A Ghost Tale for Christmas Time (6 page)

“They’re staring at Charles,” Jack mumbled, his mouth full of potatoes.

“No, I think they’re staring at our food,” said Annie.

While Charles kept talking with his fans, Annie took a drumstick, two pieces of bread, and a chunk of cheese from her plate. She wrapped them in a napkin. Then she slipped away from the table and out the door of the inn.

Mr. Pinch cried out. He waved his hands and charged to the door. He yelled in a shrill voice, “Come back here, urchin! Where are you going with that?”

Oh, no, not again!
thought Jack. He leapt up and ran to the doorway. He pushed past Mr. Pinch and stepped outside into the chilly air.

Annie was standing with the little boy and the man with the crutch. She was offering them her bundle of food.

“Don’t you dare give that food away!” cried Mr. Pinch.

“Why?” said Jack. “She’s not stealing anything. She’s giving them some of her own dinner.”

“What is happening here?” said Charles, stepping outside.

The little boy grabbed the bundle of food from Annie. “Thank you,” he said softly, and he and the man took off. The man’s crutch thumped on the pavement as he hobbled away with the boy.

“That’s right! Get out of here!” Mr. Pinch yelled after them. “No greedy mice begging at my inn! And you, urchin, you had no right to do that!”

“Mr. Pinch, from what I could tell, my young friend was only showing compassion,” said Charles.

“Bah! Foolishness!” said Mr. Pinch. “Rumors will spread now that I give away food!”

“And what harm would come of that?” Charles asked the innkeeper. “You’re rich enough. You can afford to share a bit with those less fortunate.”

“Bah, humbug!” said Mr. Pinch. “Are there no poorhouses to feed them? No workhouses? Let them eat in debtors’ prisons! The father should
put the boy to work! There are plenty of factories that would hire him!”

Charles seemed unable to speak as he stared at the stingy man.

“Charles?” said Annie.

Jack didn’t know what was wrong with Charles. But he knew he should get him away from the miserable innkeeper. “Let’s leave,” he said, tugging on Charles’s sleeve. “Let’s go.”

Charles looked at Jack. “Yes … yes …,” he said absently. “Indeed.”

“Wait a second,” said Jack. He dashed back into the warm dining room and grabbed his green velvet bag. On his way out, he noticed that everyone had gone back to their dinners. They were eating and talking, their lives untouched by the sad events outside.

Jack joined Charles and Annie on the street. “All set,” he said.

“Mr. Dickens? Please!” Mr. Pinch whined from the doorway. “Pay me before you leave? Please, sir?”

“Yes. Yes … of course.” Charles pulled out his wallet and paid the innkeeper.

Mr. Pinch smiled. “You understand, don’t you, sir?” he said. “It’s not my job to feed all of England.”

“No. Of course it isn’t,” said Charles. Then he walked away from the inn. Jack and Annie followed him.

It was colder and darker now. Brownish fog shrouded the street. A lamplighter was lighting the streetlamps.

“Are you okay, Charles?” asked Annie.

Charles barely nodded. “Yes—uh—did you children get enough to eat?” he said.

“Yes, thank you,” said Annie. “We’re fine. But are you all right?”

“Me?” He let out a long, shaky sigh. “Sorry, but I—I must leave you now,” he said. “Here.” Charles pulled out his wallet again. “Take this. I want you to buy new boots and a week’s worth of food. I’m sorry to leave you, but I must.” His hands shook as he held out the leather wallet.

“No, we can’t,” said Jack.

“I insist,” said Charles, giving him the wallet. “Thank you for your company. And bless you both.” Charles Dickens then walked away from them, disappearing into the brown fog.

“W
hat do you think is wrong with him?” said Annie.

“I don’t know,” said Jack. He put the wallet in his bag. “But so far our mission’s been a disaster.”

“Well, we can’t give up now,” said Annie. “Come on, let’s follow him.”

As Jack and Annie started after Charles, the street was quiet and empty. It seemed the blinding fog and damp drizzle had driven everyone inside.

They hadn’t gone far before Charles looked back and saw them. “Don’t follow me, children!”
he called. “Please! I want to be alone now! I must be alone.”

Jack and Annie watched Charles vanish into the mist.

“Maybe we should go back,” Jack said. “We could find our way to his house and wait for him there.”

“Something tells me he’s not going home soon,” said Annie. “I feel like he really needs our help
now.”

Jack sighed. “Yeah, I feel that way, too,” he said. “So let’s follow him. But we’d better keep a safe distance from him, so he doesn’t see us.”

As Jack and Annie followed Charles through the fog, they could hear the tapping of his walking stick on the cobblestones. They followed the sound down a sloping street lined with shacks.

In the dingy light of the gas streetlamps, Jack could see garbage in the gutters—cabbage leaves, moldy bread, rotten fish. The poor neighborhood frightened him. But he and Annie kept going,
following the sounds of Charles’s footsteps and the tapping of his walking stick.

Then the sounds stopped.

“Wait,” Jack whispered.

Jack and Annie froze. They couldn’t see Charles through the fog, but they could hear the sound of sobbing.

“Oh, no!” whispered Annie.

Jack and Annie moved closer to the sound. Charles was sitting under a streetlamp at the bottom of the hill. His head was resting in the crook of his arm.

“Charles?” said Annie. She stepped closer to Charles. “Are you okay?” Annie sat on the curb next to him.

Jack sat on the other side of Charles. “You want to talk about it?” he asked.

Charles lifted his head. “I’m sorry. I’ve never told anyone this story before,” he said. “Not even my wife or my closest friends.”

“You can tell us,” said Jack.

Charles looked at Jack, then at Annie. He stood and motioned for them to join him. Then he pointed into the fog. “Over there, near the river, was once a shoe polish factory. It was a tumbledown old building, filled with river rats. I went to work there when I was twelve. I sat at a table, pasting labels onto pots of black polish. I worked eleven hours a day, six days a week, yet I barely earned enough to keep alive.”

“You were only twelve?” said Jack.

“Yes. And I lived alone. I had lost everything—my family, my school, my dignity,” said Charles.

“Were you an orphan?” asked Annie.

“No. I had parents,” said Charles.

“Why did they make you work in such a bad place?” asked Jack.

“My father had fallen on hard times,” said Charles. “He was a good man, but he couldn’t pay his bills. So he was sent to a debtors’ prison across the river. My mother chose to live there with him.”

“That’s a terrible story,” said Annie.

“Wait a minute,” said Jack. “You mean your dad was sent to prison because he couldn’t pay his bills?”

“Yes,” said Charles.

“That doesn’t make sense,” said Jack. “How could he earn the money to pay his bills if he was in prison?”

“That’s a very good question,” said Charles.

“That doesn’t happen anymore,” said Jack, thinking of life back in Frog Creek.

“Oh, yes, it does,” said Charles. “Life is still
miserable for thousands of poor. Parents live in prisons and workhouses, while countless children work in factories and mines for pennies.”

“But at least things are different for
you
now,” said Annie. “You’re a famous writer. That should make you feel better.”

“How can that make me feel better?” said Charles. “What is writing? Just ink on a page. It’s not food for the hungry. It’s not medicine for the sick. Lately I’ve been thinking I should give up my writing altogether.”

“Oh, no,” said Jack. “You can’t do that.”

“It seems so foolish and vain,” said Charles.

“But—” said Jack.

“No,” said Charles. He let out a shuddering sigh. “I have decided: I shall write no more.”

“Charles, what about—” said Annie.

“Be kind, children, and leave me now,” said Charles. “I need to be alone. My heart dies inside of me.”

“Oh. Okay …,” said Annie. She and Jack stood up. “Bye, Charles …”

Jack started to wish Charles good luck, but the words stuck in his throat. There was really nothing to say. As Charles covered his face in despair, Jack and Annie started back up the hill.

“We can’t just leave him,” said Jack.

“I know. So let’s stay nearby,” said Annie.

Jack and Annie found a stoop to sit on, and they watched over the lonely figure at the bottom of the hill.

“Now I know why Merlin sent us here,” said Jack. “But this really seems hopeless.”

“Look in our research book,” said Annie. “Maybe it can help us.”

Jack pulled out their book and looked up Charles Dickens again. He read aloud:

“Wait, wait,” said Annie.
“A Christmas Carol?
Wasn’t that the name of the play we saw last year with Mom and Dad and Grandma?”

“Yeah,” said Jack, “on Christmas Eve. Oh, man, that’s why the name
Charles Dickens
sounded familiar.”

“Look, there’s a picture of Scrooge, the mean guy in the play,” said Annie. She pointed to a picture in the book. It showed an old man wearing a nightcap and holding a candle.

Jack read the caption underneath:

“Wow, remember the three ghosts who visit Mr. Scrooge?” said Jack. “The Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Christmas Present, and the Ghost of Christmas Future.”

“Right. They try to change him by showing him his past, his present, and his future,” said Annie.
“At the end of the story, he’s like a different person. I can’t believe Charles wrote that story!”

“Well, now it seems like he won’t,” said Jack. “He just said he’s never going to write again. He said his heart has died.”

Annie stood up and brushed herself off. “So get out the violin and the bow,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Oh, I forgot all about our magic violin!” said Jack.

“Me too, until now,” said Annie. “Get it out. I’ll make up a song.”

“What kind of song?” asked Jack.

“I’ll make up my own version of
A Christmas Carol
,” said Annie. “But it won’t be a story about Scrooge. It’ll be a story about Charles—a
ghost
story about Charles Dickens.”

“A
ghost story?” said Jack. “You mean we’ll make ghosts appear?”

“Yep,” said Annie.

“Um … I don’t know,” said Jack. Ghosts made him nervous.

“I promise this will work,” said Annie.

“But I don’t get it,” said Jack. “A ghost story. How can we change Charles with that?”

“We
won’t change him. The
ghosts
will change him, just like they changed Scrooge,” said Annie. “Our job is just to make the right ghosts appear.”