by Hank Davis
Tee and Pip continue to write together in the award-winning Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences series, their third installment Dawn’s Early Light hitting the shelves in 2014. Between books, they have released Ministry Protocol: Thrilling Cases of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, a collection of short stories set in their steampunk world. Find out more about Tee at TeeMorris.com.
IN THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS
by TEE MORRIS
Christmas, 1895
WELLINGTON THORNHILL BOOKS, Esquire, had not planned for anything out of the ordinary this Christmas Eve. His agenda called for a candlelight service at his church, a special Christmas treat of goose for Archimedes when he got home, and then to bed, rising the next morning to a day of progress on his current work. He had solved the challenge of thrust. Now it was a matter of control over pitch and yaw. That mystery he planned to solve as a gift for himself. His Christmas plans did not include, in any way, shape, or form, investigation into an occurrence of any kind, peculiar or otherwise.
That was before Eliza returned from the main level of Miggins Antiquities with a cylinder that she had, without a doubt, retrieved from the Scotland Yard pneumatic. That was before a quick conversation about the two of them being the only ones left in the building as it was Christmas Eve and everyone, including the Director, has absconded for the holiday. That was before Wellington uttered seven words he knew he would regret.
“Very well, Miss Braun. If you insist.”
He now bit his lip hard as he watched from his hiding place the third apparition appear. Not a single confirmed haunting, but a third. In the same location. In the same night. Not free floating orbs. Not wisps of mist. Not partial apparitions.
Full.
Body.
Apparitions.
This spirit appeared more imposing than the others. It was tall, wearing tattered, ancient robes that insinuated druidic origins, and while the shadows concealed its face, Wellington could easily make out pale bones protruding from the robes’ cuffs.
His eyes immediately darted to the other side of the room. He could just make out the shoe tips of his partner. The curtain she concealed herself behind remained still, placid. They had already done this twice before in the evening. This third procedure should be effortless.
The old man had dropped to one knee—as they had planned—almost as if he were about to propose marriage. As the other spirits had appeared completely and totally cognizant to verbal and physical communication, it was a strategy to lower the next fantastic creature’s defenses. Wellington felt more than confident this was the right strategy to play as each ghost garnered their own specific, tactical advantages. The previous one, for instance, appeared to sport its own girth as a weapon, but it was the children crouching within his robes that proved quite the adversaries.
Unlike the other visitations, however, this spirit fed on the very life in the room. Wellington felt despair well up inside him. The temperature in this already cold, dreary place felt as if it had dropped even further. He fought back a piteous sigh for he knew his breath would give his own hiding place away.
“I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?” the old man spoke, his earlier confidence seeming dashed and destroyed.
No reply came from the ghost, save for a gesture. The ghost pointed downward, inclining its bony hand towards the frail, trembling soul before it.
“You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us,” the old man, his words forming as puffs of fog around his mouth, pressed. “Is that so, Spirit?”
The ghost inclined its head. The only answer this bare apartments’ sole occupant received.
Amazing, Wellington thought to himself. It, too, is fully responsive to corporal beings. Never have I seen such consistent interaction, let alone such irrefutable spiritual activity, at one haunting.
“Ghost of the Future!” the old man exclaimed, “I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?”
Wellington furrowed his brow. Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?
The specter gave no reply, but extended its hand straight before them.
“Very well.” Then the old man rose to his feet, stepped back, and shouted, “Get him!”
With a grand flutter, the curtain opposite Wellington billowed out and parted to reveal Eliza D. Braun, throwing back the switch and safety lock on the Tesla-McTighe-Fitzroy Paraphysical Containment Rifle, or as the three inventors had nicknamed it, the “Phantom Confounder.” A whine emitted from the small turbine mounted atop the chamber, but only a heartbeat or two later the weapon roared to life. The dark lenses of Eliza’s goggles flickered from the tendrils of energy erupting from the Confounder’s bell-shaped barrel. The electricity illuminated the room, the ethereal creature, and the old man, their shadows—Dear Lord, Wellington thought, this spectre is so complete it has mass!—dancing along the drab walls of the bedroom. Like pearl white claws, bolts wrapped themselves around the ghost, ensnaring it where it stood, but suddenly the rifle kicked in Eliza’s arms and a pop rang out from the weapon’s transistor. Several tendrils went wide, destroying two small figurines on the fire’s mantelpiece and bouncing off the mirror over the same mantelpiece and striking a small gas lamp on the wall. The wall fixture exploded, making the phantom and old man recoil.
“Bugger!” Eliza spat. “Wellington, we have a problem!”
Dash it all.
“Throw the capacitor to Position Three!” Wellington emerged from his hiding place, sliding a small metal plate underneath the spirit. It was stumbling, so the creature was stunned. At present, this could work in their favour. The plate stopped just behind the ghost. “That should open a circuit and—”
The Confounder roared to life and threw another webbing of energy at and around the spirit. It reared back, making the tendrils whip and bow in mid-air.
“Eliza,” Wellington said, his eyes watching the electro-pattern, “the stream is going to go wide.”
“No, it’s not,” she returned.
“You’re going to go wide.”
“I’ve got this under control,” she growled through gnashed teeth.
“Eliza!” Wellington grabbed the old man and dove. He was thankful that this man enjoyed the indulgence of a luxurious bed.
The creature jerked its body again and the bolt snapped outward, cutting through the air where the old man had once stood. Lightning scorched across the wall and sliced through a small statue of Eros located in the room’s far corner.
“Right then,” Eliza said, throwing the rifle’s bolt forward, “I went wide. Apologies.”
“Stay here, Mr. Scrooge,” Wellington said before rolling away from the old man.
He opened the drawer of Scrooge’s bed stand, and withdrew the small control box he had hidden there earlier. The green button made a hard click under Wellington’s thumb, and the ghost lurched as the plate began to rattle. Wellington’s throat constricted as he adjusted a pair of dials on the wireless in his grasp. The black spectre was still moving too much.
“Eliza,” Wellington called, “a moment of your attention if you please.”
“Just a moment if you please,” she replied over her weapon’s attempt to spin up to full power. “The generator is still warming up.”
The plate rattled louder.
“We don’t have a few minutes!”
“Just another—”
The phantom had been silent all this while. From underneath it, Wellington’s trap hummed and shuddered, but not loud enough to drown out the low, guttural scream ripping from the dark void of the ghost’s cowl.
Eliza threw back the bolt, and shifted the capacitor lever to the far right. “Close enough.”
The Confounder exploded in a brilliant flash, pure energy cocooning the Ghost of Christ
mas Yet to Come in a wild, turbulent display. It released another howl as it wrestled against the Confounder.
“Bugger me, he’s strong,” muttered Eliza.
“Hold him there,” Wellington said as he adjusted the settings on his controls what he hoped would be one final time, “and I’ve got him!”
His thumb lifted the guard and flipped the red switch to the “Open” position. The metal plate spilt, revealing a dark mass that churned and bubbled underneath the ghost. On sight of this, the ghost’s struggle grew frantic, desperate. Its bony hands cut through the air, threatening to grab hold of anything that would come within reach of it. Try as it would, Wellington knew without a doubt the portal’s pull would not falter. Eliza shut down the Confounder as shadows from this abyss reached up, grabbing hold of the phantom as the Confounder once had. The creature gave one final reach and a wail of panic before surrendering. The shadows constricted around it and yanked, dragging it into the murkiness of oblivion.
Wellington returned the switch to the “Closed” position, and the portal shut with a soft hum. He took a deep breath—that sound cutting through the moment’s heavy silence—and afforded a smile.
Three spirits, three captures. Not bad for one evening.
“Apart from a momentary cock-up, that went rather well, I thought,” Eliza said.
“Yes,” Wellington replied, motioning to the massive device now resting across her shoulders, “about that?”
“It had to have been that second ghost. You saw the size of him, yes?” She motioned with her head to the Confounder. “I think its calibration might have been thrown off after packing him and his beasties up. I’ll make sure to give it a once-over when we get back to the office.”
Her smile, he always thought, was quite disarming. It was made even more so when she lifted her tinted goggles and rested them across her forehead. The soot and grime from the Confounder had darkened and stained her face, save for a small band of pale white skin across her eyes.
He was about to comment when he heard a soft scratching coming from the bed where he had left Ebenezer Scrooge. Wellington turned to find Scrooge muttering something to himself, and then quickly making notations on a small piece of parchment.
“Mr. Scrooge,” Wellington began, “are you well?”
“As well as can be expected,” Scrooge returned, his eyes noting the parchment as he turned to the two of them, “I would have been asleep hours ago had we not tonight to contend with.”
“Well now, Mr. Scrooge, no need to worry,” Eliza said, smiling warmly. “You can sleep more soundly now, thanks to the Ministry.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Scrooge’s eyes looked over them both, his mouth stretching into a thin frown. “Though I still have no inkling exactly what Ministry you serve.”
“Our policies unfortunately mean we must remain in shadow,” she said.
“So it would seem. Very well. Makes no difference either way as you have seen to your obligations.” He glanced at the parchment and then presented it to Wellington. “And now, your bill.”
Wellington and Eliza both gave a start. The Archivist was still staring at the paper, the ink still quite fresh, when Eliza blurted, “Our what?”
“For damages to my estate.” Scrooge motioned to the scorched mirror over the fireplace, the destroyed gas lamp, and the destroyed statue. “And let’s not forget the parlour where you ensnared the Ghost of Christmas Present.”
Eliza scoffed. “As much as I hate to repeat myself, but did you see the size of him?”
“You claimed this sort of thing to be a specialty. I was unaware that damage to personal property came with your unique services.”
Her eyes quickly reviewed the paper in Wellington’s hand, and then jumped back to Scrooge. “You billed us for your time?”
“In my occupation, I must be alert and well-rested. My mind is far more reliable than any difference engine in Her Majesty’s service, provided I get enough sleep. As I am presently not asleep and working with you all, my time is therefore billable. And as I anticipate that I will not simply drift off to sleep in the wake of tonight’s excitement, this is time billable to your organization as direct consequences to your actions.”
“You’ve got some cheek, mate!” Eliza spat.
“I pay my taxes. And as I mentioned to some rather insistent annoyances earlier this day, my taxes help to support the establishments of our government. They cost enough. My taxes, however, should not be expected to be exempt from damages upon my personal property due to your incompetence.”
Now Wellington took offense. “I crave a pardon, sir, but we captured your ghosts. How do you define that—”
“All but one,” Scrooge said, his tone so sorrowful that it was insulting. “Marley’s Ghost is still at large, I am afraid. And did your partner not admit to her own ineptitude with your contraption there while attempting to capture the final spirit?”
Her warning came colder than the apartments themselves. “Tread. Carefully.”
Both men looked to Eliza whose fingers were splaying slowly around the butt of the Confounder.
“Mr. Scrooge,” Wellington began, clearing his throat lightly, “please consider that your case would have been dismissed as the rantings of a mad old man if our Scotland Yard contact had not happened to relay it to our Ministry. Miss Braun and I happened to be in the office on its arrival, and we dropped everything in order to give your case our undivided attention.”
“I applaud your dedication to your civic duty,” Scrooge returned. His expression turned dark. “Now unless you wish me to adjust my invoice for the time you are continuing to take without any consideration to me, I suggest you collect your infernal devices and depart. Good evening.”
He turned back to his four-poster bed and crawled between the sheets. He went to blow out his candle, but paused to see Wellington and Eliza still standing there.
“The front door has not moved since your arrival.” He motioned with his head to the bedroom door. “Good evening.”
Eliza’s grumbling was the only sound Wellington could hear as they saw themselves out of the dark, dank apartments, their gear jostling lightly with each of their steps. It had just started to snow, meaning that even with their efforts to bundle against the elements, a long, cold walk home stretched before them. Wellington checked his watch and saw it was just past midnight. How these spirits could also alter time would have been something he would have loved to investigate. Could Scrooge’s apartments been constructed at some sort of temporal convergence point?
His thoughts were scattered by Eliza, the Confounder’s bulk looking rather odd against her heavy fur coat as she spat, “Jolly nice. We have to walk home, I suppose, after carrying out our civic duty.”
“It seems that way,” Wellington muttered.
She looked back up to the window that remained lit for a few moments, and then winked into darkness. “Old bugger really needs a taking to task, doesn’t he?”
“He does seem a bit cantankerous,” Wellington agreed.
They took a few steps further, and Eliza stopped. He turned to look at her in the gaslight. The grime across her face seemed darker now, making the area once protected by her goggles seeming to glow in the night.
“I’m sorry, Wellington.”
Tonight was truly a night of surprises. “You’re sorry, Miss Braun?”
“Welly, I am certain you probably had other plans for Christmas. Perhaps a fine dinner with relatives or some such; but I was quite happy to have this case appear in the pneumatic system when it did.”
“Well, of course you were happy. It was a chance to return to the field—”
“I did not look forward to another Christmas alone.”
His brow furrowed. “You? The vivacious Eliza D. Braun, alone at Christmas?”
“Christmas is a time for family, and my own is…” Her voice trailed off, and now with the pronounced clean skin around her eyes, the tears welling in there were evident.
Well
ington felt a warmth swell in his chest. Eliza had been insistent on him joining her on this case, but not to return to the life of a field agent. She had wanted to spend Christmas with family. Instead, she chose to spend the holiday with the next best thing.
“I’m flattered, Miss Braun.” And he truly was. Tonight has been a delightful Christmas gift.
He then looked around himself and realised, “Oh, dash it all, I forgot the portalplate at Scrooge’s.”
“Better go get it then,” Eliza said, sniffling a bit. “I’ll wait here for you.”
Wellington took a quick step back to the detestable man’s apartments but stopped. He looked over to the wireless controller slung over his shoulder, looked back at Eliza, and then back towards Scrooge’s.
“You know, Miss Braun,” Wellington said, a smile forming across his face, “wireless telegraphy is an amazing technology of our age. Before it, we would have to be tethered to devices in order to make them work.”
Eliza inclined her head to one side. “Yes,” she said plainly, “and your point?”
“With wireless advances, we can now operate devices of all sorts,” and he flipped the safety up of the portalplate’s activation switch, “from great distances.”
His thumb pushed the switch to “Open” and turned to look up to Scrooge’s bedroom window as it exploded with light.
On hearing the old miser scream, he returned his attention to Eliza. “Mr. Scrooge did say his time was valuable,” Wellington said, “so now he can take them all at once, and have it over, yes?”
Eliza laughed at the frantic display erupting from Scrooge’s window, then she looked back to Wellington, her smile brighter than the chaotic luminance coming from above them. “Alice will be off for the day, but I know a butcher who usually has a nice bit of New Zealand lamb. If you are available for Christmas dinner, Wellington, would you care to enjoy the holiday with a touch of Aotearoa?”
