicar—I mean...”

“Let’s just make it ‘Edward,’ shall we?” said Edward.

Helen giggled girlishly. “Very well—Edward.”

Patricia continued, “And I understand you’ve already met our Louisa.”

Louisa stepped forward, offering her hand. Edward took it, looking slightly puzzled. “Have I?”

“Surely you remember. Last Sunday? After church?” Louisa prompted.

“Oh, yes! Mrs.—er—“

“Parsons. But please, call me Louisa.”

“Of course! Delighted to see you again, Louise.”

“Louisa,” she corrected firmly.

Edward smiled apologetically. “Louisa. Sorry.”

“Sit down, Vicar,” Patricia invited. “Have a biscuit. I’m afraid mine are all gone, but there are plenty of Louisa’s left. How do you take your tea?”

Edward shook his head. “That’s very kind of you, but I can’t stay long. Lots of calls to make, I’m afraid. As a matter of fact, I’m glad you’re all here together. It will save me some time, as the four of you were at the top of my list.”

“Oh? What list is that?” Patricia asked.

“A list of Little Piddling’s most marriageable widows, perhaps?” Natalie chimed in.

Edward managed a smile. “Not exactly. Look, perhaps I should start at the beginning. My predecessor, Mr. Bledsoe, left behind a notebook.”

Patricia’s curiosity was piqued. “Did he? What sort of notebook?”

“It contains notes regarding an investigation with which he was assisting Constable Brown. The two of them had become curious about some of the deaths that have occurred lately in this parish.”

“Oh? And what was so curious about these deaths?” Patricia asked.

“Well, to begin with, there have been an unusual number of them,” Edward replied.

Patricia frowned. “Surely not more than the national average?”

Edward’s tone turned serious. “As a matter of fact, quite a bit more than the national average. I’m surprised you didn’t notice, considering the fact that all four of you lost your husbands within the span of a few months.”

“It was a very bad flu season last year, if you will recall,” Patricia said defensively.

“I was given to understand that Mr. Barnes died from a fall in the bath,” Edward pointed out.

“I’m sure the poor dear wouldn’t have fallen if he hadn’t been so weakened by a terrible bout of flu,” Helen said.

Edward continued, “Yes, well, there was also the shopkeeper, Mr. Thomas...”

Louisa interrupted, “Ugh! I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, Vicar, but Mr. Thomas was not a nice man.”

“And your neighbor, Miss Watson...”

“Very sad, but she was quite elderly,” Patricia commented.

Edward nodded. “And most recently, the deaths of Constable and Mrs. Brown—and Mr. Bledsoe.”

“A tragic accident involving a faulty gas cooker, I believe,” Patricia said, shaking her head.

Helen added, “Gas can be so dangerous, can’t it? That’s why I only use an electric cooker.”

Patricia was getting impatient. “But what has all of this to do with us?”

“Apart from the unfortunate loss of our husbands, of course,” Natalie pointed out.

“Yes. Apart from that,” Patricia agreed.

“I was getting to that,” Edward said. “The last entry in Mr. Bledsoe’s notebook was a list of your names, followed by the letters ‘ACASLP’ and a question mark. You answered my first question already, which was what those letters stand for. My second question is, can any of you think what might have drawn Mr. Bledsoe’s attention to your organization?”

The four ladies exchanged nervous glances.

“Shall I tell you what I think?” Edward asked.

“Please do,” Patricia said apprehensively.

“Well, it seems to me that it would be natural for Mr. Bledsoe and Constable Brown to think of the ACASLP in these circumstances,” Edward began.

“And why is that?” Patricia pressed.

Edward looked around the room. “Come, Mrs. Townsend...”

“Patricia,” she corrected.

“Come, Patricia! Don’t be coy. The reason should be obvious, especially to you four ladies.”

“Should it?” Patricia asked.

“But don’t you see? Mr. Bledsoe and Constable Brown were planning to enlist your aid in their investigation!” Edward exclaimed.

“Ah! I see what you mean,” said Patricia. “No doubt you are right.”

“Of course I am! Ladies, I intend to carry on Mr. Bledsoe’s work. I have a meeting with the new constable tomorrow. I was going to show him the notebook, but I wanted to talk to you first. I wanted to be able to tell him that you will assist us in our investigation. Please say you will.”

Patricia hesitated. “We will take it under consideration.”

“Please do—and remember Dame Agatha’s words in Murder at the Vicarage: ‘There is no detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands.’ Good afternoon, ladies.”

“Good afternoon, Vicar,” Patricia replied.

“Not very bright, is he?” Louisa remarked, once they had heard the front door close behind him.

“‘Spinster lady of uncertain age’ indeed!” Natalie huffed. “I'm barely thirty-nine!”

“You’ve been ‘barely thirty-nine’ since the Queen’s Silver Jubilee,” muttered Louisa.

Patricia interrupted before Natalie could respond. “Ladies, it seems Little Piddling will soon be in need of a new vicar.”

“We can’t very well have another gas cooker accident, can we? People will get suspicious,” Louisa said.

“What about an accident in the bath?” Helen suggested.

“Not a bad idea, that. I wouldn’t mind seeing him in the bath. Rowr!” Natalie added.

“Don’t be vulgar, Nat,” Patricia chided. “No, I have just the thing for our nosy new vicar. It’s a new recipe I’ve been perfecting.” She picked up the bell and rang it.

“It’s a shame, you know. He is—was—handsome,” Helen said, staggering a little. “Oh my. I feel a bit woozy.”

“Come, dear. Let’s all sit down,” Louisa urged, guiding Helen back to her seat. She too felt a bit unsteady.

“It’s the emotional strain. We could all do with another cup of tea,” Patricia said, pouring out the remaining tea. Lizzie entered from the kitchen.

“You rang, ma’am?” she asked.

“Now listen to me very carefully, Lizzie,” Patricia said, patiently. “On the top shelf of the pantry you’ll find a tin of my special biscuits. I want you to go and get them and run them out to the vicar with our compliments. He can’t have got far. If you hurry, you should be able to catch him.”

Lizzie looked puzzled. “The special biscuits?”

“Yes. Now, go. Go, go, go!” Patricia said, making shooing motions towards the door.

Lizzie didn’t move. “You mean these biscuits, ma’am?” she asked, pointing to the empty plate on the tea table.

“No, you fool. I mean the special biscuits,” Patricia snapped. “The ones on the top shelf of the pantry.”

“But these are the special biscuits, ma’am—or rather, they were. It looks as though you’ve eaten them all.”

Patricia’s face paled as realization dawned. “What do you mean? Oh, you stupid girl. What have you done?”

“What is it? What’s happened?” Louisa demanded.

Patricia’s voice trembled. “Ladies, I—I’m afraid there’s been a mixup with the biscuits.”

Natalie cursed under her breath. “Oh, bugger. It’s the foxglove, isn’t it?”

Patricia nodded grimly. “I’m afraid so.”

“Ah! So this is what cardiac arrest feels like,” Helen said, her speech beginning to slur. “My tongue dothn’t theem to be working right.”

“I’m so sorry. But don’t worry. There should still be time. I’ll call for an ambulance.” Patricia struggled to get up but was unable to. “Oh, dear. I can’t seem to move. Lizzie, call for an ambulance at once.”

“Better make it two ambulances,” Louisa added. “I don’t think we’ll all fit in one.”

“Lizzie, call for two ambulances,” Patricia ordered.

“No,” Lizzie replied firmly.

“What?” Patricia’s voice was incredulous.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be calling for any number of ambulances,” Lizzie said.

Natalie’s voice was faint. “What has gotten into the girl? Lizzie, do you honestly want to be responsible for four deaths?”

Lizzie’s voice turned cold. “And how many deaths have you lot been responsible for, including my parents? More than twice that, I’ll wager.”

Patricia sighed. “I see. That’s what this is about.”

“Yes, that’s what this is about. So who’s the stupid girl now?” Lizzie retorted.

Patricia tried a different approach. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. I misjudged you. How long have you known?”

“I had my suspicions from the start. That’s why I took this job. And when you wear headphones and pretend to be stupid, it's amazing the things you can learn—such as how to sabotage a gas cooker, or where the poisoned biscuits are kept.”

Patricia’s tone turned conciliatory. “Lizzie, I’m so sorry. Your father’s and Mr. Bledsoe’s deaths were unfortunate, but necessary. It was self-preservation; they were on to us, you see. Your mother’s death, on the other hand, was regrettable.”

“‘Collateral damage,’ I suppose,” Lizzie said bitterly.

“You could call it that. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Patricia admitted.

“As I would have been, had I been home. What about all the others?” Lizzie demanded.

Patricia’s tone hardened. “The others all deserved what they got. They’re the sort we’re really after. Our husbands, for instance. That’s how it all started. They were making our lives miserable, with their lies and philandering...”

“Drinking and gambling...” Louisa added.

“Moshunal an’ phythical abuth...” Helen murmured.

“To be fair, mine was just mind-numbingly boring,” said Natalie.

“And as for Mr. Thomas—well, surely you remember how horrible he was,” Patricia continued.

Lizzie shuddered. “Ugh! He was horrible. Every time we went into his shop, he made the most disgusting comments. It got so we had to do our shopping in the next village.”

“And Miss Watson was a terrible gossip,” Patricia added.

“You should have heard some of the things she said about you, Lizzie,” Natalie remarked.

“The point is, Little Piddling is a much nicer place without them. If you think about it, we’ve been providing a public service,” Patricia declared.

“Weeding the garden, so to speak,” Louisa said.

“Lully methafor, Louitha,” Helen mumbled.

“Thank you, Helen. I thought it was apt,” Louisa replied.

“Vurry apth intheed,” Helen agreed.

Patricia interrupted sharply. “Ladies, there isn’t time!” She turned to Lizzie, her tone pleading. “Lizzie, we deeply regret what happened to your mother and father—and to you. Losing both your parents like that—it must have been terrible.”

Lizzie’s voice was icy. “To return from an evening out and find your home in ruins and your family dead? To lose everything in the blink of an eye? You can’t imagine—or maybe you can, now. Tell me, how do you feel?”

“Not at all well. I can’t seem to feel my legs,” Patricia admitted.

“Tongue numb, like wi’ arsnic,” Helen mumbled.

“I can barely keep my eyes open,” Louisa murmured.

“Cold. So cold,” Natalie whispered.

“Good! They say revenge is a dish best served cold,” Lizzie said with satisfaction.

Patricia’s tone turned curious. “And how do you feel, Lizzie?”

Lizzie considered for a moment. “Empowered.”

“It is a good feeling, isn’t it? Meting out justice?” Patricia asked.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, it is,” Lizzie agreed.

“How would you like to feel that way all the time?” Patricia offered.

Lizzie was wary. “What do you mean?”

“Join us, Lizzie!” Patricia urged.

“Join you?” Lizzie asked, skeptical.

“Join the ACASLP. Help us make Little Piddling a better place,” Patricia explained.

“Help us weed the garden, so to speak,” Louisa added.

“We could use a clever girl like you,” said Natalie.

“Cawfawah awmahlawth,” said Helen.

“What did you say?” Lizzie asked.

Helen tried again. “Caw faw ah awm ah lawth.”

“I believe she said, ‘Call for an ambulance,’” Louisa interpreted. “I wholeheartedly second the motion. All in favor?”

The four women feebly raised their hands.

“Think about our offer, Lizzie. But don’t take long. I fear our time is running out,” Patricia urged.

Lizzie watched as, one by one, the women lost consciousness. She crossed to the telephone table, singing softly to herself, “Wake me up before you go-go. Don’t leave me hanging on like a yo-yo...”

She picked up the receiver. She hesitated...

 

An Agent of KAOS

 

If you're as old as I am, you will remember the 1960s TV sitcom Get Smart, created by Mel Brooks and Buck Henry. (If you're too young to have seen it, you might have seen the 2008 film that was based on it—although probably not; it was a pretty big flop.) The series was a parody of another popular TV series, The Man From U.N.C.L.E., which itself capitalized on the popularity of the James Bond franchise. Don Adams and Barbara Feldon played agents 86 and 99 of the secret government agency CONTROL. They were the good guys. Their chief adversary was Siegfried, an agent of KAOS.

His supporters think Donald Trump is one of the good guys—an agent of CONTROL, if you will. He certainly seemed to be in control on July 13th, when a would-be assassin's bullet took off the tip of his ear and he had the presence of mind to pause for a photo op before the secret service hustled him offstage.

But Trump is obviously an agent of KAOS.

His speeches are insane, incoherent rambles on windmills, toilets, sharks, Hannibal Lecter, Arnold Palmer's... you know. (He calls it "the weave," but a more common term is "dementia.") And have you forgotten his presidency? Apparently half the country has. They claim they were better off four years ago. Apparently they completely forgot about COVID-19. It's been estimated that his reckless handling of the pandemic caused hundreds of thousands of unnecessary deaths. Remember the constant turnover in the west wing? It seemed that every day someone was being fired or resigning in frustration, something he was apparently proud of. ("I like turnover. I like chaos.") As expected, his Supreme Court nominees voted to overturn Roe v. Wade, turning the country into a chaotic crazy quilt of conflicting abortion laws.

And how can anyone forgot the chaos of January 6, 2021, when he became the first president in our history to refuse to peacefully transfer the reins of power, instead opting to incite a violent insurrection?

In a couple of months, our country will once again be thrown into Donald Trump's chaos, and this time it will be even worse. Last time, there were people who were able to control his craziest impulses. (Drop a nuclear bomb into a hurricane?!) This time, there will be no guard rails. He will surround himself with sycophants who will serve without question. The judicial branch won't control him; the Supreme Court has granted him immunity. And if the Christofascist Heritage Foundation has its way, Project 2025 will undermine the legislative branch. The checks and balances carefully put in place by our founding fathers will effectively be removed, turning our country into a fascist autocracy.

Republicans I have admired—Lincoln, Roosevelt, Eisenhower, Ford—would never have stood for this. Even the ones I don't have much use for wouldn't. (We live just a few miles from where Reagan is buried; lately, I sometimes imagine I hear him spinning in his grave.) They would be appalled that their party elected a corrupt, pathologically dishonest demagogue like Trump, much less enabled him, with the aid of the Heritage Foundation, to systematically dismantle our government. But the Republican Party no longer exists. There is only the party of Trump, the party of chaos.

I could cry, but as Siegfried would say, "This is KAOS. We don't cry here."

Bernie Kopell as Siegfried

Is Anybody There?

 

It's been well over a year since my last post. Is anybody there? Does anybody care? Does anybody read blogs anymore? Does anybody write them? It seems to me that the blog is becoming as much a thing of the past as the Christmas ghost story. Speaking of which...

(Speaking of which, have you noticed that nobody says "Speaking of which" anymore? Now it's just "Speaking of." What happened to the "which?" But I digress. As I was saying...)

When I started this blog, I vowed to write a post every week. My weekly posts dwindled to the point where I was only posting once or twice a year—generally at Christmastime and generally ghost stories, because I've always been intrigued by ghost stories, and because I'd read several articles about reviving the tradition of sharing them at Christmas.

Last Christmas I was unable to post anything, and for a very good reason. (It's a long story; maybe someday I'll share it.) Now I'll go back to posting a Christmas ghost story or two each year for as long as I am able (whether anyone reads them or not).

The following is the most recent example I've come across; it’s only a couple of years older than I am. It was written by Rosemary Timperley. Ever hear of her? Neither have I. In fact, an article I found referred to her as “The Greatest Horror Writer You’ve Never Heard Of.” I don't know about that; since I started this project, I've come across a number of excellent horror writers I'd never heard of. However, I did thoroughly enjoy this little story, and I think you will too.

Merry Christmas!

Christmas Meeting
by Rosemary Timperley (1952)

I have never spent Christmas alone before.

It gives me an uncanny feeling, sitting alone in my “furnished room,” with my head full of ghosts, and the room full of voices of the past. It’s a drowning feeling – all the Christmases of the past coming back in a mad jumble: the childish Christmas, with a house full of relations, a tree in the window, sixpences in the pudding, and the delicious, crinckly stocking in the dark morning; the adolescent Christmas, with mother and father, the war and the bitter cold, and the letters from abroad; the first really grown-up Christmas, with a lover - the snow and the enchantment, red wine and kisses, and the walk in the dark before midnight, with the grounds so white, and the stars diamond bright in a black sky - so many Christmases through the years.

And, now the first Christmas alone.

But not quite loneliness. A feeling of companionship with all the other people who are spending Christmas alone - millions of them - past and present.

A feeling that if I close my eyes, there will be no past or future, only an endless present which is time, because it is all we ever have.

Yes, however cynical you are, however irreligious, it makes you feel queer to be alone at Christmas time.

So I’m absurdly relieved when the young man walks in. There’s nothing romantic about it - I’m a woman of nearly fifty, a spinster schoolma’am with grim, dark hair, and myopic eyes that once were beautiful, and he’s a kid of twenty, rather unconventionally dressed with a flowing wine-colored tie and black velvet jacket, and brown curls which could do with a taste of the barber’s scissors. The effeminacy of his dress is belied by his features - narrow, piercing, blue eyes, and arrogant, jutting nose and chin.

Not that he looks strong. The skin is fine-drawn over the prominent features, and he is very white.

He bursts in without knocking, then pauses, says: “I’m sorry. I thought this was my room.” He begins to go out, then hesitates and says: “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“It’s - queer, being alone at Christmas, isn’t it? May I stay and talk?”

“I’d be glad if you would.”

He comes right in, and sits down by the fire.

“I hope you don’t think I came in here on purpose. I really did think it was my room,” he explains.

“I’m glad you made the mistake. But you’re a very young person to be alone at Christmas time.”

“I wouldn’t go back to the country to my family. It would hold up my work. I’m a writer.”

“I see.” I can’t help smiling a little. That explains his rather unusual dress. And he takes himself so seriously, this young man! “Of course, you mustn’t waste a precious moment of writing,” I say with a twinkle.

“No, not a moment! That’s what my family won’t see. They don’t appreciate urgency.”

“Families are never appreciative of the artistic nature.”

“No, they aren’t,” he agrees seriously.

“What are you writing?”

“Poetry and a diary combined. It’s called ‘My poems and I,’ by Francis Randel. That’s my name. My family say there’s no point in my writing, that I’m too young. But I don’t feel young. Sometimes I feel like an old man, with too much to do before he dies.”

“Revolving faster and faster on the wheel of creativeness.”

“Yes! Yes, exactly! You understand! You must read my work some time. Please read my work! Read my work!” A note of desperation in his voice, a look of fear in his eyes makes me say:

“We’re both getting much too solemn for Christmas Day. I’m going to make you some coffee. And I have plum cake.”

I move about, clattering cups, spooning coffee into my percolator. But I must have offended him, for, when I look around, I found he has left me. I am absurdly disappointed.

I finish making coffee, however, then turn to the bookshelf in the room. It is piled high with volumes, for which the landlady has apologized profusely: “Hope you don’t mind the books, Miss, but my husband won’t part with them, and there’s nowhere to put them. We charge a bit less for the room for that reason.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “Books are good friends.”

But these aren’t very friendly-looking books. I take one at random. Or does some strange fate guide my hand?

Sipping my coffee, inhaling my cigarette smoke, I begin to read the battered little book, published, I see, in Spring, 1852. It’s mainly poetry - immature stuff, but vivid. Then there’s a kind of diary. More realistic, less affected. Out of curiosity, to see if there are any amusing comparisons, I turn to the entry for Christmas Day, 1851. I read:

“My first Christmas alone. I had rather an odd experience. When I went back to my lodgings after a walk, there was a middle-aged woman in my room. I thought, at first, I’d walked into the wrong room, but this was not so, and after a pleasant talk, she disappeared. I suppose she was a ghost. But I wasn’t frightened. I liked her. But I do not feel well tonight. Not at all well. I have never felt ill at Christmas before.”

A publisher’s note followed the last entry: Francis Randel died from a sudden heart attack on the night of Christmas Day 1851. The woman mentioned in this final entry in his diary was the last person to see him alive. In spite of requests for her to come forward, she never did so. Her identity remains a mystery.