Mike Resnick & Martin Greenberg - Christmas Ghosts

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION by Mike Resnick

HUNGER by Michelle Sagara

MERRY CHRISTMAS, No. 30267 by Frank M. Robinson

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY by Mark Aronson

ELEPHANTOMS by Lawrence Schimel

A FOREIGNER'S CHRISTMAS IN CHINA by Maureen F. McHugh

UPON A MIDNIGHT DREARY by Laura Resnick

MODERN MANSIONS by Barbara Delaplace

CADENZA by Terry McGarry

GORDIAN ANGEL by Jack Nimersheim

THE TIMBREL SOUND OF DARKNESS by Kathe Koja and Barry N. Malzberg

A PROPHET FOR CHANUKAH by Deborah J. Wunder

DUMB FEAST by Mercedes Lackey

SHADES OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS by Josepha Sherman

THE RIVER LETHE IS MADE OF TEARS by John Betancourt

ABSENT FRIENDS by Martha Soukup

PRESENTES by Nicholas A. DiChario

PETER'S GHOST by Marie A. Parsons

THE CASE OF THE SKINFLINT'S SPECTERS by Brian M. Thomsen

CHRISTMAS PRESENCE by Kate Daniel

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS SCAMS by Lea Hernandez

WISHBOOK DAYS by Janni Lee Simner

HOLIDAY STATION by Judith Tan 266

STATE ROAD by Alan Dormire and Robin J. Nakkula

THE GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS FUTURE by Dean Wesley Smith

THREE WISHES BEFORE A FIRE by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS SIDEWAYS by David Gerrold

THE BEAR WHO FOUND CHRISTMAS by Alan Rodgers

INTRODUCTION

I love science fiction writers: the smaller the box in which you attempt to imprison them, the more

vigorously they fight to break free.

Take this anthology, for example. The directive from publisher to editor was clear: a book of stories

about the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future. The invitation from editor to writers was

identical; each of them was to do a story about the ghost of Christmas Past, Present, or Future ... and the

farther they got from Dickens, the better.

Simple, right?

Except that these are science fiction writers we're dealing with.

"I'll only do it if I can write 'The Ghost of Christmas Sideways,' " replied David Gerrold, who I'm sure

said it just to annoy me. So I dared him to, and, of course, he did.

"I don't care about the ghosts of Christmas," replied Deb Wunder, "but I'll write about the Ghost of

Chanukah." Sigh. So I gave her the go-ahead.

Mark Aronson's story came in. "I know you said to leave Dickens alone," he replied, "but I thought of a

really interesting way of using the material, and besides I didn't believe you." So okay, we've got a

Dickens story, too.

Alan Rodgers heard about the book and contacted me. "I'm working on a kind of unclassifiable novelette

that involves a ghost," he explained; "it wouldn't take

much rewriting to set it at Christmas." So all right, not all the stories have to be classifiable.

Then Brian Thomsen checked in with one of his Mouse Chandler mysteries. I gently pointed out that the

last time I read a Mouse Chandler story, it was set ten thousand years in the future and halfway across

the galaxy. "So what?" asked Brian with an innocent smile.

Puck Schimel handed in a 400-word vignette. I had asked for 3,000 to 6,000 words. "I know," he said,

"but this was exam week at Yale, and besides, Alan told me he was coming in long."

And, of course, in every case, the stories were good.

I won't recite my experiences with each author, except to tell you that they're all cut from the same mold.

What you hold in your hands is a collection of amazingly varied stories about what I had thought was a

rather restrictive seasonal theme. Once again, my hat is off to the men and women who write imaginative

literature for a living; they not only manage to please the readers, but to constantly (and pleasantly)

surprise this editor.

—Mike Resnick

HUNGER

by Michelle Sagara

Fantasy novelist Michelle Sagara was a 1992 Campbell Award nominee.

I used to hate Christmas more than any other time of the year.

Not because of the commercialism. Hell, with my VCR and my laser disk player and my stereo sound

system and car and you name it, I'm just as much a consumer as anyone else. And I didn't hate the

hypocrisy of it, at least not in the later years, because I understood it. I didn't hate the religious overtones,

and I'm not a religious man; I didn't hate the idiotic television specials or the hype or the gathering of the

family.

I hated Christmas because every Christmas after my fifth year, I saw her.

Let me tell you about her, really briefly; it'll make the rest of it all make sense. Well, at least I hope it will.

When I was five, I went traveling with my parents. We had three weeks at Christmas—and three weeks,

at least to a five-year-old, are forever. My dad didn't like snow much, and he especially didn't like to

shovel it, so when we chose a place to travel, we went south. Fifty years ago and more, South America

wasn't a really civilized place; hell, hi many places it's pretty primitive now. But it had warm weather, and

it had lots of people fussing over my dad, which made nun happy; it had good food, and Christmas was

still celebrated.

Of course, it wasn't Christmas like here, and there wasn't any tree, and there certainly wasn't much in the

way of presents—I got more than anyone else—but it was happy enough, until she came to the window

of the dining room. The place we stayed, it was a big house—a friend of my dad's owned it, but I don't

remember him well. It had lots of servants and lots of land, and huge rooms. I ran about in it for days; I

thought I could get lost.

Well, I saw her at the windows of the house while we were eating. She was thin and scrawny, with

sun-darkened skin and these wide, night eyes that seemed to open up forever. Her fingers were bony; I

remember that because she lifted her hand and touched the glass as if she wanted to reach through it. I

called out to her, but she was gone, and I grabbed my mother's hand and dragged her from the table to

the window.

"It's nothing," my mother said, and drew me back. But I knew better.

"She's hungry," I said. "It's Christmas." As if those two words meant something, meant anything. I didn't

understand the glance that my mother gave my father, but he shook his head: No.

They didn't have doorbells hi that huge, old house; they had something that you banged instead, hard. So

I knew it was her at the door when I heard that grand brass gong start to hum. I slipped out from under

my mother and ran toward the door. Because I knew she was hungry, you see, and it was Christmas,

and of course we would feed her.

The servants didn't see it that way though. Neither did our host. To them, she was just another one of the

countless beggars that came at inopportune moments. And I even understand it, sometimes—you don't

see me giving away all my hard-earned money to every little street urchin with a hand held out.

But whether I understand it or not doesn't matter.

Because I feel it with a five-year-old's shock and anger, after all these years. They drove her away. I

didn't understand what she was saying, of course, because I didn't know any Spanish back then. But I

know now, because I learned enough to try to speak to her later.

I'm hungry. Please. I'm hungry. Like a prayer or a litany. She had a thin, raspy voice: she coughed once

or twice although it wasn't cold. I could see her ribs. I could see the manservant shove her, hard, from

the open door. Well, I was five and I wasn't too smart then, so I picked up the nearest thing and started

hitting him with it and hollering a lot. It was an umbrella, and a five-year-old can't damage more than

pride.

And I just kept shouting, "It's Christmas! It's Christmas!" until my mother came to take me away. My

father was furious. The host was embarrassed, and made a show of remonstrating the servants, who

were only doing their job.

I went back to the table like a mutinous prisoner, and I was stubborn enough that I didn't eat a thing. Not

that night, anyway. My mother was angry at my father, that much I remember. Dinner kind of lost its

momentum that night because of the tantrum of one half-spoiled boy.

And Christmas lost its magic for that boy.

Maybe it wouldn't have, had she stayed away. Maybe the toys and the food and the lights on the trees

would have sucked him right back into family comfort. Maybe Santa's lap and Santa's ear would have

encouraged him to feel the exact same way he always had. I'll never know. Because in the winter of my

sixth year, tucked under the covers and dreaming of Santa, I heard her tapping at my windows.

Back then, I had my own small room on the second story of our house, and when I heard the tapping at

the window, well, I thought it was monsters or something. I gathered my blankets around me like a

shield, yanked 'em off the bed, and then trundled, slowly, over to the window.

And I saw her standing there, with her gaunt, darkened cheeks and her wide, wide eyes. She was

rapping the glass with her thin, bony fingers and she said the same words over and over again. I think I

screamed, because I could see the northern stars bunking right through her, and I knew what that meant,

back then.

My mother came first—she always did, moving like a quiet shadow. She asked me what was wrong, and

I told her, pointing—and my mother looked at our reflection in my window and shook her head softly.

You were having a nightmare, she said. Go back to sleep.

But it's her, I said. It's her, can't you see her? She's dead, Mom, and she's hungry. I don't want her to eat

me.

She's not here, she's not dead. Hush. My mother held me in her arms as if she were a strong, old cradle.

And I cried. Because over my mother's whispers, I could hear the voice of the hungry girl.

It didn't stop there, of course. Sometime in my teenage years, I stopped being afraid that she would eat

me. Instead, I started being afraid I was mad, so I never talked about the dead, starving peasant, and my

mom and dad were just as happy to let the matter drop. But she came every Christmas midnight, and

stayed for a full twelve days, lingering at the window, begging me to feed her. I even left the table once

and threw open the door, but all I got was snow and a gust of wind. She didn't come into the warmth.

She was there every year. Every day. She was there from the minute I went to college to the minute I

graduated. She was there when I finally left home, found my wife, and settled down. It wasn't my parents

she haunted although they wouldn't feed her. It was me. I even railed against the injustice of it all—/ was

the only person who'd even cared about her that night—but hunger knows no reason, and she came to

me.

I have three children—little Joy, Alexander, David. Well, I guess they aren't that little anymore; fact is,

they're old enough now that they don't mind being called little. I consider it a miracle that they survived

their teenage years—I don't know why God invented teenagers.

But Melissa and I, we had four children. You see that black and white photo in the corner there? That

baby was my last child, my little girl. She didn't see three. It's funny, you know. They talk a lot about a

mother's grief and a mother's loss, but Melissa said her good-byes maybe a year or two after Mary died,

and me—well, I guess I still haven't. It's because I never saw her as a teenager. It's because I can't

remember the sleepless nights and the crying and the throwing up.

I just remember the way she used to come and help me work, with her big, serious eyes and her quiet,

serious nod. She'd spread the newspapers from here to the kitchen, same as she saw me do with my

drafting plans. I had more time with her than I had with the older kids—maybe I made more time—and I

used to sit with her on weekends when Melissa did her work. Mary'd sleep in my lap. Draw imaginary

faces on my cheek.

I remember what she looked like in the hospital.

But I'm losing the story, about Christmas. Let me get back to it.

Mary died when I was thirty-five. Died in the spring, in a hospital thirty miles north of here. I couldn't

believe anything could grow after she died. I hated the sight of all that green. Took it as an insult. Cosmic

indifference. Come winter, everything was darker, which suited me best.

We went to Mary's grave—at least I did—once a week or more. Took flowers, little things. Near

Christmas, I took a wreath, because she liked to play with them. I've heard all about how people think

graveyards are a waste of space and greenery, and maybe they're right. But I know that having that site,

where little Mary rested in the earth, was a boon. I'd come to it weekly like a pilgrim to a shrine, making

these little offerings. Talking to her like a crazy person. You don't know what it's like, to lose a child. I

hope you never know it.

That Christmas, when I was thirty-six, my regular little visitor came, as usual, at midnight. I wasn't in bed

then; Melissa and I were wrapping our presents, late as always, both of us crying and trying not to look

at the fireplace, where Mary's little stocking wasn't. Family things like this, they're hard. But sometimes

you have to cry or go mad. Melissa's pretty good; she'd rather see me cry than go mad. Most of the

time, anyway.

She knew when I heard it, of course. I went stiff and lifted my head, swiveled to look out the window.

Melissa couldn't ever see the little ghost, but after she decided I wasn't completely crazy, and that she

wasn't going to leave me if the worst thing about me was that I saw ghosts on Christmas, she did her best

to be understanding.

The little nameless girl stared right through me, with her wide, hungry eyes. Her lips moved over the same

words that she spoke every year. Not for the first time, I wondered when she'd died, and whether it was

from starvation. Not for the first time, I wondered where.

But for the first time ever, I wondered if any parent have ever gone to mourn her passing or her death,

the way I had with my little Mary. And for the first time, the little ghost girl stopped her endless litany and

smiled at me. Smiled, translucent and desperate, standing inches above the untouched snow.

I knew what I had to do then. Wondered why I was so stupid I couldn't have thought of it before.

Melissa and I had the worst fight of our marriage on Christmas Day.

"Can't you just leave it until next year?" She'd shouted, her eyes red, but her tears held in check. "This is

the first Christmas we've had to spend without—without Mary. It's the most important time for you to be

with the rest of your family."

" 'Lissa," I said, because I knew she was right, but I knew I was right, too. "I've got to do this. That little

ghost—"

She snorted, which was about as close to open criticism as she'd come.

"That little girl died somewhere, and I don't think her parents ever found her. She's lost, she's hungry, and

she might even be trying to reach them, if they're still alive. Think about how you'd feel. How I'd feel. I

have to go."

"Next year," she said, but her voice was softer. "Just wait until next year. Please."

It took me two days to find a flight down south, which meant drawing money out of the savings account.

Two days' notice isn't usually enough to get any kind of decent charter. I thought we'd have another blow

over that one, but Melissa was silent in a mutinous way.

I thought she'd refuse to take me to the airport, but in the end, she and the kids piled into a car, and I had

to explain to my three living children why I was leaving them to go chasing after a ghost they couldn't see.

Only Alexander remembers it now; the others were just a little too young or a little too distracted.

When I got onto the plane, I heard the tapping on glass that always came for each of the twelve days of

Christmas. The window was a tiny oval plastic pane, and the clouds were streaking past at hundreds of

miles per hour, but the little hungry girl was there, with her wide eyes and her voiceless plea. This time

I nodded and watched her face against the background of columned clouds and sunlight.

Welt, to make a long story a little bit shorter, I followed her. From the moment we landed, she appeared,

floating on air in the arrivals lounge. Thin, scrawny and openly ravenous, she followed me with her eyes,

and I followed her with my legs. I didn't bring much in the way of luggage because I thought it'd be best

to travel light, so I zipped right out of the airport on her trail.

She walked beside my car, tapping against the smoked glass, begging for food. It was hard to say who

was leading who, because I knew where I was going, or at least I thought I did. In retrospect, it was

lucky I had her with me, because everything had changed in the years between my five-year-old and

thirty-six-year-old selves. The great old manor house that haunted my inner eye was still there—but it

wasn't a house anymore, it was a small hotel and, at that, one that had seen better days. There was a

paved road leading up to its doors which showed that the place had had money once, and I took the

bend slowly, keeping an eye on my little companion.

After I got out of the car, explained what I wanted to four different people in two different languages, and

checked into a small room, I found the little girl waiting for me by the window hi the dining room. There

were two elderly couples in the dining room, so it was quiet, almost austere.

That's where I first saw you, I thought. And I stood up, pushed my chair back, and walked out through

the front doors. It didn't surprise me when I found her on the porch, wringing her hands dramatically and

begging for food. She didn't need to be dramatic; her arms were almost skeletal, her eyes, sunken disks

in the paleness of ghostly skin.

"All right," I said quietly. "Where?"

She started walking, and I started to follow her. All

HUNGER

23

the while she was chattering away. Food, please. Please, I'm so hungry. Please, feed me.

"I'm not doing this for you," I said. "You're already dead." But I didn't realize, until the words left my

mouth, how true both statements were. She stopped her chattering then; left it behind as if she didn't need

it anymore.

I must've looked funny, coming away from my car with a shovel and a pick-axe. If I did, no one

commented, and I made a note to leave a generous tip if I wasn't interrupted or interrogated. You see,

the site that she came to stand on wasn't all that far away from the grounds of the house.

"Did you die here, that night?" I asked her, hi between shoveling dirt.

She said, Feed me, please, I'm so hungry; feed me. So I didn't ask her any more questions. I just kept

upending shovels full of dirt until my back ached with the effort. You'd probably laugh if you knew how

shallow the unofficial grave was, but I didn't get as much exercise as I should back then. But I found her,

and this was the only Christmas miracle I can think of: The body. It was dead, all right, and it was

obviously the same little girl that had plagued my nights for twelve days each year, but it hadn't decayed

at all. No smell, no worms, no rot. I thanked God—and I didn't care whose. I hadn't thought much

beyond finding the body.

Should've, though, because as it turns out, it was a long walk from the hotel to the place that the little

ghost began to lead me to. This was the fourth day, and the day was definitely gone. There's really not

that much in the way of light along the dirt roads, and the lamp I held didn't help—the body didn't weigh

much, but it was really awkward to carry one-handed. I managed.

Funny what runs through a mind in the dark with a small girl's corpse hugged against your chest. Mostly,

I was worried that the police would appear over the horizon, see me with this young girl, and have me

shot on sight. I thought I was crazy; I thought I was stupid. But I wouldn't have let go of her; this was as

close a chance to peace as I was ever going to get. I kept following her and she kept leading.

And then we found it. An old farm, of sorts. Not a good farm, and not one that was meant to make a lot

of money either, although I'll be the first to admit that I'm no judge of farms. There was this little light

nickering in the window of the small farmhouse, and as I approached it, I realized that it was candlelight.

Someone was awake.

You've never frozen solid in the middle of a dark night with a little girl's ghost nagging you and a little girl's

corpse in your arms. I didn't know what to do. I mean, now that I'd found her and brought her home, I

wanted to drop her body and run. But she kept on at me, asking for food with her pale thin lips and her

wide eyes, and I knew by now that it meant she wasn't quite finished with me. So I did the stupid thing.

I walked up to the closed door of the little house, and I knocked as loudly as I could. After five long

minutes, someone answered. She was short, little; she seemed ancient. I thought she was going to drop

the candle she was holding when she saw what I was carrying; she went that funny white-green color that

people go when they're in shock.

I'm sorry, I said, in my broken Spanish. / wanted to—

But I didn't get a chance to mangle the sentence; the little pale ghost suddenly threw herself over the

threshold of the house, chattering away—chattering in a child's high, fluting burble. Saying something

other than please feed me or I'm so hungry. She pressed herself tightly against the apron of the old

woman.

No one in the world had ever seen the little ghost but me; she'd ruined every Christmas I'd ever had.

Except this one. This one was to be the exception.

HUNGER

23

The old lady looked down at the apparition, and then she did drop the candle. I caught it before it hit the

floor, but she didn't seem to notice; her arms were tightly pressed into her granddaughter's shoulders.

No, not her granddaughter.

She began to speak in rapid Spanish, and the girl replied softly, almost soothingly. Neither of them

spared a word or glance at me for the better part of an hour, and all I could do was stand and stare. I

wondered if Mary'd ever come back this way for me. Shook my head, to clear it—but the thought was

so fierce, I've never forgotten it.

It might have been my shaking that caught their attention, either that or it was the fact that dawn seemed

ready to clear away the night's ghosts. That included my little tormentor. She came to me first, and

reached out softly to touch her own dead cheek. Pulled back at the last minute and shook her head.

Thank you, she said, in toneless but perfect English. I'm not hungry anymore. She turned to look back at

the old woman who had been her mother. Said something else in Spanish.

Tears were streaming down the old woman's cheeks, and even though my Spanish was bad, I

understood what she said back. Her daughter walked into the dawn and vanished like morning mist. And

I stood on the porch, with my stiff arms and her daughter's body, waiting for her to say something.

I buried the body on the grounds in front of the house, and made a rough cross to mark the grave. There

were other such rough graves, but I didn't ask her and she didn't volunteer. Maybe if we'd spoken the

same language, we might have communicated better. But maybe not; I understood what it meant for her

to rest a battered old doll against the newly turned earth; I understood what it meant when she whispered

to the face of the awkward cross.

In the end, she said "Thank you," and I said,

26

Mickclle Sagara

"You're welcome." There was a lot of pain in her face, but there was a lot of peace there, too. If I could

have brought her daughter back to life, I would have. But I would have brought mine back, too.

Sometimes you just have to live with your limitations, no matter how much they hurt you.

I gave her all the money I had with me.

I know it's tacky, but she took it. I told her to feed the children, but I didn't ask her what she was going

to do with it. I didn't care. I wanted to be back home, with my own family, before the end of Christmas.

On the fifth day, there was no sign of my hungry little ghost. On the sixth, there was nothing either. And

on the seventh, while I sat on the plane, tapping my feet and wondering if Melissa had moved all of my

things into the guest room, it was blissfully silent.

She met me at the airport, Melissa did. Her face had that searching look to it, and she stared at me for a

long tune before she hugged me. It was a good hug, a real welcome home.

"I'm free," I told her, and I meant it.

That was thirty years ago, and that was the year that Christmas became a time of peace, rather than a

thing to hate or fear. I tell you about it now, because I saw her again—the little ghost girl. Only this tune,

when she knocked at my window, I wasn't terrified and I wasn't angry. I know what she's trying to tell

me this time, though I don't know why she'd be bothered. You'll have to take care of your mother when

I'm gone. Yes, she does need taking care of—just not in the obvious ways. Let her talk at you, let her

talk to you.

Just like I'm doing now.

I always loved all my kids, and I know that it doesn't have to stop just because one of us is dead.

I love you.

Merry Christmas, No. 30267

by Frank M. Robinson

Frank M. Robinson is entering his fifth decade as a major science fiction writer.

His nickname was "Scrooge" and even hi the eyes of his fellow prisoners, Lyle Jaffery had no redeeming

qualities whatsoever. He'd been on death row for 365 days and this night was to be the last night of his

life. At five-thirty in the morning, the priest would hear his final confession and walk with him down the

short hall to the room where they would strap nun in a chair and attach electrodes to his shaved head and

legs.

At five-thirty-five he would be a footnote in criminal history and there wasn't a man among the other

inmates who didn't think that, at least in his case, justice would have been served.

Short, belligerent, and sly—the kind who never met your eyes when he talked to you, Lyle Jaffery was

not a very likable man. He had a rap sheet that would have filled an entire volume of the Encyclopedia

Bri-tannica, starting when, as a youngster, he had been given a Daisy repeating BB gun for Christmas and

promptly drilled out the left eye of Mrs. Krumpkin's torn cat next door. He married early, became

disenchanted with marriage shortly thereafter, and on another Christmas shot his overweight, nagging wife

somewhere between the turkey and the pumpkin pie.

27

28

Frank M. Robinson

It took investigators only a few hours to find the insurance policy he'd taken out on his former beloved

two months before.

Lyle may not have been very smart, but he was very lucky and got off on a technicality. And he

considered himself even luckier because he had found a profession. Ever since the gift of the Daisy, he

had been overly fond of guns. As much as Lyle loved anything, he loved the smooth, operating qualities

of a Beretta and the simple, functional brick form of the Uzi. He became very good at using both and

there was no end to those who wanted to hire his talents.

But luck, like love, doesn't last forever. Eventually he was apprehended, convicted, and sentenced to life

imprisonment. In the joint, Lyle was assigned to the machine shop where he turned out as fine a one-shot

pistol as the guards had ever seen. They discovered it in his cell on still another Christmas when, in a

frivolous argument over a pack of cigarettes, Lyle offed the most popular prisoner there—one Steven

Marley, young scion of a wealthy family, who was serving a three-year stretch for tax fraud. He had

more relatives than Madonna has bras and all of them remembered him at Christmas with boxes of

goodies whose contents Steven liberally distributed among the other inmates. His absence was sorely

missed.

It was a year later and all Lyle's appeals had failed and no "Save Lyle Jaffery" partisans bundled up in

sweaters and watch caps had appeared outside the cold prison walls to wave their signs and shout for his

freedom. Lyle huddled, half-asleep, on the end of his bunk reflecting bitterly on his life and feeling the first

faint twinges of remorse. It was close to midnight and the cell block was deathly quiet.

Then Lyle jerked completely awake. Even though it was well-lit, the corridor and the cells were filling

with a chill fog that had to be coming off the nearby river and the banks through which it flowed.

Somewhere in the town a few miles away a church bell

MERRY CHRISTMAS, NO. 30267

29

struck twelve while far down the corridor, Lyle suddenly heard a clanking sound and a low moaning. He

shouted for a guard, but the fog muffled his voice and his cries didn't carry more than a few feet.

The clanking came closer and he shrank back against the concrete block wall, shivering beneath his

blankets. Just outside his cell bars the wisps of fog swirled, then gradually coalesced into a roughly human

figure of mist and dust that sparkled in the tight and solidified into the unmistakable features of Steven

Marley, complete with pimply face, cowlick, and the usual apprehensive look in his eyes.

"How's it going, Scrooge," the apparition chirped in Marley's irritating high-pitched voice. "Pretty cold

inside here, guess the appropriation never came through for the new heating plant, huh?"

Lyle was amazed by the resemblance to the Marley he remembered and almost embarrassed by the

gaping hole in the chest right over the heart. He had been proud of it before—a clean hit—but now he

had second thoughts. Marley obviously hadn't come back to thank him for it.

Then he took another look. Draped around Mar-ley's neck and waist and trailing after him down the

corridor was what looked tike a long iron chain tufted with spreadsheets and Rolodex cards and twined

around an occasional laptop.

Lyle pointed. "What the hell's that?"

Marley gave the chain a slight shake.

"That's my penance, Lyle. Have to lug it around for Eternity. You remember, I cooked the books for

Daddy's Savings and Loan. Cost the depositors millions." He shook his head. "If only I had known, I

would have fixed it so Daddy took the fall." He tried to look fearsome, then gave it up, realizing he was

too baby-faced to appear as anything more than petulant. "I'm not here to talk about me, Lyle. I'm here

to talk about you." He looked faintly embarrassed. "I'm supposed to be the Ghost of Christmas Past."

Mike Resnick & Martin Greenberg - Christmas Ghosts

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