KyrieEleison
12-02-2006, 11:23 AM
Conner's Christmas Carol
Written by KyrieEleison
Original text by Charles Dickens
This is the long-ago-promised story format version of my story, "Conner's Christmas Carol." To those who read the original from a few years ago and enjoyed it, thank you SO much. I would have had this up a long time ago, but school started again, and priorities had to shift. And then I went and forgot to finish the story... Once again, thanks to Drew's Script-o-Rama (http://script-o-rama.com) for providing the script for "A Christmas Carol" that I followed in writing this story. I tried to figure out exactly which version of this tale I adapted, but there are simply so many versions out there, and the script I used doesn’t list any writing or directing credits. So, please forgive me, and know that I don’t own any versions of “A Christmas Carol,” “Power Rangers Dino Thunder,” or their characters. I’m not even laying claim to the “original characters,” as they are simply adaptations of the characters from “A Christmas Carol.” Also, thanks again to my cousins for unknowingly donating their names to the narrator's nieces and nephews.
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Inside a cheerily-lit family room in Reefside, California, on Christmas Eve, a young girl, maybe ten years old, searched through a bookshelf full of books. A young man sat in a comfortable chair – handsome, in his late twenties, with a pleasant voice, obviously a favorite uncle – surrounded by a noisy circle of children and young adults. The children kept pestering him for something and he kept waving them off. "I don't know why you want to hear this story again," chided the young man. "You must have heard it a dozen times by now."
"A hundred," one of the older children, named Ryan, answered.
Nathan, an older teenager, added, "A thousand. But it's good for a laugh."
"And it's just as much your story as anybody else’s, right?" Ryan asked.
The young man answered, in genuine modesty, "Maybe it is. But I'm not sure I'm necessarily the right one to tell it."
"Aw, that's not true," Ryan pointed out. "Grandma says you're the only one who knows how to tell it right."
The others, particularly the younger children, murmured agreement. The girl, named Amanda, found the book she was looking for. She pulled it off the shelf and walked over to her uncle, holding it tightly. "Please," Amanda pleaded. "We want to hear it from you."
She handed him the book. He smiled at it and set it in his lap unopened as Amanda sat at his feet. Slowly, some of the others began to sit down too.
The young man looked at the book. "You know, I don't really need this." As he stared at the book, he was suddenly lost in thought and began to talk as much to himself as to the others. "I've been telling this story every Christmas now for oh, I don't know how many years – since I was a boy. And I know it by heart. It always begins the same way."
"How does it begin?" asked Amanda, very quietly.
The young man abruptly looked up. Everyone was seated. They stared at him expectantly. And without any warning, he began. "Ethan was as dead as a door-nail. You have to remember that or the story becomes nothing special. So, remember, Ethan was as dead as a door-nail. Conner McKnight was in charge of executing Ethan’s will, and Conner's name was good in Reefside for just about anything..."
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It is late afternoon on Christmas Eve, 2020. Reefside is packed with nice-looking people who hurry up and down, rushing in and out of stores, looking for the perfect last-minute present, and so forth. Inside one shop, a sporting goods store, Devin Delvalle was chatting with his wife Cassidy and a man with a sharp face which still held hints of the handsomeness that it once had. This man was Conner McKnight, the owner of the store. Conner had just finished with a customer when Devin spoke up.
"Hey, Conner," greeted Devin.
"Yes, Devin?" Conner answered, in the manner he always greeted his customers: subtly-forced kindness.
"So, what's up? What are you doing for Christmas?" Devin asked.
Realizing Devin just wanted to make conversation, Conner's answer was short. "Nothing. I don't do anything for Christmas."
"Then why are you closing your store tomorrow?" asked Cassidy.
"Nobody will be going out," Conner retorted. "Everybody stays in with their families. It's a waste of time to be open."
"Come on, Conner," Cassidy chided. "You know the saying – all work and no play..."
"...makes Jack a dull boy," Conner finished dully. "Work is work and play is play, and Christmas," he warned, "is nothing to me anymore. Now if you'll excuse me, I see a customer that needs help." Conner left, with a slight limp in his left leg. Cassidy shot a sad look in Conner's direction, but, realizing she couldn't do anything about it, led Devin over to a basketball display.
Outside Conner's office, the sign on the door read:
CONNER MCKNIGHT
A petite brunette walked rapidly up to the door, opened it, and entered.
Inside, Conner's clerk, Matt Robertson, sat in a dismal little cubicle doing mindless work. A very small space heater sat next to his desk, so small that it looked like a match could provide better heat. The clerk put his well-worn coat on, trying – and failing – to warm himself as he worked. The girl appeared, all in a glow; her face still as beautiful as it was as a young girl and her eyes still sparkling. She grinned at Matt, who raised an eyebrow, surprised to see her. She made her way to the doorway of an adjacent office in which Conner sat hunched over a desk, busily writing. "Merry Christmas!" she greeted happily.
"Whatever!"
"Christmas 'whatever,' Conner?" asked Kira, as she leaned on the doorpost. "You don't mean that."
"I do," Conner replied. "Merry Christmas! What reason do you have to be merry? You have as much reason to be miserable as I do."
"Come on now," Kira tried to reason with him. "What right do you have to be miserable? What reason do you have to be so depressed? The rest of us have moved on – why won’t you?"
Conner had no answer ready better than "Whatever!"
"Don't be angry, Conner," Kira argued as she entered the office and helped herself to a seat.
"What else can I be when so much has happened!" Conner exclaimed. "Forget ‘Merry Christmas.’ What's Christmas time now but a time for remembering what we've lost? If I had it my way, every idiot who goes around saying 'Merry Christmas' should have a taste of the pain some of us are going through. Then they'd see what a waste of time Christmas is."
"Conner!" Kira admonished.
"Kira!" Conner mocked Kira's tone. "Celebrate Christmas your way, and let me celebrate it in mine," he muttered.
"Celebrate it!" scoffed Kira. "But you don't celebrate it."
"Exactly," Conner retorted. "What good has Christmas done you?"
"There are many things that just make me happy," Kira began casually, "Christmas among them. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas, when it has comes around, apart from the usual reasons, as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: and yes, bad things have happened to you – to us – at Christmas. We learn from them and move on! And I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"
Matt Robertson, still in the cubicle, involuntarily applauded. Becoming immediately aware of his boss' scowl, he quickly went back to his work, turning the heat up on his space heater, which promptly overloaded and broke down.
"I hear another sound from you and you'll celebrate Christmas by losing your job," Conner reprimanded Matt. To Kira, he continued, "You're quite a powerful speaker. It's a surprise you never thought of running for office."
"Don't be angry, Conner," Kira tried. "Come over tomorrow. Everyone will be there." Her voice took on an inviting tone. "Dr. O's even got his new little baby. Her name's Anne." After a long pause, she continued, "Will you come see us?"
"No, thank you." Conner answered curtly.
"But why?" Kira asked, astonished. "Why won't you come?"
"Because not everybody will be there," came the cryptic reply.
Kira was confused. "Huh?"
"I said 'No, thank you,'" Conner repeated. "Goodbye!"
"Conner, what is with you? You never used to be like this. I mean, you've been like this for years, but what happened to you?"
"Goodbye."
"I'm not asking for anything from you but for you to hang out with your friends," Kira persisted. "Why won't you?"
"Goodbye."
"I am sorry that you've decided to be a jerk." Kira decided to leave, knowing there would be no getting through to Conner this time. "I know we've had our differences. I know that...certain events have changed your outlook on things. I know that the others have given up on you, but I won't. I try my best to get through that thick head of yours every year, but I'm not going to let you wreck my Christmas. So a Merry Christmas, Conner!” she threw over her shoulder as she walked out of Conner’s office.
"Goodbye."
Kira turned back toward Conner. "And a Happy New Year!" she added as an additional taunt.
"Goodbye!"
Kira left the room with a wry grin. On her way out the door, she exchanged greetings with Matt Robertson. "How are Mrs. Robertson and all the small, assorted Robertsons?" she asked, genuinely interested.
"Very good, thank you," Matt answered politely.
"All revved up and waiting for Christmas, huh?"
"Oh, yes, Miss – all very eager."
"And your little boy. The sick one. Which one is he? Tim?"
"Yes, it's Tim."
"That's right," Kira remembered. "How is he?"
"We're hoping that he's getting better." Matt didn't want to get into all the details.
"That's wonderful. Merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas to you, too."
"Thank you."
Matt watched Kira leave and glanced at Conner's office, remembered having heard of a long, interesting past involving Conner and this sweet friend of his. Matt was surprised to instead find Conner glaring at him.
"And you! Working for minimum wage, with a wife and family, and talking about ‘Merry Christmas,’" Conner cried. "Of all the wastes of time!"
Conner shook his head as he answered the ringing phone. "I have a Mr. McKnight and a Mr. James at this number," the gentleman on the other line began cheerfully. "Who do I have the pleasure of addressing: Mr. McKnight, or Mr. James?"
Conner replied melodramatically, "Your list is very old. Mr. James died seven years ago. Seven years ago, this very day, to be exact. Car accident."
"I am very sorry to hear that," the gentleman replied sympathetically. "Well, we hope that his generosity is kept alive by his friends."
At the ominous word "generosity", Conner frowned, but the gentleman on the phone couldn't have known that. "At this time of the year, Mr. McKnight," he continued, "it's good to take the time to care for the less fortunate. Many people even here in Reefside need the basics to survive."
"Are there no shelters?" asked Conner.
The gentleman took a deep breath, suddenly becoming aware that this might be a hard sell. "Yes, a few," was his reply.
"And the Unemployment Agency? Is it up and running?" Conner continued sharply.
"It is," the gentleman answered, "but I wish I could say it wasn't."
"Oh! I'm very glad to hear it. I was afraid, from what you said, that something happened to force them to shut down." Conner smiled slightly malevolently.
"The problem, Mr. McKnight, is that the shelters are severely under-funded," the gentleman tried again. "One is in danger of being shut down. And so we at the Salvation Army are attempting to raise some funds to give these less fortunate souls a merry Christmas. What shall I put you down for?" he asked cheerfully.
"Nothing!"
"You want to be anonymous?" the gentleman asked, ever hopeful.
"I want to be left alone," Conner answered tersely. "That’s what I want. I don't celebrate Christmas and I can't afford to help other people celebrate. I pay my taxes, so I already help to support the shelters and agencies; they cost enough: and those who need help should go there."
"Right now many can't go there," the first gentleman pressed, "and many would rather die."
"If they would rather die, they had better do it. Maybe then the world wouldn't be so crowded. But that's not my business," Conner responded. "My own keeps me busy enough. Goodbye." Conner threw the phone down back into its cradle.
As night fell, the throng of shoppers lessened slightly as people made their way home to their families, bundled against the slight chill in the air. The brightness of the shops, where Santa and various elves and reindeer danced in the windows, made pale faces rosy as they passed.
A small boy approached Conner's store window to regale him and his customers with a Christmas carol, but at the first sound of "Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn King!" Conner began to chase the boy away, but his leg slowed him down. However, Conner's start was enough to scare the boy so much that he fled in terror. The moment the boy had fled, Conner's threatening expression relaxed and he smirked, rather pleased with himself. Conner glanced at the wall clock as it struck seven o’clock - time to close up. Unhappily, Conner headed back to his office, organized a few papers, and nodded to Matt, who instantly turned his computer off, and put on his shabby coat.
"I suppose I’ll have to give you all day tomorrow, won’t I?" Conner resigned himself to the fact.
"If it's convenient, sir," Matt knew better to ask for anything. He made a mental note to bring an extra sweater to work after Christmas, knowing that if he wanted to be warm in his cubicle, the price of a new space heater would have to come out of his pocket.
"It's not convenient, and it's not fair," Conner complained. "If I was to not pay you for it, you'd think I was unreasonable, right?"
Matt smiled faintly.
"And yet, you think it's reasonable, for me to pay a day's wages for no work."
"It's only once a year, Mr. McKnight," Matt answered and smiled again.
"A poor excuse for robbing a man every December twenty-fifth," Conner grumbled.
Conner buttoned his coat to the chin. "But I suppose you have to have the whole day. It's not like anyone will be in to buy anything anyway. But be here early the next morning!"
"I will," Matt promised.
Conner walked out to his car with a growl. A shivering Matt locked the front door and rushed off, wrapping his coat around him to ward off a chilly wind.
At Conner's house on the outskirts of Reefside, the sun had set, making the yard so dark that Conner had to grope with his hands to find the keyhole so he could unlock the black old door – on which a fairly large knocker stood guard. Conner put his key in the lock of the door and glanced at the knocker – however, what Conner saw was no longer a knocker, but the face of his friend Ethan James. Conner gasped. "Ethan?" he whispered.
Ethan's face wasn't a dark shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had an eerie light about it, as though it was lit by a small light. The face looked at Conner determinedly, just like Ethan used to look when doing battle. That and its strange color made it frightening; but this seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control. As soon as Conner blinked, though, it became a knocker again as suddenly as it had changed before. Startled, Conner turned the knob and let himself in.
Inside, Conner paused to look cautiously behind the door, as if he half expected to see the rest of Ethan sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door. Conner closed the door with a bang, the sound echoing through the house like thunder. He locked the door, and walked down the hall, slowly, as his leg was giving him trouble, turning on lights as he went.
As Conner walked down the hall, he peered ahead into the darkness of the back of the house, and for a moment, he thought he saw something that looked like a hearse going on before him in the dark. He paused, blinked, shook his head, and continued, muttering to himself.
A suspicious, slightly unnerved Conner walked through his gloomy house to be sure that everything was all right. In the living room, he found nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa. The bedroom was as usual – nobody under the bed, nobody in the closet. Suddenly, he saw a ghostly white shape in the darkness on the opposite side of the room. Conner tensed up for a moment until he realized it was only his bathrobe, hung up oddly against the wall. Satisfied that he was alone, he closed every door, and locked himself in – in fact, he double-locked himself in, something he never did. Secured against surprise, he headed into his bathroom for a shower.
Having changed clothes, Conner headed into the kitchen and made his dinner, if a TV dinner could be called such. While it cooked, Conner moved into the living room to build a fire. The fireplace was an old one, built long ago by some Spanish farmer, and tiled all around with quaint Spanish tiles, designed to illustrate old Bible stories: Pharaoh's daughter pulling Moses from the Nile, the Queen of Sheba visiting King Solomon, angelic messengers descending through the air on feathery clouds, Abraham, Isaac, apostles putting off to sea in small fishing boats – hundreds of figures. Conner threw a small log on the small fire and glanced at the fireplace. Suddenly every tile was adorned with Ethan's face as it had been on the door knocker. Conner blinked – and saw that the tiles had returned to normal. Conner rose to retrieve his dinner, feeling unsettled. As he ate, he took more than a few nervous glances at the fireplace. Nothing but happy Christmas people were on TV – something Conner had no patience with. Conner threw his head back in the chair, and his glance happened to fall on the curtains at the window. As he looked, the curtains began to flutter. The curtains fluttered so softly at the outset that it didn't mean much; but soon they were flapping so vigorously that Conner was afraid that they would come off the curtain rods, and soon the same happened at every window that Conner could see, as though the house was in the middle of a tornado Dorothy and Toto would have been jealous of. Throughout, an uneasy look slowly crossed Conner's face. Conner headed to one window to shut it against the raging winds that were circling inside the room, but the window was closed – in fact, all of the windows were closed as well. As suddenly as the curtains had started to wave, they stopped. Conner relaxed, but only for a moment, as a noise came from deep down below, as if someone was in the basement and was marching up the flight of stairs wearing combat boots. Conner heard the sound of the basement door flying open with a booming sound, and the marching noise became much louder as it came down the hall and straight towards the living room. Conner started talking to himself. "It's ridiculous! I won't believe it."
The color left Conner's face though, when, without a pause, the source of the noise came through the door, and passed into the room before Conner's very eyes. As soon as it entered, the small flame leapt up in the fireplace and fell again, and the television and all the lights shut off. Ethan James' ghost entered, as he looked in high school, wearing his favorite shirt and jacket, jeans, and sneakers. Ethan's body was transparent, and Conner, looking closely, could look through and see the buttons on the back of Ethan's jeans jacket. Conner felt the need to crack a joke to keep down his terror. "This is right out of your sci-fi movies," he said softly. "I bet you're happy being dead." Conner stared into the ghost's cheerful eyes and reverted to his cold and caustic self.
"Don't you love the special effects?" Ethan asked irrepressibly. "Bet you thought it was the ghost of Jacob Marley."
Conner asked, scared, "What do you want with me?"
"Oh, you have no clue," the ghost answered.
"Who are you?" Conner sputtered.
"You should probably be asking me who I was," the ghost supplied.
"Who were you then?" Conner asked.
"In life I was your friend Ethan James," was the reply.
"Can you—can you sit down?" Conner asked doubtfully.
"Yeah."
"Do it, then."
Ethan sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, as if he were quite used to it. Conner stared at the ghost's smiling eyes as it sat perfectly motionless though the vision still quivered as if it was vapor rising from the street on a hot day.
"You don't believe in me," Ethan stated matter-of-factly.
"No, I don't," Conner answered in the same tone.
"What more evidence do you need than your senses?" Ethan asked. "We saw stranger things as rangers, and you believed it then."
Conner had to be honest. "I don't know."
"Why do you doubt your senses?"
"Because a little thing called acid reflux affects them," Conner responded. "You may be a slice of pizza, a bit of mustard, a can of soda, a piece of fried chicken. You see this dinner?" Conner gestured to his TV dinner. The ghost's eyes didn't move.
"Didn't you learn how to eat right? All this money, and you think you could afford a cook," Ethan quipped.
"You're not looking at it," Conner reprimanded.
"I don't have to look at it to see it," Ethan nagged. "I'm a ghost, remember?"
"Well! If I eat this, I'll be seeing things all night. This is absolutely stupid!" Conner scoffed.
At this, the ghost stood up and tried to slap Conner upside the head to get his attention, but his hand passed right through Conner's head. This still got the response he was looking for, and Conner gripped the armrests of his chair in fear.
"So now do you believe in me?" Ethan asked.
"Ok, ok, I do," Conner caved. "But why are you here? Why are you bothering me?"
"Look, I've got it going pretty good in heaven, but to see you here on Earth – dude, you've got issues," Ethan stated. "Dr. O, Trent, Hayley, Devin, Cassidy? They've all but given up on you. Poor Kira – she's tried and tried to get through to you, but stubborn you. So now it's time I took matters into my own hands."
Conner didn't know what to do with himself, so he wrung his hands, still unsure of what was going on. A chain appeared around Ethan's feet. "What's with the chain?" Conner asked.
"Visual aid. When people spend more time being mean, feeling sorry for themselves and worrying about bank accounts instead of being nice and helping people, this is what happens," Ethan explained. "Every instance adds a link to the chain. You make it in life, you wear it in death. If every good thing I did in life was replaced by a bad thing, my chain would look like this." Conner was getting more and more scared, but Ethan continued. "You want to know what your chain looks like? Yours was longer than this one seven Christmas Eves ago, and you have been working on it since. I think a record might have been broken somewhere along the line, but I don't know. I usually don't talk to the 'chain gang,' as the others call them."
Conner glanced around him on the floor, expecting to find himself surrounded by some hundred feet of iron chain, but he saw nothing. Desperate for a release from his fear, Conner pleaded, "Come on, Ethan! Can’t you tell me something that doesn't sound like it came out of A Christmas Carol?"
"Nope," was the reply. "Face it. You're living A Christmas Carol now. You've spent too much time feeling sorry for yourself, Conner McKnight, and it's time for a change. I don’t get to stay much longer. But listen. The spirit inside everyone is required to care for the people around them, and if it doesn't happen in life, it happens after death. The spirit is doomed to wander through the world and see what it should have done. You've done enough good in your life so far, so you're covered, but you're on thin ice...if what you do now ever cancels out the good you did all those years ago, then..." Ethan kicked the chain at his feet, making a clanking noise. Conner jumped at the sound. "Pay attention! My time's almost up."
"Well, excuse me if the idea of wandering the earth forever, lugging a huge chain behind me takes my attention for a second," Conner answered sarcastically. "So, get to the point."
Ethan complied. "I don't know why you can see me. But I've been hanging around beside you for a while." Conner shivered at this, and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "You could always count on me to tell you when you'd screwed up, right?" Ethan asked.
"You were always a good friend to me," Conner replied, hoping that such an answer would lessen anything Ethan may have had coming. "Thank you!"
"Well, you've screwed up," Ethan warned. "Big time. And it's time things changed around here. I am here tonight to warn you, so you have one last chance to escape what might be your fate. A chance that I managed to get for you. The Big Guy won’t ever give up on anyone, but some of the higher angels have almost given up on you, too. You will be visited...by three spirits."
Conner's jaw dropped. "Is this the chance you mentioned, Ethan?"
"It is."
"I—I think I'd rather not," Conner cowered, looking down.
"Without their visits," Ethan cautioned, "there's no escape for you. Expect the first tomorrow at 1 am."
"Couldn't I take 'em all at once, and have it over with, Ethan?"
Ethan continued, "Expect the second on the next night at the same time. The third on the next night before the last stroke of midnight has finished. I've got to go now, Conner. Please don't make me save your spirit's butt again, and for your sake, don't forget that what happened tonight."
Conner ventured to raise his eyes again, and found Ethan walking backward from him, and with every step, the nearby window rose by itself a little, so that when the ghost reached it, it was wide open. He motioned for Conner to approach, which he did. When Conner came about two feet away from him, Ethan raised his hand, warning him to stop. Conner stopped, not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear, for as soon as Ethan raised his hand, Conner became aware of confused noises in the air – incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret, wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and full of self-pity. Ethan, after listening for a moment, pointed over his shoulder out the window. "You might wanna see this," he suggested. "Consider it a friendly little warning. Christmas is the worst time of the year for these guys." At this, Ethan floated out the window and into the clear, dark night. Conner followed to the window, desperate in his curiosity. He looked out.
Outside, the air was filled with phantoms, wandering here and there in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore chains, some were linked together (though who knows how they got that way); none of them were free: this was the "chain gang" Ethan had talked about. Conner had even known a few of them in their lives. One old ghost, in a white coat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to its ankle, cried pathetically at being unable to help a woman with an infant, whom it saw wandering the streets below. The misery with them all was, clearly, that now they wanted to get involved in human matters, but had lost the ability to forever. Whether these creatures faded into mist, or the mist enveloped them, is unclear. But they and their spirit voices faded together, the mist faded away, and the night became as it had been when Conner arrived at home. Conner closed the window, and examined the basement door, the door the ghost had entered through. It was still double-locked, as he had locked it with his own hands—as if nothing had happened. He tried to say "It's nothing!" but stopped before he could say a syllable. Conner walked into his bedroom and to his bed, got in, and fell asleep instantly. The light from the fire in the living room was still visible under the closed bedroom door.
Conner awoke in darkness some time later. As the chimes of the neighboring church clock struck twelve, Conner stopped to think. "Twelve? It was past two when I went to bed," he said to no one in particular. Conner scrambled out of bed, and felt his way to the window. He pulled back the curtains – shuddering as he remembered what had happened with the curtains – but all he could make out was that it was very dark and very quiet. "Hmmph! Clock’s wrong. Leaves must have gotten into the works." Conner turned a bedside lamp on and sat on the edge of his bed, looking at his bedside alarm clock. It, too, read twelve. "Twelve! It's not possible. I couldn't have slept through a whole day!" He picked up the clock and checked it, then seemed to remember something.
"Now, of course, the ghost had warned Conner that a spirit would visit him when the bell tolled one..." Conner began to fiddle with his clock. "...So he decided to lie awake until then, and, considering that he could no more easily go to sleep than go back in time, this was perhaps the best idea. Naturally, he didn't want to be caught dozing off, so he made sure to set the alarm on his clock to go off at one on the dot."
Conner set the alarm, turned all the lights on so he could keep a sharp look-out on the room, and sat up in bed – waiting for his visitor. About an hour later, Conner, tiredly sitting up in bed, watched the clock tick to one. The tinny alarm bell went off. Conner looked around the room. Nothing. "Pfft," Conner snorted. He sighed – though it was hard to tell whether in relief, or disappointment, or embarrassment – turned off the lights and glanced at the door, where, the fire having gone out, no light shone through from the living room. Conner pulled the covers way up over his head, and with a peaceful, satisfied look on his face, shut his eyes. Just as Conner had gotten comfortable, the church bell sounded one – deep, dull, hollow, and melancholy. Conner's eyes popped open and a wave of dread passed over his face. A wickedly bright light flashed in the room, and the blankets of Conner's bed were pushed aside. Conner, starting to sit up, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who pulled them.
It was a weird, impressive figure – like a child: yet not quite like a child as like an old man, and though it stood right at the foot of Conner's bed, there was a mystical quality about it, which gave him the appearance of standing far off, and looking about the height of a child. His long hair, which hung down his back, was white as if with age, but his face didn't have a wrinkle in it, and the slightest blush was on his skin. His arms were very long and muscular, and his hands as well, as if this being's slight build hid an uncommon strength. His delicate legs and feet, were, like his arms, bare. He wore a tunic of the purest white with a lustrous belt around his waist, embellished with a beautiful sheen. He held a branch of fresh green holly in his hand, and yet his tunic was trimmed with summer flowers. From the crown on the top of his head shone a bright clear jet of light, which lit up the room – it was by this light that Conner saw all of this – and probably why he used, in his duller moments, a great candle snuffer for a cap, which he now held under his arm.
His belt sparkled and glittered first in one part and then in another, and the being itself was continuously morphing: what was light one instant, at another time was dark, so the figure itself was always changing in clarity – being a thing with one arm, then with one leg, then with twenty legs, then a pair of legs without a head, then a head without a body – the dissolving parts left no outline in the darkness of Conner's room, and the limbs melted away and reformed as distinct and clear as ever.
"Are you the spirit who Ethan said was coming?" Conner asked, startled.
"I am!" the ghost replied, his voice soft and gentle, and unusually muted, as if instead of being so close beside Conner, it was rather far away.
"Who, and what are you?" Conner asked again.
"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."
"Distant past?"
"No," the ghost clarified. "Your past."
Conner winced and blinked at the light coming from the ghost's crown. "Um, I was wondering if you would please put a hat on."
This angered the ghost. "What! Why would you want to douse my light? Is it not enough that you are one of those who made this cap, and force me to wear it for decades at a time, snuffing out the Christmas spirit?"
"I didn't mean to make you mad," Conner quickly yielded. "Um, what brings you here?"
"Your welfare!" the ghost replied.
"Well, thank you for caring," Conner attempted, "but I think a good night's sleep would be more helpful."
"Your reformation, then." The ghost put out his strong hand as he spoke, and took Conner gently by the arm. "Get up, and walk with me!"
Conner rose, but when he found that the ghost was leading him toward the window, he grabbed the ghost's arm. "Oh come on. It's the middle of the night, it's cold outside, I'm in my pajamas, I'm mortal, and I'm liable to fall. If you're so into my reformation, you wouldn't want me to die, would you?"
"Just hold my hand and you won't need to worry," the ghost explained. The ghost took Conner's hand and they passed through the wall.
Conner and the ghost now stood on an open, sunlit country road, with fields on either side. It was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground. Conner looked around and smiled, the first genuine smile in a long time, and said almost reverently, "Streamwood!"
The ghost gazed upon him mildly. Noticing a tear snake down Conner's cheek, he asked, "what's that on your cheek?"
With an unusual catching in his voice, Conner replied, "It's nothing. Just show me what you want to show me."
"Do you remember the way?" the ghost queried.
"Remember it!" Conner enthused. "I could walk it blindfolded."
"Strange to have forgotten it for so many years," the ghost noted. "Well, then, let's go."
As they walked along the road, Conner pointed out every gate, post, and tree. A little country town appeared in the distance, with a bridge, a church, and a winding river. Some small children were running around. All of them were in great spirits, and shouted to each other.
"These are only images of the things from the past," the ghost informed Conner. "They don't know we're here. They can't hear or see you."
The children approached Conner and the ghost, and as they passed by, Conner's cold eyes glistened. He heard them wish each other Merry Christmas as they parted at crossroads and small country roads for their homes.
Conner and the ghost left the main road and approached a medium-sized house of red brick, with a little, but well-kept garden out front. It was a large house, but still cozy. Many cars were gathered out front, and the sounds of happy people could be heard inside. The ghost and Conner walked to a door at the back of the house, which opened before them, revealing a large family, perhaps anywhere from 16 to 20 people, all gathered in a room that was almost too small for them to all gather around the Christmas tree, but they did, sitting close together and not minding in the least. An older couple watched warmly as their children and grandchildren opened their presents. Conner watched a younger version of himself, his twin brother Eric, and his cousins all playing with their new toys.
"Grandma! Grandpa!" whispered Conner. Conner dried his eyes with his sleeve, then muttered, put his hand in his pockets, and looked around him. "I wish..."
"What is the matter?" asked the ghost, concerned.
"Nothing. Nothing," Conner waved the ghost off. "I just wish that they were still here. Christmas was always better at Grandma and Grandpa's house."
"Let us see another Christmas!" The ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved his hand. The room changed into something like an underground cell. But this room was, too, filled with a sense of love and camaraderie, though the number in the room diminished significantly. Conner and the ghost stood on a flight of stairs, looking at the scene below them. "Know it?"
Conner smiled. "Know it! I spent more time here than at home!"
The ghost, using a half dozen arms that faded in and out of view, gestured "After you" and Conner proceeded down the stairs, his leg now nearly no trouble to him. When he saw a young gentleman sitting in front of a wall of computer screens, Conner let out a gasp and turned to the ghost behind him. "Dr. O! It's been so long since I've seen him!"
Dr. Tommy Oliver entered a few more commands into the computer and looked up at the clock, which pointed to 6 o'clock. He adjusted his glasses, rubbed his hands, laughed, and called up the stairs. "Conner! Ethan!" Immediately, Conner – Conner's younger self, now seventeen – came in briskly down the stairs, accompanied by Ethan.
"It's our first Christmas party together, the year we were rangers," Conner explained to the ghost.
"Let's see if we can get this place decorated," Ethan said. "I think Hayley and Kira were saying guys can't decorate worth anything; it'll be a nice surprise for them!"
Tommy, Conner and Ethan managed to get Tommy's Christmas tree down into the lab from the house upstairs, and strung brightly colored garlands, tinsel, and Christmas lights around the room. In a few minutes, Ethan and Conner had every movable box moved aside and the floor swept. Soon the lab was as snug, and warm, and bright as any home. The three had sat down and enjoyed their work when Hayley and Kira entered from upstairs, bringing presents and plates of food, and pleasantly surprised at the decorating the men had done. The five of them simply enjoyed each other's company, exchanging gifts and singing along to Christmas music played on the radio.
Throughout, Conner and the ghost watched. Or, rather, the ghost watched and Conner lived and re-lived every moment. He pointed out each person to the ghost and talked about them animatedly. Eventually, he ditched the ghost like a bad blind date and followed his younger self around the room, listening in on conversations and laughing along with various jokes.
The clock struck eight and the party wound down, and Conner suddenly remembered a memory from this party. As the rangers and Hayley started to clean up, Conner and Kira were caught under a sprig of mistletoe hung from the ceiling near the stairs. At Ethan's cheerful prodding, Conner and Kira shared a kiss, small and chaste, but enough to leave both momentarily breathless.
Conner remembered the ghost, and became aware that he was looking right at him, while the light upon his head burned very clear. "A small matter to make these silly folks so happy," the ghost stated simply.
"Small!" Conner wondered.
The ghost signaled to Conner, instructing him to listen to the two boys.
"What a party!" Ethan marveled as he and Conner cleaned the room.
Conner wholeheartedly agreed. "The sweetest! Didja see him dancin' with Hayley?"
"Yeah!"
"He looked like he was dancing with his sister!" Conner commented, laughing.
"And where on earth did he find that Wizard Wood book? I've been looking for that for months!"
"I guess Dr. O really can do anything," Conner said. "I think we need to have a party like this every year! I know I wouldn't miss it!"
As the boys headed upstairs with an armload of trash, the ghost turned to Conner. "Dr. Oliver and Hayley spent but a few dollars of your mortal money. Is that so much that they deserve this praise?"
"It isn't that. It's not that at all, Spirit," Conner answered. "It was that he didn't have to. He was our mentor, our teacher, but he could have just sent us a card. He didn't have to invite us over for a party."
The ghost raised an eyebrow at this, and Conner stopped.
"What is the matter?" the ghost asked.
"Nothing in particular," came the short reply.
"Nothing?"
"No. No," Conner waved the ghost off. "I'd just like to be able to say a word or two to my assistant right now. That's all."
Suddenly, the room darkened as the young Conner reentered and turned off the lights.
"My time is running out," the ghost stated matter-of-factly. “Let us see another Christmas.”
The room continued to darken and the scene changed into a small, sterile, cold hospital room. A sunny blue sky shone outside the window, and Conner, older now – just about 20 – lay in the bed, his left leg bandaged and rather horrendous looking. Kira sat beside the bed, her tears sparkling in the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past, who stood on the opposite side of the bed. An astonished Conner stood beside the ghost, staring at her, his face just inches from hers.
Clearly moved by this memory, and suddenly aware of its effect on Kira, Conner reached out to touch her – "Oh, Kira..." – but his hand passed right through her.
Kira spoke up, appearing to be starting up an ongoing conversation. "Come on, let them come over. They want to see you," she pleaded.
"I don't want them to see me like this," Conner declared.
"They've seen you worse than this, Conner," Kira pointed out. "Remember two years ago, when your parents divorced? We were there for you then, let us be there for you now."
Conner tried to be reasonable. "Look, Kira. Things are different now. I'm not the same guy that you knew." Conner's tone changed, and he spat, "Look at me! When they found me, my leg was twisted back under my seat. They almost had to amputate it! I almost died! I may never walk again, I'll certainly never be able to play soccer again, which means my scholarship is gone - everything I've worked hard for is gone! So please excuse me if I don't feel much like celebrating."
"You're right," Kira acknowledged. "You're not the Conner McKnight I know. The Conner I know wouldn't let a thirty-foot-tall monster, an evil ranger, and stolen zords ruin his day, much less let a drunk driver ruin his life. You of all people should know that if you give up, the bad guy wins. What would you have done if this was a battle?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" Conner argued. "I haven't changed towards you. I still love you."
Kira shook her head.
"Have I changed?" he asked.
"We've been together for a while," Kira spoke levelly, trying to keep the emotion back. "We got together when we were both happy and content to be so, come thirty-foot monsters, evil rangers or high water. You have definitely changed. When we got together, you were someone else."
"I was a boy. I've grown up," Conner interrupted impatiently.
"And I haven't?" Kira argued. "The things that made us happy when we were together, makes me nothing but miserable now that we are two different people. I won't tell you how often I’ve thought about this, but I have, and I think it would be best if we broke up."
Conner was taken aback. "Have I ever said anything to make you think that I wanted to break up?"
"In words?" Kira asked. "No. Never."
"Then how?"
"Like I said, you've changed. You were like this even before the accident. Whose fault is it that your parents broke up at Christmas time? Not yours, but you still refuse to even think about Christmas as a time for happiness. If the accident had never happened, tell me, would you let the others come over and celebrate Christmas with you? No!"
Conner seemed to yield to the justice of this idea, in spite of himself. "You aren't thinking straight."
"I think I finally am," Kira was now fighting to keep a level tone. "I don't want to own up to it either, but it's the truth, and I can't ignore it. If you weren't stuck in this bed, would you call us, your friends, and find out what our plans are? Or, even if you did, don't I know that you would be nothing but cranky and crabby? I do, and so I think it would be best if we broke up. I love you, but I can't stand what you've become."
The silence of a short pause hung in the air like a weight. Conner started to speak, but Kira stood up from her chair and continued. "Don't worry. I hope you'll be sad over this, but I know you will forget about it, gladly, except to think of it as only a dream, and it was a good thing that you woke up. I hope you’ll be happy in the life you have chosen!" Kira's voice broke as she finished, and she turned and left, the sound of her breaking into tears coming from just down the hall.
"Spirit! Please, show me no more! Take me home. Are you enjoying torturing me like this?" Conner begged.
"One more memory!" the ghost called.
"No more! No more. I don't want to see it. Don't show me any more!" Conner exclaimed, but the relentless ghost took Conner by the shoulders and turned him around. Conner found himself again inside Dr. Oliver's underground lab. It was a few days before Christmas, and gift wrap littered the floor. The team was together again, Hayley as well, only this time, Trent was with them, and Conner was not.
The gifts had been exchanged, and now the five were sitting comfortably and enjoying each other's company. Conner noticed that there was no mistletoe hung over the stairs. Suddenly, Trent remembered something, and turned to the rest of the group. "Guess who I saw today?"
"Who?" Kira asked.
"Come on, guess." Trent prompted.
Kira played along. "Oh, I don't know."
"It was Conner," Trent answered. "I saw him at the college, and I couldn't help but look and see how he's doing. He looks like he's doing okay, even with his leg the way it is, but he was all alone, and looked like he liked it better that way."
Conner, sitting beside the ghost on the far side of the room, shut his eyes and shook his head. "Spirit! Please, get me out of here!"
"I told you these were visions of the things that have been. They are what they are, do not blame me!" the ghost reminded.
"Get me out of here! I can't take it!" Conner turned on the ghost, who was looking at him with an oddly morphing face, in which fragments of all the faces it had shown him momentarily appeared: his younger selves, his grandparents, Tommy, Ethan, Kira, and so on. Terrified, Conner tried to attack the ghost. "Go away! Take me back. Leave me alone!"
The ghost offered no resistance of his own but wasn't affected by Conner's attack. The light from his head was burning high and bright, and Conner seized the cap from under his arm and pressed it down upon the ghost's head. The ghost seemed to shrink beneath it, so that the extinguisher covered him entirely, but though Conner pushed the cap down with all his might, he couldn't hide the light, which streamed from under the cap in a continuous flood upon the ground. In a last great effort, Conner threw his body over the cap and the light went out.
Written by KyrieEleison
Original text by Charles Dickens
This is the long-ago-promised story format version of my story, "Conner's Christmas Carol." To those who read the original from a few years ago and enjoyed it, thank you SO much. I would have had this up a long time ago, but school started again, and priorities had to shift. And then I went and forgot to finish the story... Once again, thanks to Drew's Script-o-Rama (http://script-o-rama.com) for providing the script for "A Christmas Carol" that I followed in writing this story. I tried to figure out exactly which version of this tale I adapted, but there are simply so many versions out there, and the script I used doesn’t list any writing or directing credits. So, please forgive me, and know that I don’t own any versions of “A Christmas Carol,” “Power Rangers Dino Thunder,” or their characters. I’m not even laying claim to the “original characters,” as they are simply adaptations of the characters from “A Christmas Carol.” Also, thanks again to my cousins for unknowingly donating their names to the narrator's nieces and nephews.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Inside a cheerily-lit family room in Reefside, California, on Christmas Eve, a young girl, maybe ten years old, searched through a bookshelf full of books. A young man sat in a comfortable chair – handsome, in his late twenties, with a pleasant voice, obviously a favorite uncle – surrounded by a noisy circle of children and young adults. The children kept pestering him for something and he kept waving them off. "I don't know why you want to hear this story again," chided the young man. "You must have heard it a dozen times by now."
"A hundred," one of the older children, named Ryan, answered.
Nathan, an older teenager, added, "A thousand. But it's good for a laugh."
"And it's just as much your story as anybody else’s, right?" Ryan asked.
The young man answered, in genuine modesty, "Maybe it is. But I'm not sure I'm necessarily the right one to tell it."
"Aw, that's not true," Ryan pointed out. "Grandma says you're the only one who knows how to tell it right."
The others, particularly the younger children, murmured agreement. The girl, named Amanda, found the book she was looking for. She pulled it off the shelf and walked over to her uncle, holding it tightly. "Please," Amanda pleaded. "We want to hear it from you."
She handed him the book. He smiled at it and set it in his lap unopened as Amanda sat at his feet. Slowly, some of the others began to sit down too.
The young man looked at the book. "You know, I don't really need this." As he stared at the book, he was suddenly lost in thought and began to talk as much to himself as to the others. "I've been telling this story every Christmas now for oh, I don't know how many years – since I was a boy. And I know it by heart. It always begins the same way."
"How does it begin?" asked Amanda, very quietly.
The young man abruptly looked up. Everyone was seated. They stared at him expectantly. And without any warning, he began. "Ethan was as dead as a door-nail. You have to remember that or the story becomes nothing special. So, remember, Ethan was as dead as a door-nail. Conner McKnight was in charge of executing Ethan’s will, and Conner's name was good in Reefside for just about anything..."
**************************
It is late afternoon on Christmas Eve, 2020. Reefside is packed with nice-looking people who hurry up and down, rushing in and out of stores, looking for the perfect last-minute present, and so forth. Inside one shop, a sporting goods store, Devin Delvalle was chatting with his wife Cassidy and a man with a sharp face which still held hints of the handsomeness that it once had. This man was Conner McKnight, the owner of the store. Conner had just finished with a customer when Devin spoke up.
"Hey, Conner," greeted Devin.
"Yes, Devin?" Conner answered, in the manner he always greeted his customers: subtly-forced kindness.
"So, what's up? What are you doing for Christmas?" Devin asked.
Realizing Devin just wanted to make conversation, Conner's answer was short. "Nothing. I don't do anything for Christmas."
"Then why are you closing your store tomorrow?" asked Cassidy.
"Nobody will be going out," Conner retorted. "Everybody stays in with their families. It's a waste of time to be open."
"Come on, Conner," Cassidy chided. "You know the saying – all work and no play..."
"...makes Jack a dull boy," Conner finished dully. "Work is work and play is play, and Christmas," he warned, "is nothing to me anymore. Now if you'll excuse me, I see a customer that needs help." Conner left, with a slight limp in his left leg. Cassidy shot a sad look in Conner's direction, but, realizing she couldn't do anything about it, led Devin over to a basketball display.
Outside Conner's office, the sign on the door read:
CONNER MCKNIGHT
A petite brunette walked rapidly up to the door, opened it, and entered.
Inside, Conner's clerk, Matt Robertson, sat in a dismal little cubicle doing mindless work. A very small space heater sat next to his desk, so small that it looked like a match could provide better heat. The clerk put his well-worn coat on, trying – and failing – to warm himself as he worked. The girl appeared, all in a glow; her face still as beautiful as it was as a young girl and her eyes still sparkling. She grinned at Matt, who raised an eyebrow, surprised to see her. She made her way to the doorway of an adjacent office in which Conner sat hunched over a desk, busily writing. "Merry Christmas!" she greeted happily.
"Whatever!"
"Christmas 'whatever,' Conner?" asked Kira, as she leaned on the doorpost. "You don't mean that."
"I do," Conner replied. "Merry Christmas! What reason do you have to be merry? You have as much reason to be miserable as I do."
"Come on now," Kira tried to reason with him. "What right do you have to be miserable? What reason do you have to be so depressed? The rest of us have moved on – why won’t you?"
Conner had no answer ready better than "Whatever!"
"Don't be angry, Conner," Kira argued as she entered the office and helped herself to a seat.
"What else can I be when so much has happened!" Conner exclaimed. "Forget ‘Merry Christmas.’ What's Christmas time now but a time for remembering what we've lost? If I had it my way, every idiot who goes around saying 'Merry Christmas' should have a taste of the pain some of us are going through. Then they'd see what a waste of time Christmas is."
"Conner!" Kira admonished.
"Kira!" Conner mocked Kira's tone. "Celebrate Christmas your way, and let me celebrate it in mine," he muttered.
"Celebrate it!" scoffed Kira. "But you don't celebrate it."
"Exactly," Conner retorted. "What good has Christmas done you?"
"There are many things that just make me happy," Kira began casually, "Christmas among them. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas, when it has comes around, apart from the usual reasons, as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: and yes, bad things have happened to you – to us – at Christmas. We learn from them and move on! And I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"
Matt Robertson, still in the cubicle, involuntarily applauded. Becoming immediately aware of his boss' scowl, he quickly went back to his work, turning the heat up on his space heater, which promptly overloaded and broke down.
"I hear another sound from you and you'll celebrate Christmas by losing your job," Conner reprimanded Matt. To Kira, he continued, "You're quite a powerful speaker. It's a surprise you never thought of running for office."
"Don't be angry, Conner," Kira tried. "Come over tomorrow. Everyone will be there." Her voice took on an inviting tone. "Dr. O's even got his new little baby. Her name's Anne." After a long pause, she continued, "Will you come see us?"
"No, thank you." Conner answered curtly.
"But why?" Kira asked, astonished. "Why won't you come?"
"Because not everybody will be there," came the cryptic reply.
Kira was confused. "Huh?"
"I said 'No, thank you,'" Conner repeated. "Goodbye!"
"Conner, what is with you? You never used to be like this. I mean, you've been like this for years, but what happened to you?"
"Goodbye."
"I'm not asking for anything from you but for you to hang out with your friends," Kira persisted. "Why won't you?"
"Goodbye."
"I am sorry that you've decided to be a jerk." Kira decided to leave, knowing there would be no getting through to Conner this time. "I know we've had our differences. I know that...certain events have changed your outlook on things. I know that the others have given up on you, but I won't. I try my best to get through that thick head of yours every year, but I'm not going to let you wreck my Christmas. So a Merry Christmas, Conner!” she threw over her shoulder as she walked out of Conner’s office.
"Goodbye."
Kira turned back toward Conner. "And a Happy New Year!" she added as an additional taunt.
"Goodbye!"
Kira left the room with a wry grin. On her way out the door, she exchanged greetings with Matt Robertson. "How are Mrs. Robertson and all the small, assorted Robertsons?" she asked, genuinely interested.
"Very good, thank you," Matt answered politely.
"All revved up and waiting for Christmas, huh?"
"Oh, yes, Miss – all very eager."
"And your little boy. The sick one. Which one is he? Tim?"
"Yes, it's Tim."
"That's right," Kira remembered. "How is he?"
"We're hoping that he's getting better." Matt didn't want to get into all the details.
"That's wonderful. Merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas to you, too."
"Thank you."
Matt watched Kira leave and glanced at Conner's office, remembered having heard of a long, interesting past involving Conner and this sweet friend of his. Matt was surprised to instead find Conner glaring at him.
"And you! Working for minimum wage, with a wife and family, and talking about ‘Merry Christmas,’" Conner cried. "Of all the wastes of time!"
Conner shook his head as he answered the ringing phone. "I have a Mr. McKnight and a Mr. James at this number," the gentleman on the other line began cheerfully. "Who do I have the pleasure of addressing: Mr. McKnight, or Mr. James?"
Conner replied melodramatically, "Your list is very old. Mr. James died seven years ago. Seven years ago, this very day, to be exact. Car accident."
"I am very sorry to hear that," the gentleman replied sympathetically. "Well, we hope that his generosity is kept alive by his friends."
At the ominous word "generosity", Conner frowned, but the gentleman on the phone couldn't have known that. "At this time of the year, Mr. McKnight," he continued, "it's good to take the time to care for the less fortunate. Many people even here in Reefside need the basics to survive."
"Are there no shelters?" asked Conner.
The gentleman took a deep breath, suddenly becoming aware that this might be a hard sell. "Yes, a few," was his reply.
"And the Unemployment Agency? Is it up and running?" Conner continued sharply.
"It is," the gentleman answered, "but I wish I could say it wasn't."
"Oh! I'm very glad to hear it. I was afraid, from what you said, that something happened to force them to shut down." Conner smiled slightly malevolently.
"The problem, Mr. McKnight, is that the shelters are severely under-funded," the gentleman tried again. "One is in danger of being shut down. And so we at the Salvation Army are attempting to raise some funds to give these less fortunate souls a merry Christmas. What shall I put you down for?" he asked cheerfully.
"Nothing!"
"You want to be anonymous?" the gentleman asked, ever hopeful.
"I want to be left alone," Conner answered tersely. "That’s what I want. I don't celebrate Christmas and I can't afford to help other people celebrate. I pay my taxes, so I already help to support the shelters and agencies; they cost enough: and those who need help should go there."
"Right now many can't go there," the first gentleman pressed, "and many would rather die."
"If they would rather die, they had better do it. Maybe then the world wouldn't be so crowded. But that's not my business," Conner responded. "My own keeps me busy enough. Goodbye." Conner threw the phone down back into its cradle.
As night fell, the throng of shoppers lessened slightly as people made their way home to their families, bundled against the slight chill in the air. The brightness of the shops, where Santa and various elves and reindeer danced in the windows, made pale faces rosy as they passed.
A small boy approached Conner's store window to regale him and his customers with a Christmas carol, but at the first sound of "Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn King!" Conner began to chase the boy away, but his leg slowed him down. However, Conner's start was enough to scare the boy so much that he fled in terror. The moment the boy had fled, Conner's threatening expression relaxed and he smirked, rather pleased with himself. Conner glanced at the wall clock as it struck seven o’clock - time to close up. Unhappily, Conner headed back to his office, organized a few papers, and nodded to Matt, who instantly turned his computer off, and put on his shabby coat.
"I suppose I’ll have to give you all day tomorrow, won’t I?" Conner resigned himself to the fact.
"If it's convenient, sir," Matt knew better to ask for anything. He made a mental note to bring an extra sweater to work after Christmas, knowing that if he wanted to be warm in his cubicle, the price of a new space heater would have to come out of his pocket.
"It's not convenient, and it's not fair," Conner complained. "If I was to not pay you for it, you'd think I was unreasonable, right?"
Matt smiled faintly.
"And yet, you think it's reasonable, for me to pay a day's wages for no work."
"It's only once a year, Mr. McKnight," Matt answered and smiled again.
"A poor excuse for robbing a man every December twenty-fifth," Conner grumbled.
Conner buttoned his coat to the chin. "But I suppose you have to have the whole day. It's not like anyone will be in to buy anything anyway. But be here early the next morning!"
"I will," Matt promised.
Conner walked out to his car with a growl. A shivering Matt locked the front door and rushed off, wrapping his coat around him to ward off a chilly wind.
At Conner's house on the outskirts of Reefside, the sun had set, making the yard so dark that Conner had to grope with his hands to find the keyhole so he could unlock the black old door – on which a fairly large knocker stood guard. Conner put his key in the lock of the door and glanced at the knocker – however, what Conner saw was no longer a knocker, but the face of his friend Ethan James. Conner gasped. "Ethan?" he whispered.
Ethan's face wasn't a dark shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had an eerie light about it, as though it was lit by a small light. The face looked at Conner determinedly, just like Ethan used to look when doing battle. That and its strange color made it frightening; but this seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control. As soon as Conner blinked, though, it became a knocker again as suddenly as it had changed before. Startled, Conner turned the knob and let himself in.
Inside, Conner paused to look cautiously behind the door, as if he half expected to see the rest of Ethan sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door. Conner closed the door with a bang, the sound echoing through the house like thunder. He locked the door, and walked down the hall, slowly, as his leg was giving him trouble, turning on lights as he went.
As Conner walked down the hall, he peered ahead into the darkness of the back of the house, and for a moment, he thought he saw something that looked like a hearse going on before him in the dark. He paused, blinked, shook his head, and continued, muttering to himself.
A suspicious, slightly unnerved Conner walked through his gloomy house to be sure that everything was all right. In the living room, he found nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa. The bedroom was as usual – nobody under the bed, nobody in the closet. Suddenly, he saw a ghostly white shape in the darkness on the opposite side of the room. Conner tensed up for a moment until he realized it was only his bathrobe, hung up oddly against the wall. Satisfied that he was alone, he closed every door, and locked himself in – in fact, he double-locked himself in, something he never did. Secured against surprise, he headed into his bathroom for a shower.
Having changed clothes, Conner headed into the kitchen and made his dinner, if a TV dinner could be called such. While it cooked, Conner moved into the living room to build a fire. The fireplace was an old one, built long ago by some Spanish farmer, and tiled all around with quaint Spanish tiles, designed to illustrate old Bible stories: Pharaoh's daughter pulling Moses from the Nile, the Queen of Sheba visiting King Solomon, angelic messengers descending through the air on feathery clouds, Abraham, Isaac, apostles putting off to sea in small fishing boats – hundreds of figures. Conner threw a small log on the small fire and glanced at the fireplace. Suddenly every tile was adorned with Ethan's face as it had been on the door knocker. Conner blinked – and saw that the tiles had returned to normal. Conner rose to retrieve his dinner, feeling unsettled. As he ate, he took more than a few nervous glances at the fireplace. Nothing but happy Christmas people were on TV – something Conner had no patience with. Conner threw his head back in the chair, and his glance happened to fall on the curtains at the window. As he looked, the curtains began to flutter. The curtains fluttered so softly at the outset that it didn't mean much; but soon they were flapping so vigorously that Conner was afraid that they would come off the curtain rods, and soon the same happened at every window that Conner could see, as though the house was in the middle of a tornado Dorothy and Toto would have been jealous of. Throughout, an uneasy look slowly crossed Conner's face. Conner headed to one window to shut it against the raging winds that were circling inside the room, but the window was closed – in fact, all of the windows were closed as well. As suddenly as the curtains had started to wave, they stopped. Conner relaxed, but only for a moment, as a noise came from deep down below, as if someone was in the basement and was marching up the flight of stairs wearing combat boots. Conner heard the sound of the basement door flying open with a booming sound, and the marching noise became much louder as it came down the hall and straight towards the living room. Conner started talking to himself. "It's ridiculous! I won't believe it."
The color left Conner's face though, when, without a pause, the source of the noise came through the door, and passed into the room before Conner's very eyes. As soon as it entered, the small flame leapt up in the fireplace and fell again, and the television and all the lights shut off. Ethan James' ghost entered, as he looked in high school, wearing his favorite shirt and jacket, jeans, and sneakers. Ethan's body was transparent, and Conner, looking closely, could look through and see the buttons on the back of Ethan's jeans jacket. Conner felt the need to crack a joke to keep down his terror. "This is right out of your sci-fi movies," he said softly. "I bet you're happy being dead." Conner stared into the ghost's cheerful eyes and reverted to his cold and caustic self.
"Don't you love the special effects?" Ethan asked irrepressibly. "Bet you thought it was the ghost of Jacob Marley."
Conner asked, scared, "What do you want with me?"
"Oh, you have no clue," the ghost answered.
"Who are you?" Conner sputtered.
"You should probably be asking me who I was," the ghost supplied.
"Who were you then?" Conner asked.
"In life I was your friend Ethan James," was the reply.
"Can you—can you sit down?" Conner asked doubtfully.
"Yeah."
"Do it, then."
Ethan sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, as if he were quite used to it. Conner stared at the ghost's smiling eyes as it sat perfectly motionless though the vision still quivered as if it was vapor rising from the street on a hot day.
"You don't believe in me," Ethan stated matter-of-factly.
"No, I don't," Conner answered in the same tone.
"What more evidence do you need than your senses?" Ethan asked. "We saw stranger things as rangers, and you believed it then."
Conner had to be honest. "I don't know."
"Why do you doubt your senses?"
"Because a little thing called acid reflux affects them," Conner responded. "You may be a slice of pizza, a bit of mustard, a can of soda, a piece of fried chicken. You see this dinner?" Conner gestured to his TV dinner. The ghost's eyes didn't move.
"Didn't you learn how to eat right? All this money, and you think you could afford a cook," Ethan quipped.
"You're not looking at it," Conner reprimanded.
"I don't have to look at it to see it," Ethan nagged. "I'm a ghost, remember?"
"Well! If I eat this, I'll be seeing things all night. This is absolutely stupid!" Conner scoffed.
At this, the ghost stood up and tried to slap Conner upside the head to get his attention, but his hand passed right through Conner's head. This still got the response he was looking for, and Conner gripped the armrests of his chair in fear.
"So now do you believe in me?" Ethan asked.
"Ok, ok, I do," Conner caved. "But why are you here? Why are you bothering me?"
"Look, I've got it going pretty good in heaven, but to see you here on Earth – dude, you've got issues," Ethan stated. "Dr. O, Trent, Hayley, Devin, Cassidy? They've all but given up on you. Poor Kira – she's tried and tried to get through to you, but stubborn you. So now it's time I took matters into my own hands."
Conner didn't know what to do with himself, so he wrung his hands, still unsure of what was going on. A chain appeared around Ethan's feet. "What's with the chain?" Conner asked.
"Visual aid. When people spend more time being mean, feeling sorry for themselves and worrying about bank accounts instead of being nice and helping people, this is what happens," Ethan explained. "Every instance adds a link to the chain. You make it in life, you wear it in death. If every good thing I did in life was replaced by a bad thing, my chain would look like this." Conner was getting more and more scared, but Ethan continued. "You want to know what your chain looks like? Yours was longer than this one seven Christmas Eves ago, and you have been working on it since. I think a record might have been broken somewhere along the line, but I don't know. I usually don't talk to the 'chain gang,' as the others call them."
Conner glanced around him on the floor, expecting to find himself surrounded by some hundred feet of iron chain, but he saw nothing. Desperate for a release from his fear, Conner pleaded, "Come on, Ethan! Can’t you tell me something that doesn't sound like it came out of A Christmas Carol?"
"Nope," was the reply. "Face it. You're living A Christmas Carol now. You've spent too much time feeling sorry for yourself, Conner McKnight, and it's time for a change. I don’t get to stay much longer. But listen. The spirit inside everyone is required to care for the people around them, and if it doesn't happen in life, it happens after death. The spirit is doomed to wander through the world and see what it should have done. You've done enough good in your life so far, so you're covered, but you're on thin ice...if what you do now ever cancels out the good you did all those years ago, then..." Ethan kicked the chain at his feet, making a clanking noise. Conner jumped at the sound. "Pay attention! My time's almost up."
"Well, excuse me if the idea of wandering the earth forever, lugging a huge chain behind me takes my attention for a second," Conner answered sarcastically. "So, get to the point."
Ethan complied. "I don't know why you can see me. But I've been hanging around beside you for a while." Conner shivered at this, and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "You could always count on me to tell you when you'd screwed up, right?" Ethan asked.
"You were always a good friend to me," Conner replied, hoping that such an answer would lessen anything Ethan may have had coming. "Thank you!"
"Well, you've screwed up," Ethan warned. "Big time. And it's time things changed around here. I am here tonight to warn you, so you have one last chance to escape what might be your fate. A chance that I managed to get for you. The Big Guy won’t ever give up on anyone, but some of the higher angels have almost given up on you, too. You will be visited...by three spirits."
Conner's jaw dropped. "Is this the chance you mentioned, Ethan?"
"It is."
"I—I think I'd rather not," Conner cowered, looking down.
"Without their visits," Ethan cautioned, "there's no escape for you. Expect the first tomorrow at 1 am."
"Couldn't I take 'em all at once, and have it over with, Ethan?"
Ethan continued, "Expect the second on the next night at the same time. The third on the next night before the last stroke of midnight has finished. I've got to go now, Conner. Please don't make me save your spirit's butt again, and for your sake, don't forget that what happened tonight."
Conner ventured to raise his eyes again, and found Ethan walking backward from him, and with every step, the nearby window rose by itself a little, so that when the ghost reached it, it was wide open. He motioned for Conner to approach, which he did. When Conner came about two feet away from him, Ethan raised his hand, warning him to stop. Conner stopped, not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear, for as soon as Ethan raised his hand, Conner became aware of confused noises in the air – incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret, wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and full of self-pity. Ethan, after listening for a moment, pointed over his shoulder out the window. "You might wanna see this," he suggested. "Consider it a friendly little warning. Christmas is the worst time of the year for these guys." At this, Ethan floated out the window and into the clear, dark night. Conner followed to the window, desperate in his curiosity. He looked out.
Outside, the air was filled with phantoms, wandering here and there in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore chains, some were linked together (though who knows how they got that way); none of them were free: this was the "chain gang" Ethan had talked about. Conner had even known a few of them in their lives. One old ghost, in a white coat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to its ankle, cried pathetically at being unable to help a woman with an infant, whom it saw wandering the streets below. The misery with them all was, clearly, that now they wanted to get involved in human matters, but had lost the ability to forever. Whether these creatures faded into mist, or the mist enveloped them, is unclear. But they and their spirit voices faded together, the mist faded away, and the night became as it had been when Conner arrived at home. Conner closed the window, and examined the basement door, the door the ghost had entered through. It was still double-locked, as he had locked it with his own hands—as if nothing had happened. He tried to say "It's nothing!" but stopped before he could say a syllable. Conner walked into his bedroom and to his bed, got in, and fell asleep instantly. The light from the fire in the living room was still visible under the closed bedroom door.
Conner awoke in darkness some time later. As the chimes of the neighboring church clock struck twelve, Conner stopped to think. "Twelve? It was past two when I went to bed," he said to no one in particular. Conner scrambled out of bed, and felt his way to the window. He pulled back the curtains – shuddering as he remembered what had happened with the curtains – but all he could make out was that it was very dark and very quiet. "Hmmph! Clock’s wrong. Leaves must have gotten into the works." Conner turned a bedside lamp on and sat on the edge of his bed, looking at his bedside alarm clock. It, too, read twelve. "Twelve! It's not possible. I couldn't have slept through a whole day!" He picked up the clock and checked it, then seemed to remember something.
"Now, of course, the ghost had warned Conner that a spirit would visit him when the bell tolled one..." Conner began to fiddle with his clock. "...So he decided to lie awake until then, and, considering that he could no more easily go to sleep than go back in time, this was perhaps the best idea. Naturally, he didn't want to be caught dozing off, so he made sure to set the alarm on his clock to go off at one on the dot."
Conner set the alarm, turned all the lights on so he could keep a sharp look-out on the room, and sat up in bed – waiting for his visitor. About an hour later, Conner, tiredly sitting up in bed, watched the clock tick to one. The tinny alarm bell went off. Conner looked around the room. Nothing. "Pfft," Conner snorted. He sighed – though it was hard to tell whether in relief, or disappointment, or embarrassment – turned off the lights and glanced at the door, where, the fire having gone out, no light shone through from the living room. Conner pulled the covers way up over his head, and with a peaceful, satisfied look on his face, shut his eyes. Just as Conner had gotten comfortable, the church bell sounded one – deep, dull, hollow, and melancholy. Conner's eyes popped open and a wave of dread passed over his face. A wickedly bright light flashed in the room, and the blankets of Conner's bed were pushed aside. Conner, starting to sit up, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who pulled them.
It was a weird, impressive figure – like a child: yet not quite like a child as like an old man, and though it stood right at the foot of Conner's bed, there was a mystical quality about it, which gave him the appearance of standing far off, and looking about the height of a child. His long hair, which hung down his back, was white as if with age, but his face didn't have a wrinkle in it, and the slightest blush was on his skin. His arms were very long and muscular, and his hands as well, as if this being's slight build hid an uncommon strength. His delicate legs and feet, were, like his arms, bare. He wore a tunic of the purest white with a lustrous belt around his waist, embellished with a beautiful sheen. He held a branch of fresh green holly in his hand, and yet his tunic was trimmed with summer flowers. From the crown on the top of his head shone a bright clear jet of light, which lit up the room – it was by this light that Conner saw all of this – and probably why he used, in his duller moments, a great candle snuffer for a cap, which he now held under his arm.
His belt sparkled and glittered first in one part and then in another, and the being itself was continuously morphing: what was light one instant, at another time was dark, so the figure itself was always changing in clarity – being a thing with one arm, then with one leg, then with twenty legs, then a pair of legs without a head, then a head without a body – the dissolving parts left no outline in the darkness of Conner's room, and the limbs melted away and reformed as distinct and clear as ever.
"Are you the spirit who Ethan said was coming?" Conner asked, startled.
"I am!" the ghost replied, his voice soft and gentle, and unusually muted, as if instead of being so close beside Conner, it was rather far away.
"Who, and what are you?" Conner asked again.
"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."
"Distant past?"
"No," the ghost clarified. "Your past."
Conner winced and blinked at the light coming from the ghost's crown. "Um, I was wondering if you would please put a hat on."
This angered the ghost. "What! Why would you want to douse my light? Is it not enough that you are one of those who made this cap, and force me to wear it for decades at a time, snuffing out the Christmas spirit?"
"I didn't mean to make you mad," Conner quickly yielded. "Um, what brings you here?"
"Your welfare!" the ghost replied.
"Well, thank you for caring," Conner attempted, "but I think a good night's sleep would be more helpful."
"Your reformation, then." The ghost put out his strong hand as he spoke, and took Conner gently by the arm. "Get up, and walk with me!"
Conner rose, but when he found that the ghost was leading him toward the window, he grabbed the ghost's arm. "Oh come on. It's the middle of the night, it's cold outside, I'm in my pajamas, I'm mortal, and I'm liable to fall. If you're so into my reformation, you wouldn't want me to die, would you?"
"Just hold my hand and you won't need to worry," the ghost explained. The ghost took Conner's hand and they passed through the wall.
Conner and the ghost now stood on an open, sunlit country road, with fields on either side. It was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground. Conner looked around and smiled, the first genuine smile in a long time, and said almost reverently, "Streamwood!"
The ghost gazed upon him mildly. Noticing a tear snake down Conner's cheek, he asked, "what's that on your cheek?"
With an unusual catching in his voice, Conner replied, "It's nothing. Just show me what you want to show me."
"Do you remember the way?" the ghost queried.
"Remember it!" Conner enthused. "I could walk it blindfolded."
"Strange to have forgotten it for so many years," the ghost noted. "Well, then, let's go."
As they walked along the road, Conner pointed out every gate, post, and tree. A little country town appeared in the distance, with a bridge, a church, and a winding river. Some small children were running around. All of them were in great spirits, and shouted to each other.
"These are only images of the things from the past," the ghost informed Conner. "They don't know we're here. They can't hear or see you."
The children approached Conner and the ghost, and as they passed by, Conner's cold eyes glistened. He heard them wish each other Merry Christmas as they parted at crossroads and small country roads for their homes.
Conner and the ghost left the main road and approached a medium-sized house of red brick, with a little, but well-kept garden out front. It was a large house, but still cozy. Many cars were gathered out front, and the sounds of happy people could be heard inside. The ghost and Conner walked to a door at the back of the house, which opened before them, revealing a large family, perhaps anywhere from 16 to 20 people, all gathered in a room that was almost too small for them to all gather around the Christmas tree, but they did, sitting close together and not minding in the least. An older couple watched warmly as their children and grandchildren opened their presents. Conner watched a younger version of himself, his twin brother Eric, and his cousins all playing with their new toys.
"Grandma! Grandpa!" whispered Conner. Conner dried his eyes with his sleeve, then muttered, put his hand in his pockets, and looked around him. "I wish..."
"What is the matter?" asked the ghost, concerned.
"Nothing. Nothing," Conner waved the ghost off. "I just wish that they were still here. Christmas was always better at Grandma and Grandpa's house."
"Let us see another Christmas!" The ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved his hand. The room changed into something like an underground cell. But this room was, too, filled with a sense of love and camaraderie, though the number in the room diminished significantly. Conner and the ghost stood on a flight of stairs, looking at the scene below them. "Know it?"
Conner smiled. "Know it! I spent more time here than at home!"
The ghost, using a half dozen arms that faded in and out of view, gestured "After you" and Conner proceeded down the stairs, his leg now nearly no trouble to him. When he saw a young gentleman sitting in front of a wall of computer screens, Conner let out a gasp and turned to the ghost behind him. "Dr. O! It's been so long since I've seen him!"
Dr. Tommy Oliver entered a few more commands into the computer and looked up at the clock, which pointed to 6 o'clock. He adjusted his glasses, rubbed his hands, laughed, and called up the stairs. "Conner! Ethan!" Immediately, Conner – Conner's younger self, now seventeen – came in briskly down the stairs, accompanied by Ethan.
"It's our first Christmas party together, the year we were rangers," Conner explained to the ghost.
"Let's see if we can get this place decorated," Ethan said. "I think Hayley and Kira were saying guys can't decorate worth anything; it'll be a nice surprise for them!"
Tommy, Conner and Ethan managed to get Tommy's Christmas tree down into the lab from the house upstairs, and strung brightly colored garlands, tinsel, and Christmas lights around the room. In a few minutes, Ethan and Conner had every movable box moved aside and the floor swept. Soon the lab was as snug, and warm, and bright as any home. The three had sat down and enjoyed their work when Hayley and Kira entered from upstairs, bringing presents and plates of food, and pleasantly surprised at the decorating the men had done. The five of them simply enjoyed each other's company, exchanging gifts and singing along to Christmas music played on the radio.
Throughout, Conner and the ghost watched. Or, rather, the ghost watched and Conner lived and re-lived every moment. He pointed out each person to the ghost and talked about them animatedly. Eventually, he ditched the ghost like a bad blind date and followed his younger self around the room, listening in on conversations and laughing along with various jokes.
The clock struck eight and the party wound down, and Conner suddenly remembered a memory from this party. As the rangers and Hayley started to clean up, Conner and Kira were caught under a sprig of mistletoe hung from the ceiling near the stairs. At Ethan's cheerful prodding, Conner and Kira shared a kiss, small and chaste, but enough to leave both momentarily breathless.
Conner remembered the ghost, and became aware that he was looking right at him, while the light upon his head burned very clear. "A small matter to make these silly folks so happy," the ghost stated simply.
"Small!" Conner wondered.
The ghost signaled to Conner, instructing him to listen to the two boys.
"What a party!" Ethan marveled as he and Conner cleaned the room.
Conner wholeheartedly agreed. "The sweetest! Didja see him dancin' with Hayley?"
"Yeah!"
"He looked like he was dancing with his sister!" Conner commented, laughing.
"And where on earth did he find that Wizard Wood book? I've been looking for that for months!"
"I guess Dr. O really can do anything," Conner said. "I think we need to have a party like this every year! I know I wouldn't miss it!"
As the boys headed upstairs with an armload of trash, the ghost turned to Conner. "Dr. Oliver and Hayley spent but a few dollars of your mortal money. Is that so much that they deserve this praise?"
"It isn't that. It's not that at all, Spirit," Conner answered. "It was that he didn't have to. He was our mentor, our teacher, but he could have just sent us a card. He didn't have to invite us over for a party."
The ghost raised an eyebrow at this, and Conner stopped.
"What is the matter?" the ghost asked.
"Nothing in particular," came the short reply.
"Nothing?"
"No. No," Conner waved the ghost off. "I'd just like to be able to say a word or two to my assistant right now. That's all."
Suddenly, the room darkened as the young Conner reentered and turned off the lights.
"My time is running out," the ghost stated matter-of-factly. “Let us see another Christmas.”
The room continued to darken and the scene changed into a small, sterile, cold hospital room. A sunny blue sky shone outside the window, and Conner, older now – just about 20 – lay in the bed, his left leg bandaged and rather horrendous looking. Kira sat beside the bed, her tears sparkling in the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past, who stood on the opposite side of the bed. An astonished Conner stood beside the ghost, staring at her, his face just inches from hers.
Clearly moved by this memory, and suddenly aware of its effect on Kira, Conner reached out to touch her – "Oh, Kira..." – but his hand passed right through her.
Kira spoke up, appearing to be starting up an ongoing conversation. "Come on, let them come over. They want to see you," she pleaded.
"I don't want them to see me like this," Conner declared.
"They've seen you worse than this, Conner," Kira pointed out. "Remember two years ago, when your parents divorced? We were there for you then, let us be there for you now."
Conner tried to be reasonable. "Look, Kira. Things are different now. I'm not the same guy that you knew." Conner's tone changed, and he spat, "Look at me! When they found me, my leg was twisted back under my seat. They almost had to amputate it! I almost died! I may never walk again, I'll certainly never be able to play soccer again, which means my scholarship is gone - everything I've worked hard for is gone! So please excuse me if I don't feel much like celebrating."
"You're right," Kira acknowledged. "You're not the Conner McKnight I know. The Conner I know wouldn't let a thirty-foot-tall monster, an evil ranger, and stolen zords ruin his day, much less let a drunk driver ruin his life. You of all people should know that if you give up, the bad guy wins. What would you have done if this was a battle?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" Conner argued. "I haven't changed towards you. I still love you."
Kira shook her head.
"Have I changed?" he asked.
"We've been together for a while," Kira spoke levelly, trying to keep the emotion back. "We got together when we were both happy and content to be so, come thirty-foot monsters, evil rangers or high water. You have definitely changed. When we got together, you were someone else."
"I was a boy. I've grown up," Conner interrupted impatiently.
"And I haven't?" Kira argued. "The things that made us happy when we were together, makes me nothing but miserable now that we are two different people. I won't tell you how often I’ve thought about this, but I have, and I think it would be best if we broke up."
Conner was taken aback. "Have I ever said anything to make you think that I wanted to break up?"
"In words?" Kira asked. "No. Never."
"Then how?"
"Like I said, you've changed. You were like this even before the accident. Whose fault is it that your parents broke up at Christmas time? Not yours, but you still refuse to even think about Christmas as a time for happiness. If the accident had never happened, tell me, would you let the others come over and celebrate Christmas with you? No!"
Conner seemed to yield to the justice of this idea, in spite of himself. "You aren't thinking straight."
"I think I finally am," Kira was now fighting to keep a level tone. "I don't want to own up to it either, but it's the truth, and I can't ignore it. If you weren't stuck in this bed, would you call us, your friends, and find out what our plans are? Or, even if you did, don't I know that you would be nothing but cranky and crabby? I do, and so I think it would be best if we broke up. I love you, but I can't stand what you've become."
The silence of a short pause hung in the air like a weight. Conner started to speak, but Kira stood up from her chair and continued. "Don't worry. I hope you'll be sad over this, but I know you will forget about it, gladly, except to think of it as only a dream, and it was a good thing that you woke up. I hope you’ll be happy in the life you have chosen!" Kira's voice broke as she finished, and she turned and left, the sound of her breaking into tears coming from just down the hall.
"Spirit! Please, show me no more! Take me home. Are you enjoying torturing me like this?" Conner begged.
"One more memory!" the ghost called.
"No more! No more. I don't want to see it. Don't show me any more!" Conner exclaimed, but the relentless ghost took Conner by the shoulders and turned him around. Conner found himself again inside Dr. Oliver's underground lab. It was a few days before Christmas, and gift wrap littered the floor. The team was together again, Hayley as well, only this time, Trent was with them, and Conner was not.
The gifts had been exchanged, and now the five were sitting comfortably and enjoying each other's company. Conner noticed that there was no mistletoe hung over the stairs. Suddenly, Trent remembered something, and turned to the rest of the group. "Guess who I saw today?"
"Who?" Kira asked.
"Come on, guess." Trent prompted.
Kira played along. "Oh, I don't know."
"It was Conner," Trent answered. "I saw him at the college, and I couldn't help but look and see how he's doing. He looks like he's doing okay, even with his leg the way it is, but he was all alone, and looked like he liked it better that way."
Conner, sitting beside the ghost on the far side of the room, shut his eyes and shook his head. "Spirit! Please, get me out of here!"
"I told you these were visions of the things that have been. They are what they are, do not blame me!" the ghost reminded.
"Get me out of here! I can't take it!" Conner turned on the ghost, who was looking at him with an oddly morphing face, in which fragments of all the faces it had shown him momentarily appeared: his younger selves, his grandparents, Tommy, Ethan, Kira, and so on. Terrified, Conner tried to attack the ghost. "Go away! Take me back. Leave me alone!"
The ghost offered no resistance of his own but wasn't affected by Conner's attack. The light from his head was burning high and bright, and Conner seized the cap from under his arm and pressed it down upon the ghost's head. The ghost seemed to shrink beneath it, so that the extinguisher covered him entirely, but though Conner pushed the cap down with all his might, he couldn't hide the light, which streamed from under the cap in a continuous flood upon the ground. In a last great effort, Conner threw his body over the cap and the light went out.