The Ghoul of Christmas Past

had been known to get himself in bother when the mood took him, but the wagging finger only ever led to arguments between them and he didn’t want that right before Christmas.
She placed her hands on her hips, which gave her husband reason to make a relieved noise. ‘You don’t have time to be getting distracted with any nonsense today, Michael,’ she warned. ‘We are going away in the morning so you need to pack, and we have jobs to do as I have just told you, and, in case you have forgotten, which you probably have, we are going to the theatre this evening.’
‘How could I forget that?’ he asked, posing a question because then he hadn’t actually lied. She’d only been talking about it yesterday, but it had completely slipped his mind again. This was probably due to the fact that he didn’t want to go. With Dickens being such a local influence, stage productions of his works were held regularly at different venues. Each Christmas, an open-air performance occurred in the castle grounds which forms a natural bowl. He could agree that the setting was dramatic and impressive, but he would rather volunteer for a rectal exam from a man with hooks for hands while simultaneously retaking his year ten algebra exam than spend three hours trying to stay awake through another Dickens production.
He had no one to blame but himself of course.  This year’s tickets, much the same as last year’s and the year before that were due to foolishly lying about how much he enjoyed it the first time she took him. Had he been truthful and revealed that he would rather spend the evening singing Barry Manilow songs naked at an outdoor piano bar in Siberia, then he would have suffered swiftly but not perpetually.
Mary left him with the dishes as was their custom and went to find her coat, shoes, and handbag. There seemed no escape, but taking out the trash, he sneakily checked over his shoulder and made a phone call.

Captive. Saturday, December 24th 0942hrs
‘Are you comfortable?’
The question was posed by a person wearing a fancy Victorian frock coat in a very dark green. Beneath it, a black waistcoat that matched the trousers complimented the outfit which was then completed by a top hat and a shiny black swagger stick with a silver ball on the top. He also wore a mask which many would instantly recognise to be that of Charles Dickens. Quite why he appeared in such a strange outfit was not known by the man on the floor to whom the question had been posed.
Charles Dickens – we might as well call him that for, unable to see his face, we have no idea as to his true identity – knew he would not get much of an answer because the man on the floor was gagged as well as bound. Dickens wanted to land a few well-placed kicks to the man whose eyes were bugging out of his skull in terror now. It wasn’t just this one he wanted to punish, of course, there were four of them in total and each carried the same level of irresponsibility and greed.
Struggling against his bindings, Jason Pendergrass was clearly trying to say something, making unintelligible noises while trying to gesticulate using only his eyes.
Sighing, Dickens picked at the duct tape until he worked a corner free, then ripped it off in one vicious, yet satisfying motion. ‘Yes?’
‘Who are you?!’ That Jason Pendergrass chose to blurt those three words almost cost him his life. If Dickens had a weapon to hand, he would most likely have used it, but since he didn’t, he chose to stop resisting his natural desires and kicked his captive straight in the ribs.
The burst of air from his victim’s lungs pleased the man in the Charles Dickens mask but disappointed him at the same time. ‘You see? That’s the real problem here, isn’t it? How can it be that you don’t know who I am? You ruined everything for me. Stomped all over my work which I spent the last two years putting together just so that you could get even richer than you already are, and you don’t even recognise my voice. I think that about says it all.’
Jason couldn’t believe this was happening. He was the victim of a madman and being beaten mercilessly though he had no idea why. And where was that horror who grabbed him in his car? Jason never wanted to see him again as long as he lived. No sooner had the thought presented itself than the oversized ghoul lurched into view.
Though his back was already against a wall, Jason nevertheless tried to back away, wriggling his shoulders and hips to squirm across the floor. ‘Waaaaahh!’ he gibbered, showing off his Eton education.
Charles Dickens snorted. ‘Are you afraid of my ghoul? Good. So you should be. One word from me and he will rip your arms from their sockets.’
The ghoul showed no sign of moving to do so. Nor did he smile at the mental image, but it was small comfort to Jason, who was just about ready to wet himself. ‘Why am I here?’ he begged to know. ‘What do you want from me?’
The man in the mask pursed his lips – not that his victim could see it - and thought about how to answer that question. ‘I want from you the same thing I have always wanted: your support. If you would just stay out of the way and stop making stupid decisions, I would make you rich.’ Jason couldn’t help his confused expression forming. What on Earth was the mad man jabbering on about? Seeing questions forming on his captive’s brow, Charles Dickens started to back away: now was not the time to explain. ‘This will all make sense soon, Mr Pendergrass, I promise. Now, if you will