The Present

1-1

“Lights. Lights! Can somebody get the lights?”

The fireworks-shaped chandeliers dangling from the ballroom ceiling dimmed, reminding me of stars muted by haze. Choked brilliance.

“Thank you, Louise,” Specter One said from the stage, where he stood in front of a huge white screen.

Louise Banks nodded and took her seat at table ten with the other Ghosts of Christmas Past. Like all the round banquet tables in the room, it was draped with a crimson tablecloth that hung to the floor.

Specter One fiddled with his remote, aiming at different parts of the screen while clicking, trying to get his slideshow presentation started. His wavy whitish-blonde hair shimmered in the spotlights pointed at the stage, emphasizing the frosty silver streaks swirled with the rest of his locks like the brush strokes of a Van Gogh painting. Golden glitter sparkled across his cheekbones, and a gold Christmas tree brooch engraved with #1 was pinned to the lapel of his crisp white suit. The whole look read like an old-timey ballroom dancer.

“After giving this presentation every November for hundreds of years, you would think he would finally have a handle on it,” my friend Bismaad Hansra whispered to me. “Or at least run a tech rehearsal.”

Despite the shadows of the auditorium, Bismaad’s kneelength, metallic gold Anarkali dress glimmered. The sparkle of her dark eyes and endearing smile outdid it though. My friend moved one of her long double braids behind her shoulder as she reached for her goblet. I thought it remarkable how even in low lighting, the truly striking still shined. With that level of Bollywood beauty, it surprised me that Bismaad never married when she was alive. Maybe she would have if gifted more time.

As for me? I doubted it.

I scratched the nails of my left hand against the palm of my right—a nervous habit. I imagined it was akin to what humans felt when they squeezed stress balls, only in my case feeling the moderate pressure against my skin centered me because it made me feel in general. Being a ghost was a strange thing—cold as ice, no aging, no heartbeat. The touch of my own normal skin was comforting because it reminded me of the humanity I’d left behind. Without constantly looking in a mirror, it was the best way to remind myself I was more than a wisp of misplaced death.

I gazed around at my colleagues in the dimness. Close to one hundred of us gathered on this same date and time every year. This form of afterlife may have been odd, but the ghosts in our department still looked human, not like the spooky mascots of Halloween. That brought me comfort too. And it helped keep me from going insane.

“Specter One has been having technical difficulties before we even had technology,” I quipped from the side of my mouth, reaching around my goblet for a roll from the breadbasket.

We wouldn’t be served entrees until halfway through our boss’s presentation, and I was getting hungry. With surgical precision, like a dog gutting a squeaker from a toy, I removed the soft white center from the roll, set the hollowed-out crust on my plate, and used my knife to pick up a pat of butter.

“During my first decade here,” I continued as I buttered, “he used huge scrolls as visual aids. He couldn’t get them to stay up on the wall. They kept falling and rolling up.”

Bismaad giggled, but Allan Cantes shot me a look from across our table. “Shhh.”

“The presentation hasn’t even started, Allan.” I glared at him, then shifted in my seat so the turtledove ice sculpture centerpiece blocked the view between us.

“Okay, here we go!” Specter One said from the front as the projector flickered and the screen showed the first slide. On a muted red background framed by garlands, our department name and motto appeared:

C.C.D.

CHRISTMAS CAROL DEPARTMENT

We’ll Make You Merry or Die Trying

Just Kidding—We’re Already Dead!

“Welcome back, all Past, Present, and Future spirits,” Specter One bellowed with enthusiasm. “I hope you enjoyed your slumber and are excited to get started on a new holiday season. To begin, I just want to acknowledge that I know the last decade has been a challenging one. We’ve had more Scrooge nominees than ever, and with natural disasters, corrupt governments, and 2020, the world has been a bit . . . shaky lately.”

“Poop show,” coughed someone in the audience.

Several ghosts laughed. Specter One did not.

“Nevertheless,” he continued. “These troubling times are no excuse to not try your hardest. In fact, in our line of work, increased difficulty in the world is a call to action to give the season even more effort. We can do this, everyone. Humanity is worth saving! All it takes is a little elbow grease and a reminder of how good people can be. To get you in the spirit—pun most definitely intended—please enjoy this brief Pro-Human Slideshow set to the charming ‘Best Song Ever’ by last decade’s musical darlings, One Direction.”

“That’s not a Christmas song,” Bismaad whispered, eyebrows furrowed.

I shrugged. “Maybe he’s branching out.”

Specter One clicked his remote. A montage of images and short clips began, set to the beat of the peppy pop number. Soldiers coming home from war and reuniting with their dogs, people handing out food to the homeless, new schools being opened in impoverished areas, a woman taking off her shirt to save a baby koala during a forest fire, a teenager helping an old woman cross the street . . .

After a minute of heartwarming propaganda, the slideshow ended to the tune of my colleagues’ impassioned applause. Some clapped extra loudly—spirits who’d been extra moved.

“She didn’t even hesitate. The shirt came right off !” A Ghost of Christmas Past at the adjacent table exclaimed—wailing but with no tears, like a broken sprinkler head of emotion. A coworker patted her on the back.

I rolled my eyes as I swallowed the last of my roll. The video was moving, but it was nothing I hadn’t seen before.

“What’s the matter, Frost?” Bismaad asked over the fading applause, her chandelier-shaped earrings hanging toward me as she leaned in.

“He’s been showing us slideshows like that for almost twenty years,” I whispered. “All that good humans do is great, but does it really make up for all the bad that goes on down there?”

“On that note,” Specter One practically sang, “it’s time to talk about this year’s assignments. You may now open your cards.”

My eyes shifted to the scarlet envelope centered on my place setting. I stared at the golden wax seal imprinted with the CCD logo, then took a deep breath.

Here we go.

I broke the seal on my envelope at the same time as everyone else and pulled out a thick notecard. The card was printed in beautiful calligraphy and decorated with hand-painted bells and holly.

TEAM PRANCER – JAY NICHOLS

Past: Brandon Gleeson

Present: Frost Mason

Future: Midori Oguri

“Crud,” I muttered.

Bismaad glanced at me and I showed her my card. “I got Midori. I haven’t worked with her before, but I’ve seen her around the department. Her whole silent staring thing gives me the creeps.”

Bismaad shrugged. “How scary can she be?”

Our gazes drifted across the ballroom to where Midori sat with a group of Ghosts of Christmas Future. The elderly Japanese woman was presently staring at me.

I darted my gaze away.

“Any ghost that makes other ghosts feel uncomfortable left scary in the rearview mirror a long time ago,” I said.

“And now, as your salads are served . . .” Specter One announced, “we will begin a brief introduction to this year’s Scrooges. I hope you like the green goddess dressing! Spoiler alert, there are sugar plums mixed in!”

The double doors leading to the kitchens opened and a procession of kitchen elves came through with loaded carts.

Specter One clicked to the next slide, which featured the same background and the words: “SCROOGE OVERVIEWS”.

I didn’t see why it was necessary to have this fancy presentation every year. Each team had its own Scrooge, and later today Specter One would provide us with our own files for our assignments. I knew some ghosts liked to collaborate outside of their teams to get feedback or workshop a difficult case. But I’d never felt a need to do that. Coming together for this kind of pomp and circumstance should have been optional. I would’ve preferred to be in my office right now reading info on Jay alone instead of sitting in a ballroom breaking bread with my coworkers. Even if it was good bread . . . I glanced at the basket and took another piece.

“For the newer spirits here,” Specter One readdressed us, “I realize what we do has a lot of fantastical footnotes, but always remember that those are mere toppings—sprinkles, nuts, and cookie crumbs. The core of what we do, the ice cream, is simple. Every Christmas, the North Pole picks a number of people on Earth who have lost their way and, unless they correct their paths, will cause massive negative ripples on humanity. These are our Scrooges. In your teams of three, you will create a ‘Christmas Carol’ experience that will push your assigned humans to realize the error of their ways, repent, and reform. If done right, your teams will reignite the goodness in our Scrooges’ hearts, motivate them to embrace the Spirit of Christmas, and get them back on the right path.”

Specter One strode confidently across the stage, staring out at the audience. “We’ve had record nominations from the North Pole, and I have no doubt you all will perform wonderfully. Now, without further ado, let’s begin with Team Fruit Cake.”

I munched on my salad, half-heartedly listening to the descriptions of each Scrooge. It must’ve been rough for the North Pole to narrow down the number of jerks on Earth who could use reforming. We worked in teams of three, and while there wasn’t a cap for how many spirits could join the CCD, a ghost had to meet some pretty specific qualifications to end up in this place. As such, our workforce rarely reached triple digits.

Entrees came out during the explanation of the sixteenth Scrooge—rosemary roasted chicken with buttery potatoes and peas.

“I have to say,” Bismaad remarked under her breath, leaning closer to me. “Although it took me a few years to get used to being dead, being able to eat without gaining weight definitely lessens the blow.”

I smirked. Bismaad had only died a few decades ago. Her youth in the CCD game allowed her an optimism that had started to fizzle for me around my fiftieth year. A spirit with a lot of spirit, it was no wonder that her name stood for “utter bliss” in Punjabi.

“Next, Team Prancer,” Specter One said. I sat up straighter and put my fork down, paying full attention. Specter One didn’t go deeply into detail on any of the humans. He didn’t even bring up the darker parts of their character and histories, which is what set them on our radar in the first place. This was like a general, upbeat introduction that—again—I could have just as well absorbed in a memo versus socializing here with other people. That being said, I wasn’t one to openly show my distaste for the elements of my job I didn’t like. At work, I kept my personal feelings where they belonged, inside.

“Jay Nichols is thirty-three years old, born and raised in Los Angeles,” Specter One began. He changed slides and I got my first look at my target for the holiday season.

Jay was a handsome man—moderately dark skin, long eyelashes for a guy, clean and sleek low fade haircut with waves. His eyes were intense and held a shine like a glass ornament caught in a peripheral glow.

“In college, Jay studied political science,” Specter One continued. “After graduation, he accepted a position in a congressman’s office, then later a senator’s. From there he was elected to city council and started to get more attention. Recognized for his charisma and commitment to building strong communities, Jay was put on the shortlist for rising political stars in his late twenties and recently announced his intention to run for governor of California next year. He has two children, a tenyear-old son named Kingsley and a six-year-old daughter named Kamie. His ex-wife Celia remarried a couple years ago. Jay’s top dislikes include freeway traffic, red apples, and flowery perfume. His favorite things are dogs, Billy Joel music, strong coffee, and hugs from his children.”