“No sign of the Wicked Witch of the West tonight, I see,” said a red-haired woman, with Meet Me Under the Mistletoe on her t-shirt and berry-laden deely-boppers on her head. “I hope she wasn’t invited.”
The man next to her shuddered so hard his paper hat fell off. “God, no. If anyone can kill the party stone dead, it’s Elvira.”
Mistletoe woman giggled. “Yes, but at least she’d be able to lead you to its ghost.”
Wiggling his fingers, the man adopted an expression like a constipated camel. “My special spooky powers sense a spirit presence nearby,” he intoned. “Quick, pass me my crystal ball!”
Elvira heard a snort of laughter from Lucy’s direction, which hurriedly turned into a cough. “You don’t sound like that really,” the ghost reassured her. “Well, not much, anyway.”
Mistletoe woman cackled. “She’s such an old scrooge – I saw her take her donation to the children’s hospital back out of the tin yesterday, when she thought no one was looking.” She let out a loud hiccup. “Do you suppose she knows what we think of her?”
Her companion shook his head. “She can’t be that stupid.” Holding his glass up high, he raised his voice so that the whole table could hear. “Merry Christmas to the Queen of the Dead, wherever she may be. As long as it’s nowhere near us!”
A loud cheer rang out and everyone laughed. Wooden-faced, Elvira ignored the splinter of hurt his words had caused. So what if no one liked her, she decided stiffly – it wasn’t as though she actually cared about any of them. But again, in some dark corner of her soul, she knew she wasn’t being honest. They’d always been nice to her face-to-face; she’d never suspected that it was all an act.
She became aware that Lucy was staring at her. “What?”
The ghost frowned. “Did you really take your donation out of the charity tin?”
Elvira thought about lying. Then her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Yes. I get it, OK? I’m a horrible human being.”
Lucy sighed and batted the paper hat off the nearest reveller, who frowned in tipsy confusion. “You are. But there’s hope for you yet, or I wouldn’t be here.” She glanced at the watch on her wrist. “As enjoyable as this has been, we’d better head back.”
The pub vanished and they were back in Elvira’s living room once more. It seemed even emptier after the warmth and noise of the pub and Elvira realised for the first time how bitter and miserable her existence had become. No wonder her work colleagues hated her.
“Right, my shift is up,” Lucy announced, dusting her palms together. “It’s been emotional. I’d tell you to have a nice life but from what I’ve seen, it could go either way, to be honest.”
Elvira barely heard. Her mind was spinning with everything she’d seen so far – her childhood friend, her mother’s illness, her colleagues’ disdain and the cold, hard knowledge that her heart had become a shrivelled lump inside her. The reality of it all weighed heavily upon her and, for the first time in her life, she didn’t want to be alone. “Must you go?” she burst out.
Lucy seemed taken aback. “Blimey, you must be desperate for company if you want me to stick around.” She eyed Elvira with something close to pity as she faded away. “Don’t worry, someone else will be along shortly.”
Lucy’s glow melted into nothing. The only Christmas left to be seen was her future, Elvira realised, and the thought gave an involuntary shudder. Seeing her life for what it was had been difficult enough. She had a very bad feeling about what was coming next. A very bad feeling indeed.
Chapter Eight
No matter how feverishly Elvira searched her flat, the exorcism book was nowhere to be found. Too late, she remembered that Lucy had been flicking through it earlier; no doubt she’d taken it to stop Elvira from unleashing any nasty surprises on her final visitor. With sick dread in her heart, Elvira watched the clock creep slowly around to four o’clock and squeezed her eyes shut as it chimed the hour. What horrors did the last spirit have in store for her?
Once the fourth chime had faded, she opened her eyes, expecting to see the ghost in front of her. But the room was empty. She sucked in a shallow breath and gazed around. Then she looked behind the sofa, because it wouldn’t surprise her if the next spirit was a child. There was no one there; she was quite alone. A sigh of relief escaped her. Maybe the last ghost had decided she was a complete waste of time.
The thud of the knocker slamming against the front door made her jump out of her skin. Three times it pounded and then fell silent. Quivering, Elvira forced her reluctant feet along the hallway and opened the door. Standing before her was a boy of seventeen or eighteen, dressed in midnight-black robes. His hair was a mop of light-brown curls and a faint scar curved across his cheek towards his mouth. Elvira almost smiled – apart from the weird outfit, this ghost could easily pass for the kind of fresh-faced pop star young girls were always fainting over these days. Maybe the future wasn’t so bleak after all. She met his gaze. And let out a shrill scream of terror.
Instead of eyes, his sockets were filled with a writhing black oily substance. Every now and then, a flicker of fiery red rose to the surface and sank again. Elvira gripped the door frame and shivered. What was he?
“Wh-who are you?” she stammered.
His voice creaked as he held out a hand. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come.”
Panic took hold of her. She slammed the door in his face, then backed off as he stepped through it and into the hallway.
“Go away!” she yelled, reaching the living room and shutting that door too.
The ghost followed, passing through the wood as though it wasn’t there. “There’s an easy way or a hard way to do this,” he rasped. His disturbing black gaze fixed upon her. “The hard way will most likely kill you.”
Elvira hesitated; as scared as she was, she wasn’t ready to die. None of the other ghosts had suggested it was an option. Then again, none of them had looked like this one. Swallowing her fear, she lifted her chin. “OK. We’ll do it the easy way.”
He tipped his head. “Good choice.”
His fingers swirled the air in a circular motion, as though he was stirring a cauldron. A red-tinged whirlpool opened up at their feet and Elvira was caught in its grip before she could even think about jumping clear. She screamed as she spun and picked up speed. Just when she thought she might pass out, the whirlpool spat her out and she landed in a crumpled heap on a cold tiled floor.
She got up, concentrating hard on keeping the last remnants of her liquid supper from gracing the white tiles. The ghost floated down to stand beside her, as though it was the kind of thing he did every day. Which it might be, she realised.
Looking around, she saw they were in a long, high-ceilinged corridor. The walls were a sterile beige colour and she guessed it must be some kind of institution – a school, perhaps? Then she sniffed; judging from the combination of disinfectant and stodgy food, it was definitely a hospital. Her heart sank. There could only be one reason the ghost had brought her here.
Unwilling to feed her sense of dread, she waited for some kind of direction from the ghost. He stood silent and still, however.
“I didn’t catch your name,” she ventured.
His head turned towards her. “I used to be called Owen, but that was before. Now I don’t have a name.”
Before what? She wanted to ask but the doors at the end of the corridor opened and a pair of nurses in blue scrubs came towards them. As they passed by, the ghost drifted after them. He beckoned to Elvira.
One of the nurses turned through a door and into a small room. Elvira stared nervously at the bed and the multitude of wires attached to the wizened figure occupying it. She’d been right when she’d guessed the reason the ghost had brought her there but the knowledge didn’t help her with what she saw. The patient was her mother and it was obvious she was dying.
“Hello, Mrs Johnson,” the nurse called. “How are you today?”
The frail-looking woman opened her eyes and strugg
led to focus. “Mustn’t grumble, dear.”
The nurse checked various read-outs and noted the results on a clip-board at the end of the bed. “How’s the pain?”
Elvira’s mother gazed out of the window. “Hardly there at all. Has my daughter been in touch?”
“Not yet,” the nurse looked up with an encouraging smile. “But I’m sure she’ll come soon.”
Tears prickled in Elvira’s eyes when she saw the hopeful look on her mother’s face. She still hadn’t given up on her, even though Elvira had been a terrible daughter.
“How far in the future is this?” she whispered.
The ghost shook his head. “I can’t say.”
Helpless, Elvira watched as her mother coughed and fought to catch her breath afterwards. “Will this definitely happen?”
He shrugged. “Death comes to us all, some sooner than others. But this particular future could be changed.”
And that was all it took to break Elvira. “I can’t bear this. Please can we go?”
The ghost’s black eyes rested upon her. “You know that she does not have long left?”
Fresh tears poured down Elvira’s face. “But I can’t help her now. She doesn’t even know I’m here! If you have the tiniest scrap of compassion, you’ll take me home.”
Her plea seemed to touch the ghost. “I have more to show you.”
He summoned up the whirlpool again and the hospital room became an empty church. A coffin lay before the altar, with a lone wreath upon it. Elvira felt her heart tear in two.
“No!” she cried, pushing past the ghost. “Tell me it isn’t true.”
The ghost followed her in silence. She hurried forwards and knelt in front of the coffin. “I’m sorry, Mum,” she sobbed. “Please forgive me.”
The ghost laid a hand on her shoulder and pointed towards the vicar, who was heading towards them with another clergyman. His voice carried through the empty church.
“It’s unheard of,” he said, staring about in a bewildered fashion. “I’ve never conducted a funeral service where not a single mourner turned up.”
His companion shook his head. “She had no family and, it seems, no friends. A sad way to live.”
“And a worse way to die,” the vicar agreed. “But we’ll do what we can for the poor soul.”
The words brought even more guilt crashing down on Elvira. No one had cared enough to come to her mother’s funeral. She had lived alone and died lonely. The knowledge that she could have changed her mother’s final days burned Elvira like a brand.
“I’ve seen enough,” she told the ghost, with a wretched shake of her head. “Please, take me away from here.”
“Wait,” the ghost commanded.
The vicar took his place on the altar and the other clergyman stood at his elbow. Spreading his hands, he addressed the vacant pews.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to commend the soul of our sister, Peggy, to her maker.”
A sudden roaring filled Elvira’s ears. What name had he used? Peggy? But that meant –
With a wild cry, she dashed forwards and snatched at the wreath on the coffin. Her fingers slid right through it but a few petals moved aside long enough for Elvira to see that the simple brass plate bore the name Peggy Johnson. The truth came crashing in; this wasn’t her mother’s funeral – it was her own. And not a single person had come.
Chapter Nine
“Is this really how my life ends?” Elvira asked the ghost.
He nodded. “Death comes to us all.”
“Stop saying that,” she cried, slamming her fists into the plush carpet. “Am I really so despicable that no one will come to pay their last respects?”
The ghost looked stern. “Respect is earned. What have you ever done to make people care about you?”
Elvira’s shoulders slumped as the truth dawned on her. “Nothing.”
“This is only one possible future,” he said, a soothing note creeping into his raspy voice. “It may not come to this, if you are prepared to change for the better right now.”
She seized the sliver of hope with both hands. “You mean my mother won’t die and I’ll have some mourners at my funeral?”
He shrugged. “Everyone dies eventually.”
Elvira took a deep breath and swallowed her impatience. “Yeah, you said. What I mean is, I’ll get the chance to put this right.”
The ghost tipped his cowled head. “If you change for the better tonight.”
She stared gratefully up at him and punched the air. “Yes! Oh yes, I will!”
A faint smile crept over the ghost’s face. “I’m pleased to hear it. Do you promise to stop tormenting the souls of the dead?”
“Torment them?” She leapt to her feet. “How could I torment them when you’ve all done so much for me tonight? Seriously, I could kiss you!”
A look of alarm crossed his face. “Please don’t,” he said, backing away. Regaining his composure, he threw her a severe look. “Promise me you will change, or I will make sure that me and my three companions will haunt you for the rest of your days.”
Elvira nodded so fast her head hurt. “Of course – I promise I’ll never hurt another ghost as long as I live.”
“And you will make peace with your mother?”
Again, she nodded. “Of course.”
The ghost seemed satisfied. “Then I’ll leave you to it. Merry Christmas, Peggy Johnson!”
His gazed searched hers and Elvira could have sworn she saw a flash of steel grey tinged with gold at the centre of his creepy oil-filled sockets. Too late, she remembered his earlier words and wondered again what had happened to him. But she had no time to ask; with a barely audible sigh, the robes collapsed, leaving nothing behind. The church around her vanished too, and was replaced by the shadow-filled alleyway where she’d sat with Miss Chester what felt like a lifetime ago.
Elvira peered around her in confusion. “How did I get here?”
Stumbling along the alley, she emerged onto bustling Regent Street. The carol singers were still singing when they should have been long in bed, Hamley's was brightly lit when it should have been in darkness. Elvira gaped, open-mouthed. What the Chocolate flipping Orange was going on? The spirits had seemed so real – for ghosts, anyway. But they’d left her at home in the early hours of Christmas Day, and here she was back on Regent Street a full twelve hours earlier. She pinched herself and let out a yelp; she was definitely awake now. As unlikely as it seemed, she must have nodded off in the alleyway and dreamed the whole thing. Except –
Her hand flew to her head; the Santa hat she’d picked up during her lonely hours in the pub was still there. It couldn’t have been a dream. She stood still amongst the bustle of scurrying shoppers, trying to absorb what she’d been through. A white flake swirled past her nose, landing on her bottom lip. It melted in a heartbeat and was replaced by another, and another. Her gaze flicked upwards as more snowflakes spiralled down, dancing and twinkling in the ice-blue lights until they filled the night. Elvira spread out her hands and laughed. Suddenly, everything was simple. She’d been given the ultimate Christmas gift; a glimpse of the future and the chance to put right her mistakes before it was too late.
A sharp rattling dragged her out of her dream-like state. She looked down to see a charity tin was being rattled under her nose. Her gaze met that of the man holding it and he jumped in recognition, hurriedly looking away with a mumbled, “Sorry.”
“Wait!” she cried, fumbling with her purse. Scooping out the contents, notes and all, she crammed it into the opening of the tin. “Merry Christmas!”
She whirled away, leaving him to peer through the snow at her in grateful amazement. “Bless you!” he called. “Merry Christmas!”
She waved a hand and sped off in the direction of Oxford Circus. There was only one place she wanted to be and if she could beat the weather, she might still be able to get there.
The concourse at Paddington Station was heaving with people on their way t
o start their festive celebrations. Somewhere, a brass band was pumping out well-worn carols. Elvira weaved her way through the crowds, accepting the inevitable bumps from bags and cases with uncharacteristic good cheer and apologising as she went. She queued without complaint and beamed at the man behind the ticket window when she reached the front.
“Merry Christmas!” she said, pulling her credit card out. “I’d like a ticket to Starcross in Devon, please, leaving as soon as humanly possible.”
The man consulted the screen and pressed a few buttons on his keyboard. “Returning when?”
The events of her incredible night replayed in Elvira’s mind. Why she’d been chosen for a second chance she couldn’t say but she felt like a completely different person to the mean, flint-hearted creature she’d been twelve hours earlier. Her eyes twinkled with warmth as she winked at the man. “Tell you what, why don’t you make it a single? I think I’m going to be there for a while.”
Enjoyed My So-Called Christmas Carol?
You might also like to meet the characters in their own stories:
My So-Called Afterlife
My So-Called Haunting
My So-Called Phantom Lovelife
You can find out more and read the first chapters of each book at
Tamsyn Murray Online!
Author’s note
I first read Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol when I was about eight years old. It was an abridged version and there was probably a lot I didn’t understand but I still loved the story. So when I was thinking about writing a Christmas story featuring some of the Afterlife characters, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to adapt the story Dickens wrote to fit around my ghosts.
And it’s been fun spending time with them. I know authors aren’t supposed to have favourites but if I had to choose one character to spend eternity with, it would be Lucy Shaw, from My So-Called Afterlife. When I first had the idea for the book, Lucy arrived in my head fully formed, stamping the wee from her Uggs (this makes sense if you’ve read My So-Called Afterlife) and demanding that I tell her story. She made me laugh and drove me insane and I liked her a lot. I’m glad she was my Ghost of Christmas Present.
My So-Called Christmas Carol Page 3
