The Present

1-2

“Aww,” cooed several spirits.

With my elbow propped on the table and chin in hand, I studied Jay’s face.

Specter One paused and took a glance himself. Then he turned to the audience and, despite the spotlights in his gaze, it felt like he somehow knew exactly where I was sitting and looked straight at me. I experienced a flutter of discomfort. His irises were like ice cubes—no shade of their own, instead reflecting whatever color of light hit them. Sometimes it made you feel like they could see through you and into your mind and soul.

“This is an important one,” my boss said sternly, keeping his eyes focused in my direction. “Should Jay win this election, he not only will have the fate of a state in his grip, the role would start a domino effect for the remainder of his incredibly successful career.”

My boss finally broke the eye contact and glanced around the audience. “Moving on, Team Snowman . . .”

“Your fellow is choice handsome,” Bismaad commented, reaching for the pepper grinder. “I can’t believe I got another old CEO. Stocks, bonds, quarterly reports—ugh, kill me now.”

“Too late,” I replied.

“Shh,” Allan said across the table.

“Allan, I swear to St. Nick—”

“Are you finished?” A kitchen elf had appeared by my elbow, purple wisps of hair flailing out from under her white toque.

“Um, no not yet,” I said, spearing a piece of chicken with my fork to prove it. Once the elf left, I reverted my eyes back to Allan, pointed at him, then cut my hand across my throat. I wasn’t taking his shortbread today.

The Scrooge Overviews went on for another twenty minutes. When the clock had finally migrated to noon, Specter One wrapped up his presentation.

“All right, spirits, that’s everyone for this year. Per usual, your offices have been stocked with files and film reels compiled by the North Pole to give you a more in-depth understanding of your targets. However, I always encourage you to do your own additional research on what makes them tick. On that note, Ghosts of Christmas Present, it’s Thanksgiving week, so you will begin infiltrating your assignments’ lives on Monday. Your undercover instructions will be in your offices as well. And now . . .” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, eyes sparkling. “Before we break, it’s that magical time when we honor the CCD ghosts celebrating their centennial. Ty Watanabe, Bill James, and Frost Mason, come on up here!”

A spotlight burst into brilliance above me and I resisted the urge to shade my eyes. I had been expecting the announcement but still felt awkward as I stood amid the applause. The skirt of my floor-length, emerald velvet dress hovered just above the carpet as I strode through the shadowy ballroom. The bustles and ruffles may have seemed cumbersome to others, but I was fond of their form. On Earth, ghosts from my department tended to wear modern attire. Here in our home base we preferred to remain in clothes from the time periods when we were alive. I dressed in high-waisted dresses from the early 1900s. Bismaad died in the 1980s and her colorful, glam style never disappointed. Allan—mistletool that he was—always looked dapper in a tailored suit and tie combo reflective of a 1960s executive.

As I climbed the steps to the stage, elves flung glitter and tinsel at me in celebratory fashion the same way mortals threw rice at weddings. I nodded to Ty and Bill as they joined me. Together we turned as two kitchen elves wheeled out a massive sheet cake rimmed with lit sparkler candles. Green icing on the top declared: Happy 100th Soul Served!

“Once Ty, Bill, and Frost have completed this year’s assignments, they are free to leave the CCD and pursue the next afterlife path of their choosing,” our boss proclaimed. “So let’s wish them a happy last Christmas with us and the best of fortune on their final missions!”

The spirits cheered. I stared out at the darkened faces in the ballroom. I couldn’t believe I’d been doing this for a hundred years . . .

“Lulu, will you cut the cake please?” Specter One said to a kitchen elf with dimples as deep as canyons. He pivoted to the crowd. “It’s peppermint bark flavored! Vegan cookies are in the back for our spirits with special dietary preferences.”

“Whoo!” someone shouted from the crowd.

Specter One pivoted to our trio; for a moment his joviality was replaced by seriousness. “Good luck, you three. I hope you enjoy your last chance to affect humanity. Don’t screw it up.”

Kind of an ironic warning considering that it was our Scrooges who usually screwed things up—before and after we got there.

I opened my mouth to reply, but someone tapped my leg. I glanced down at Lulu’s smiling face as she offered me a slice of cake. I took it and thanked her, then followed Ty’s lead and left the stage. Specter One readdressed the gathering.

“Table one, come forward and get your cake. After retrieving your dessert, please meet with your teams at the designated areas marked across the room to begin talking strategy. Spirits up, everyone! I have faith that this December will be the most magical season yet. Remember, the night is always darkest before the dawn!”

“Isn’t that a line from a Batman movie?” a deep voice called.

“I’m trying to branch outside of Christmas references, Ricardo,” Specter One said with a touch of sass. “Can someone turn the lights back on?”

A second later full luminescence returned—the fireworks chandeliers glowing at max capacity. I waved to Bismaad with my cake plate and fork in hand and migrated to the part of the room where a TEAM PRANCER sign had been taped to the wall.

Midori already waited there, wrapped in a shawl that hung away from her body due to a slight hunch in her back. Her long silvery hair had been woven into a braid that fell over her left shoulder. As I approached, I felt pity for the Scrooges she was assigned each year. The tiny old woman—no taller than 4’10” and at least eighty—could intimidate without saying a word. In fact, I’d never heard her say a word in all the years I’d been here.

“Hello, Midori,” I said.

She nodded, eyes never leaving mine. Their darkness put the shade of my chocolaty peppermint bark cake to shame.

“Well, well, well, Frost Mason, happy to get such an old ghost on my team.” I turned as Brandon Gleeson joined us. The nineyear-old redhead had more freckles on his cheeks than there were visible stars in the sky over the Grand Canyon. This was only his second year at the CCD but my instant first impression was that he had a healthy dose of confidence.

He stuck out his hand. “Put ’er there.”

I shook his hand. So did Midori.

“Now then,” Brandon said, taking charge, “I want to address the reindeer in the room. Even though this is my first official Scrooging, I’ve got some big ideas. For starters, I think we should employ the kill box approach with our target.”

“Kill box approach?” I repeated.

“Been a while since you read the department literature, Frost? Chapter Eight in the CCD guidebook. Once you infiltrate the target’s life, you find a way to lure him into an escape-proof confront-your-demons scenario during Christmas crunch time, then BAMO! Midori and I hit him hard from both sides with blasts from the past and future. I’m thinking we pour nostalgia and fear on him like rain in Vancouver. Midori’s got the chops. Right, old M?”

Midori blinked.

I set my slice of cake on the closest table, bent to be at eye level with my young, over-enthusiastic colleague, and put a hand on the shoulder of his polo t-shirt.

“Brandon, your excitement is . . . inspiring. But why don’t we talk specifics like the kill box approach later? I have found that the best way to start Scrooge prep is to go straight to the source and find out exactly why the North Pole picked our guy. All Ghosts of Christmas Present do this eventually, but I like to do it as a jumping off point. The three of us can do individual research with our respective resources and powers, then meet to compare notes in a few days. The best Christmas Carol scenarios happen when all three ghosts work as a team and form a plan based on as much and as many kinds of research as possible. Trust me. I’ve been doing this a long time.”

“Yeah, but in training I read up on all the ghosts who’ve been here more than seventy-five years. Isn’t your long-term success rate barely above forty percent?”

He said it so plainly—not like he was trying to insult me, but as simple fact. That made it more cutting somehow.

I lowered my hand from his shoulder and straightened. Midori studied me mercilessly and I didn’t blame her.

What Brandon said was accurate. Less than half of the Scrooges I’d helped reform had stayed reformed. The matter had been a growing fissure in my soul for decades, so this kid pointing out the dismal truth wasn’t revelatory or anything, but it definitely wasn’t helpful. In order for me to concentrate on my job I had to bury the feelings associated with my disappointment. For years now I had resorted to treating my job and my view of the CCD like a pill someone gave to their dog—hiding it in enough deli meat (or in my case, outward Christmas Spirit and job focus) so I could choke it down and get through this.

“My advice, Brandon . . .” I said, squashing some feelings that had been stirred. “Don’t concentrate on the numbers while you’re here. They give you perspective. Trust me, that’s not a gift you want to unwrap.”

“Thank you again, everyone!” Specter One called from the stage, suddenly claiming our attention. “Please be on time for Saturday’s first seasonal Employee Training Seminars. Happy Holiday Haunting!”

I turned my focus back to my team. “Research first,” I said firmly. “We’ll meet after our seminars on Saturday.”

“But—” Brandon started.

I held up a hand and he fell silent. Although I looked like someone in her late twenties, I had been around a lot longer. A century and a quarter was more than enough time to learn exactly what kind of look to give kids to get them to not question you.

“I am a Present Ghost, Brandon. Present Ghosts are always the team leaders and the architects of Christmas Carol scenarios. Go do your research. Then we’ll work together. In the meantime, I’m heading to the North Pole.”