A Moonlight Christmas Carol, Ch 4 (PG-13)
Posted: Tue Dec 22, 2009 6:07 pm
A/N: I’m guessing since this is chapter four, you’ve already seen the author’s note beginning chapter one. If for some unknown reason, you didn’t read the first chapter first, you probably should.
As far as the formal stuff goes, I guess I owe apologies to Mr. Charles Dickens, and the disclaimer that as usual, I don’t own Moonlight, or any of its characters, here is…the fourth and final part of my version of:
A Moonlight Christmas Carol
Chapter 4
Christmas Eve, 1984
I hadn’t had a lot of time to think things over, when I heard a faint rustle of cloth, and looked up, expecting to see something fearsome, from what the Ghost of Christmas Present had said. I thought I’d have to listen to a harangue about my future.
What I saw was shocking, all right: the wide blue eyes of a frightened child.
She was maybe four or five. Dressed in a pink and white printed cotton nightgown, high neck, long sleeves, and ruffles at the hem. Cute. A pretty kid, too, with her straight blonde hair hanging on either side of her serious face. I tried to think if I’d ever seen a girl that looked like this before, but none came to mind. Vampires don’t tend to hang out with children, much. It’s just one of those things.
“You?” I asked, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible. “”You’re the Ghost of Christmas Future?”
The little girl never blinked, but as she nodded, she slipped a thumb in her mouth.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you nervous.”
She nodded again and held her other hand out to me. I hadn’t noticed it with the others, but this spirit’s tiny hand was warm in mine. A pure touch against my skin.
I hadn’t doubted the cleanliness of my hand before, when Christmas Present had asked. Now, faced with this childlike innocence, I wondered what stains my life, my actions, had left on me. But somehow, I couldn’t pull away. I put my hand in hers.
Her blue eyes widened, and I never even saw the gray transition.
I was expecting grim, and I got it. The first stop we made-it’s hard to describe. Have you ever been somewhere in between two facing mirrors?
It was like that. Sort of. Standing there, with that little girl ghost hanging onto my hand, what I saw, was me. Images of me, stretching out into infinity in either direction. I was sitting the way I had earlier, in my leather easy chair, a book in one hand, a glass of blood in the other. My perfect Christmas Eve. And it was replicated, off into a distance I couldn’t even comprehend.
Okay, I thought, no big deal. Smoke and mirrors. Then it hit me.
That endless parade of lonely Christmas nights-it wasn’t one image. Each one was slightly different. I don’t age, but my clothing, the book I held, even the glass of blood in my hand varied. It wasn’t a prediction of the future-it was a photograph. It crushed in on me, all that sameness, all that emptiness. I don’t go down easy, but I felt my knees start to give.
“Take me away from here,” I whispered. “Please.”
I felt her hand tighten in mine, and the scene faded and changed.
We were back at Josef’s. I almost wondered if he knew that ghosts were trooping through his house uninvited; he looked sharply in our direction, sharply enough the spirit moved closer to me.
“He can’t see us, can he?” I asked.
She shook her head, but huddled closer to me all the same, that thumb still firmly in her mouth.
Josef was doctoring a couple of tumblers of scotch with a few drops of blood from a Waterford crystal decanter. Nothing but the best for Josef.
“It’s Christmas, Coraline. What’s so urgent it won’t wait? Possibly a decade or so?”
“Yes, I noticed I didn’t receive an invitation to your Christmas Eve party. Or perhaps it was lost in the mail?”
“The post office can be so unreliable.” He handed her a drink, and settled into a nearby chair.
If Coraline recognized the evasion in his answer, she didn’t comment. Then again, she’d known Josef a long time. Maybe she expected it.
“I’m worried about Mick,” she said.
Josef snorted. “I told you all along, he wasn’t cut out to be a vampire.”
“I can’t just let him go.”
“You can’t give him what he wants, either,” Josef replied, then corrected himself. “What he thinks he wants.”
Coraline shivered. “You talk to him, Josef. What can’t I give him?”
Josef considered, or pretended to, taking a long, deliberate sip of his drink. I could tell he was shifting into his “dispensing wisdom” mode. He shook his head. “Mick is one of those men who’s always going to want what he can’t have.”
“I’ve tried playing hard to get, Josef. It doesn’t work anymore.”
Josef smiled in that especially nasty way he could. “No offense, Coraline, but he’s had you. That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what?”
“He wants—and don’t ask me to explain it—to be ordinary. A dull day job, a boring wife, 2.4 children. A house in the suburbs, and a pet cat. Never mind that he’d be happy with that for about two weeks, it’s what he thinks he wants.”
Coraline frowned. “I can’t give him that. I can’t make him human again.”
“You asked what he wanted.” Josef shrugged. “I told you.”
“But—“
Josef leaned forward, his voice becoming intense. “Then let him go, Coraline. Just—let him go.”
I hadn’t asked the spirit to take me away, but the scene faded, even while Coraline started to speak again.
I was in darkness, with a cold wind blowing. Even vampire eyes take a few seconds to adjust, but when I could see again, I realized we were in a cemetery. An old one. The headstones nearest me were leaning, the graves sunken with age. I was knee deep in rank weeds, and there were vines growing over the tombstones. Here and there, in the distance, I saw a mausoleum rearing against the overcast night sky, but mostly, the graves were simple.
The spirit had slipped her hand from mine, as I looked around me, and was standing a little apart.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why are we here?”
She shook her head at me, and pointed at a grave.
“What?”
She pointed again, more insistently, and I took a closer look. I couldn’t read anything, for the weeds and the vines over the inscription. I had to know what was on that tombstone. Now.
I crouched down, started ripping away the vines, uprooting the weeds that blocked it. It was hard to see in the darkness, but eventually I’d clawed the stone free of vegetation. There was no name, and only one date. The inscription sent a shiver down my spine.
“Killed by Mick St. John, 1952,”
I reeled back from the grave, and stumbled over another one. I cleared it, too, and it said, “Killed by Mick St. John, 1954.”
In a daze, I went from one grave to the next. The dates differed, but every single one of them read, “Killed by Mick St. John. Killed by Mick St. John.”
I put my hands to my eyes, to block out the sight of all the graves, then spun around, looking for the spirit.
The rolling hills of the cemetery stretched as far as I could see, and I was alone. I started running among the graves, screaming for the spirit, but the child had vanished. As I went, I was seeing every grave the same. The dates were getting more recent, the stones more clear, but the inscription never changed. I got clumsy, banging into headstones, hitting an elbow here, a knee, a hip, there. The pain was immaterial. I had to keep going.
Finally, I thought I spotted fresh digging. An open grave.
I ran to it, hoping, praying, it would be a grave for me. As I reached it, the headstone of black granite caught a shaft of the moonlight, as the moon came out from behind a cloud. I saw “Mick St. John” carved into the black granite, and fell on my knees, gasping for the breath I didn’t need.
The cloud shifted a little, and the light moved. I could read the rest of the inscription. “Killed by Mick St. John.”
I pounded my hands against the fresh-turned earth, clawed at it. I would not accept this. I would not accept this.
&&
A crash startled me, and I sat up. The glass of A positive was shattered on the floor beside me, droplets and shards spread across the hardwood floor.
I’d been dreaming. I had to have been dreaming. And just because my subconscious had gone the full Dickens on me, didn’t mean I was going to be running out and buying a Christmas goose for Tiny Tim, right?
I’ve got to wonder, though, if Christmas Past manifested as Coraline, and Christmas Present as Josef, who was that little girl? The future? How was I supposed to change that, when I didn’t even know her? If I believed any of this, I had to believe she was out there somewhere, and somehow she had to be the key to something better. Something besides all those graves. I think I’ll be keeping my eye out, for a small blonde girl with a serious face, and blue eyes that see right through me.
Okay, the logical part of my brain tells me, it was all a dream. What else could it be? But I’ve got one more question.
Why do I have dirt underneath my fingernails?
As far as the formal stuff goes, I guess I owe apologies to Mr. Charles Dickens, and the disclaimer that as usual, I don’t own Moonlight, or any of its characters, here is…the fourth and final part of my version of:
A Moonlight Christmas Carol
Chapter 4
Christmas Eve, 1984
I hadn’t had a lot of time to think things over, when I heard a faint rustle of cloth, and looked up, expecting to see something fearsome, from what the Ghost of Christmas Present had said. I thought I’d have to listen to a harangue about my future.
What I saw was shocking, all right: the wide blue eyes of a frightened child.
She was maybe four or five. Dressed in a pink and white printed cotton nightgown, high neck, long sleeves, and ruffles at the hem. Cute. A pretty kid, too, with her straight blonde hair hanging on either side of her serious face. I tried to think if I’d ever seen a girl that looked like this before, but none came to mind. Vampires don’t tend to hang out with children, much. It’s just one of those things.
“You?” I asked, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible. “”You’re the Ghost of Christmas Future?”
The little girl never blinked, but as she nodded, she slipped a thumb in her mouth.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you nervous.”
She nodded again and held her other hand out to me. I hadn’t noticed it with the others, but this spirit’s tiny hand was warm in mine. A pure touch against my skin.
I hadn’t doubted the cleanliness of my hand before, when Christmas Present had asked. Now, faced with this childlike innocence, I wondered what stains my life, my actions, had left on me. But somehow, I couldn’t pull away. I put my hand in hers.
Her blue eyes widened, and I never even saw the gray transition.
I was expecting grim, and I got it. The first stop we made-it’s hard to describe. Have you ever been somewhere in between two facing mirrors?
It was like that. Sort of. Standing there, with that little girl ghost hanging onto my hand, what I saw, was me. Images of me, stretching out into infinity in either direction. I was sitting the way I had earlier, in my leather easy chair, a book in one hand, a glass of blood in the other. My perfect Christmas Eve. And it was replicated, off into a distance I couldn’t even comprehend.
Okay, I thought, no big deal. Smoke and mirrors. Then it hit me.
That endless parade of lonely Christmas nights-it wasn’t one image. Each one was slightly different. I don’t age, but my clothing, the book I held, even the glass of blood in my hand varied. It wasn’t a prediction of the future-it was a photograph. It crushed in on me, all that sameness, all that emptiness. I don’t go down easy, but I felt my knees start to give.
“Take me away from here,” I whispered. “Please.”
I felt her hand tighten in mine, and the scene faded and changed.
We were back at Josef’s. I almost wondered if he knew that ghosts were trooping through his house uninvited; he looked sharply in our direction, sharply enough the spirit moved closer to me.
“He can’t see us, can he?” I asked.
She shook her head, but huddled closer to me all the same, that thumb still firmly in her mouth.
Josef was doctoring a couple of tumblers of scotch with a few drops of blood from a Waterford crystal decanter. Nothing but the best for Josef.
“It’s Christmas, Coraline. What’s so urgent it won’t wait? Possibly a decade or so?”
“Yes, I noticed I didn’t receive an invitation to your Christmas Eve party. Or perhaps it was lost in the mail?”
“The post office can be so unreliable.” He handed her a drink, and settled into a nearby chair.
If Coraline recognized the evasion in his answer, she didn’t comment. Then again, she’d known Josef a long time. Maybe she expected it.
“I’m worried about Mick,” she said.
Josef snorted. “I told you all along, he wasn’t cut out to be a vampire.”
“I can’t just let him go.”
“You can’t give him what he wants, either,” Josef replied, then corrected himself. “What he thinks he wants.”
Coraline shivered. “You talk to him, Josef. What can’t I give him?”
Josef considered, or pretended to, taking a long, deliberate sip of his drink. I could tell he was shifting into his “dispensing wisdom” mode. He shook his head. “Mick is one of those men who’s always going to want what he can’t have.”
“I’ve tried playing hard to get, Josef. It doesn’t work anymore.”
Josef smiled in that especially nasty way he could. “No offense, Coraline, but he’s had you. That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what?”
“He wants—and don’t ask me to explain it—to be ordinary. A dull day job, a boring wife, 2.4 children. A house in the suburbs, and a pet cat. Never mind that he’d be happy with that for about two weeks, it’s what he thinks he wants.”
Coraline frowned. “I can’t give him that. I can’t make him human again.”
“You asked what he wanted.” Josef shrugged. “I told you.”
“But—“
Josef leaned forward, his voice becoming intense. “Then let him go, Coraline. Just—let him go.”
I hadn’t asked the spirit to take me away, but the scene faded, even while Coraline started to speak again.
I was in darkness, with a cold wind blowing. Even vampire eyes take a few seconds to adjust, but when I could see again, I realized we were in a cemetery. An old one. The headstones nearest me were leaning, the graves sunken with age. I was knee deep in rank weeds, and there were vines growing over the tombstones. Here and there, in the distance, I saw a mausoleum rearing against the overcast night sky, but mostly, the graves were simple.
The spirit had slipped her hand from mine, as I looked around me, and was standing a little apart.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why are we here?”
She shook her head at me, and pointed at a grave.
“What?”
She pointed again, more insistently, and I took a closer look. I couldn’t read anything, for the weeds and the vines over the inscription. I had to know what was on that tombstone. Now.
I crouched down, started ripping away the vines, uprooting the weeds that blocked it. It was hard to see in the darkness, but eventually I’d clawed the stone free of vegetation. There was no name, and only one date. The inscription sent a shiver down my spine.
“Killed by Mick St. John, 1952,”
I reeled back from the grave, and stumbled over another one. I cleared it, too, and it said, “Killed by Mick St. John, 1954.”
In a daze, I went from one grave to the next. The dates differed, but every single one of them read, “Killed by Mick St. John. Killed by Mick St. John.”
I put my hands to my eyes, to block out the sight of all the graves, then spun around, looking for the spirit.
The rolling hills of the cemetery stretched as far as I could see, and I was alone. I started running among the graves, screaming for the spirit, but the child had vanished. As I went, I was seeing every grave the same. The dates were getting more recent, the stones more clear, but the inscription never changed. I got clumsy, banging into headstones, hitting an elbow here, a knee, a hip, there. The pain was immaterial. I had to keep going.
Finally, I thought I spotted fresh digging. An open grave.
I ran to it, hoping, praying, it would be a grave for me. As I reached it, the headstone of black granite caught a shaft of the moonlight, as the moon came out from behind a cloud. I saw “Mick St. John” carved into the black granite, and fell on my knees, gasping for the breath I didn’t need.
The cloud shifted a little, and the light moved. I could read the rest of the inscription. “Killed by Mick St. John.”
I pounded my hands against the fresh-turned earth, clawed at it. I would not accept this. I would not accept this.
&&
A crash startled me, and I sat up. The glass of A positive was shattered on the floor beside me, droplets and shards spread across the hardwood floor.
I’d been dreaming. I had to have been dreaming. And just because my subconscious had gone the full Dickens on me, didn’t mean I was going to be running out and buying a Christmas goose for Tiny Tim, right?
I’ve got to wonder, though, if Christmas Past manifested as Coraline, and Christmas Present as Josef, who was that little girl? The future? How was I supposed to change that, when I didn’t even know her? If I believed any of this, I had to believe she was out there somewhere, and somehow she had to be the key to something better. Something besides all those graves. I think I’ll be keeping my eye out, for a small blonde girl with a serious face, and blue eyes that see right through me.
Okay, the logical part of my brain tells me, it was all a dream. What else could it be? But I’ve got one more question.
Why do I have dirt underneath my fingernails?