On a frigid December evening somewhere in Elgin, Evergrumpy Scrooge was sitting huddled in front of the gas fire. He would have been much more comfortable if the fire were actually burning, but it was three minutes past 8 p.m., the hour when he always turned it off to save money.
In the kitchen, his wife shivered after discovering you couldn’t get any warmth by opening the door of the microwave.
“That’s it, I’m off to bed,” Scrooge called to his long-suffering wife. “Don’t forget to turn out the pilot light on the furnace before you come up.”
Bundled up under the weight of a comforter, a lifetime’s worth of coats and some old torn curtains, Scrooge was soon lightly snoring.
He was awoken by the sound of scratching on the bedroom door. As he opened his eyes, the door slowly creaked wide to reveal a strange and ghostly figure.
“Did you remember to turn of the pilot light?” Scrooge asked. “And if you’re coming to bed bring an extra coat with you. It’s freezing in here.”
“I’m not your wife,” a creepy voice in the dark said.
Scrooge’s blood ran 10 degrees colder than it already was. The voice was so eerie it sounded like it was coming from another world. A world so far away it could have been Downers Grove. Every syllable grated on him until the hairs on the back of his arms stood at attention.
“Well, it sounds just like you,” he snapped. “Stop fooling around and let me sleep.”
The ghostly figure tiptoed towards the old three poster bed where Scrooge laid. It’s amazing how much money you can save by opting for three instead of four posts. At least that’s what he told his wife after losing the Ikea instructions on how to put it together.
A sudden flash of light transformed the room, followed by the sound of a hundred motorcycles screeching along the street outside.
“Will you turn that light out woman!” yelled Scrooge, shoving his head under a pillow.
“I already told you, I’m not your wife,” the disembodied voice said. “It is I, Harley’s ghost.”
“OK, I give up,” said Scrooge, sitting up in bed. “The phony British accent, the constant moaning, you certainly sound like my wife. But have it your way. What do you want? If you’re looking for a donation, I already put 10 cents in the Salvation Army kettle outside Jewel this morning. The bell ringer assured me it was tax deductible.”
Harley removed his motorcycle helmet, revealing an ashen face that looked like an avalanche.
“Are you sure you’re not my wife?” asked Scrooge, rubbing his eyes.
Harley’s ghost cleared what was left of his throat.
“I am here to teach you a lesson,” he said. “As a punishment for not listening to government advice, I have been condemned to wander the Earth weighted down with heavy chains and motorcycle leathers. I’m here to save you from the same fate. Over the next three nights three spirits will visit you and show you the error of your ways.”
“Unless they’re named vodka, bourbon and gin, I’m not interested,” said Scrooge, laying down his head. “Now let me sleep.”
The next night he was awoken by a banshee-like howl.
“You didn’t tell me your sister was visiting,” he snapped at his wife beside him.
“It is I, the Ghost of Christmas Past,” whispered a voice. “I’m here to show you Christmases of long ago.”
“If I wanted to see them I could watch them on the Hallmark channel,” grumbled Scrooge.
“No, I must show you myself,” said the ghost. “Now put on your robe and let’s get going.”
Scrooge begrudgingly agreed. The ghost took his hand and together they flew out of the window. Within moments they were over his boyhood home in London.
“How do you do that?” the old miser said. “I could save a fortune in air fare if my wife and I could travel like that.”
Looking down below Scrooge saw his family sitting around the dining room table. His parents were arguing as his mother served up a batch of burnt gruel; his brother and sister fighting over a toy. The weather was miserable, and the TV kept fizzling.
Scrooge wiped away a tear.
“How I miss those happy days,” he said.
The next night Scrooge was disturbed again. This time the bedroom door flew open to reveal a large figure dressed in a white gown with gloves, booties, a face mask, surgeon’s cap and plastic visor.
“You don’t have to tell me who you are,” said Scrooge rubbing his eyes. “You’re the Ghost of Christmas Present.
“Don’t bother to show me this Christmas, I can’t bear it. Families who follow the rules will be celebrating on Zoom. Those who don’t will be hosting super spreader parties. Everyone is blaming everyone else for the mess we’re in, the whole thing is just too terrible. I want to see Christmas Yet to Come.” With that he rolled over and went back to sleep.
The next night was Christmas Eve. Following his old tradition, Miser Scrooge left out an empty plate and tumbler before going to bed in the hopes that Santa would leave him some cookies and milk for the morning.
At 2 a.m. he was startled by not one but two ghosts at his bedroom door.
“What is this, a job-sharing scheme?” he complained putting on his robe.
“We are the Ghosts of Christmas Yet to Come,” the spirits said in unison. Rubbing his eyes, Scrooge saw one of them was a thin, wretched specter, the other a jolly fat man in a red velvet robe.
“I don’t like the look of you,” Grumpy told the thin figure.
“No one does,” replied the ghost, coughing. “But it’s important to show you what next Christmas will be like if you don’t follow the rules.”
Grabbing Scrooge by the left wrist, the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come Part One flew out of the window. Together they flew over a cemetery. By every grave, a child sat weeping.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think the coronavirus was serious, even though millions of people have died from it around the world,” one said.
“I didn’t know I had it until the day after Christmas,” another said. “I never would have visited if I’d have known.”
“No!” yelled Scrooge. “I can’t watch any more. Show me what will happen if we obey the rules instead.”
Scrooge felt another hand around his right wrist. Instead of being icy cold and boney, this one was warm and soft.
“You’re going to show me that if we all just take care this Christmas, next year will be full of festive fun, aren’t you?” he said.
“What are you talking about?” a familiar voice said.
Scrooge was back in his bed. The voice was that of his wife, who was shaking his wrist to wake him up.
“By Dickens!” she exclaimed. “You’ve been talking in your sleep again. Anyone would think you were reliving a ‘Christmas Carol!’ ”
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