The Last of the Spirits by Chris Priestley

ourselves, then who would?’
    Marley nodded.
    ‘True. I cannot say that any of what you say is a lie, but where do these words lead? Things have changed. A door that was locked is now open. Are you brave enough to walk through?’
    Sam looked away, muttering. Marley dropped to his knees and looked them in the eyes. Sam and Lizzie had been terrified of that face, but now it was nothing more than a sad and tired old face. There was kindness there.
    ‘Do you think the world will care if you die?’ said Marley. ‘Do you think the world will notice?’
    Sam did not reply. Lizzie squeezed his arm again.
    ‘If you die from pride or spite,’ said Marley, ‘your father will have won. His selfishness did for his own life and your mother’s. It is a miracle that he has not already done for yours. But that miracle is at an end. It is time to embrace another.’
    Sam squeezed his eyes shut. Lizzie felt his pain and rested her head against his shoulder.
    ‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘All right.’
    When he opened his eyes, a tear ran down each cheek, and Marley was gone.

Sam lifted the heavy metal knocker and struck it three times. It seemed to echo through the house, and for the first time Sam felt afraid.
    As the sound of the door knocker died away, the distant patter of footsteps came in answer and grew in volume as they descended the stairs and headed towards Sam.
    The door swung open and, to Sam’s amazement, instead of the dark and dismal interior that they had seen when they were last there, the hallway was now brightly lit and decorated.
    Sam actually wondered for a moment whether he had the right house, particularly when he looked into the face of the man who had opened the door and saw, instead of Scrooge, his nephew, with a wide smile on his face.
    ‘Well, now,’ he said. ‘What have we here?’
    The young man’s smile weakened as he saw Lizzie, and he stepped forward to help Sam hold her up.
    ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Come out of the cold. Uncle!’
    He helped Sam and Lizzie across the hall as a group of people gathered at the top of the stairs outside Scrooge’s door began to descend hurriedly.
    ‘Oh my Lord,’ said a woman, rushing to take Lizzie from Sam.
    Sam struggled at first but he did not have the strength. He was about to fall, when he found himself lifted up and into the arms of Scrooge’s nephew.
    Lizzie was carried ahead of him and they were both taken to the room where they had hidden under the table.
    It was brightly lit, with a great fire roaring in the hearth and wreaths of holly and mistletoe on the walls. The long dining table was laden with food and silverware and crystal glasses, laid out as for a feast.
    Am I dreaming? thought Sam. Am I asleep in the graveyard and dreaming? Or am I dead?
    ‘Bring them to the fire,’ said another man, whom Sam recognised straight away as Bob Cratchit, Scrooge’s clerk. ‘Mind out the way, Tim, there’s a good lad.’
    The small boy hopped about excitedly on his crutches.
    ‘Who are they, Pa?’ he said.
    ‘Well, I’m not sure, my boy,’ said Bob Cratchit to his son.
    Lizzie was put down in a chair by the fire and a blanket wrapped round her. A woman knelt next to her, rubbing her hands.
    ‘Keep her warm, my darling,’ said Scrooge’s nephew, as he put Sam down in a chair on the other side of the hearth. ‘Let’s get them some soup, Bob. They need something warm inside them. They are so cold and I don’t think they can have eaten for days. Where’s Uncle?’
    ‘I’m here, my boy,’ said a voice nearby. ‘I’m here, Fred.’
    Sam turned at its sound and there was Scrooge. The sour, pinched old miser of a fortnight ago was now a picture of geniality.
    ‘Upon my word!’ he said. ‘Upon my word! It’s them. Is it really them? It is! It is!’
    ‘You know these children, Uncle?’ said Fred.
    ‘I do,’ said Scrooge. ‘In a manner of speaking.’
    ‘But how?’
    Everyone in the room – the clerk, the nephew, their wives