The Present

2

“And then he was all, Your success rate is barely over forty percent.” I stirred the candy cane in my hot chocolate with a touch of agitation, but care—the mahogany desk I sat on would not appreciate any splashes.

Tiny cries of “Whee!” and “Wahoo!” sounded from the battery-operated model winter carnival built on a table to my left. I glared at the small villagers riding hand-painted sleds down a plastic hill.

“Was he wrong?” Paul asked.

He was crouched on the floor across the room and didn’t look up from the red tricycle he’d been fixing. On the wall above him hung a large family portrait. His dad and mom—Santa and Mrs. Claus—stood in the center, arms around their kids Margo and Paul. An avalanche of silver tinsel surrounded them, and they wore kooky polar bear sweaters and Santa hats with twinkly rainbow lights.

“No, it’s true.” I frowned. “But even ghosts with the highest success rates are scarcely at fifty percent. The sad fact is that people who go through the full—face your past, present, and future—Scrooging experience commit to changing when they’re caught up in the December moment. But once the aphrodisiac of the holidays fades, most people return to their old ways. They become UnScrooged, as it were.”

“You can’t hold that against them,” Paul said, taking a smaller wrench from the pocket of his loose red overalls. “Earth is hard. The Naughty List gets longer every year, but you don’t see my dad losing heart. Neither should you.”

“It’s not the same thing. The North Pole focuses on the big picture. Your dad isn’t personally invested in any particular individual on Earth like I am. Trust me, when you dedicate yourself to helping a specific person become better, and they promise they will change but then backtrack . . . It breaks your heart.”

Paul glanced up. The thirty-five-year-old son of Santa Claus may have had some magic up his sleeves, but he was human. I’d known him since he was a baby. I’d known his father since he was a baby. And I’d met his grandfather as a toddler. Paul was alive; he would age and one day pass away, having lived a full life. Unlike me.

The young Claus stood and came to sit next to me on the desk. He and his father had the same twinkling eyes, wide nose, and thick eyebrows, but the similarities ended there. Paul’s hair was dusty brown, and his jawline was square and without facial hair. Also, whereas the Big Guy had a bowl-full-of-jelly belly, Paul’s biceps and abs would make a Christmas tree angel cry.

“Frost, I say this with all the compassion in the world: a lot of people suck. If being awesome were easy, everyone would do it. Human beings rarely change permanently—however they all have the potential. That very fact makes trying to help them worthwhile. That’s why my ancestors created the CCD. That’s why we need people like you.”

“Ghosts,” I corrected. “We are not people. I haven’t been a person for a long time.”

And that wasn’t only because I died. It was because I’d had my faith in humanity stomped on too many times over the last century to feel alive.

I took another swig of hot chocolate, then set the mug down on the snowman-shaped coaster. “I hear you have new elves working at the N&N. Care to walk me over and introduce me? If you’re busy I can go by myself.”

“Nah. I’ll go. You’re in one of your moods and that means I should do the talking. Can’t let cranky spirit rub off on North Pole folk. No one wants to see a depressed elf. That’s why we don’t serve eggnog in the break room anymore.”

Paul offered me a hand up, grabbed his coat from a hook by the door, and we exited his office. The smell of gingerbread and the sounds of a busy factory filled the fourth level of Santa’s Workshop. I glanced over the railing to the production floors below. Garlands and bows draped across every railing; silver bells decked every door handle.

While some elves dashed around from station to station, others worked seated on ergonomically designed gumdrop chairs. They hammered wheels on toy cars, manned conveyor belts, sewed buttons onto bears, tested remote control gadgetry.

Aside from the lanterns, twinkle lights, and wall sconces shaped like gingerbread men, an enormous stained-glass mural of a gingerbread village inlaid in the ceiling cast a rainbow glow over the whole production.

Suddenly, a train whistle sounded. On level two, a curlyhaired elf with a clipboard shouted, “Union-mandated break! Hot cocoa and cookies in the common room. Chop chop!”

“When did the elves unionize?” I asked Paul as we climbed aboard one of the glass-walled elevators.

“You know how I borrowed your top 150 movie list last December?”

I nodded.

“I started a weekly movie night for the elves a few months ago. The first week of November they watched The Pajama Game and it’s been trending on Tinsel for weeks now.” He took the phone out of his pocket, tapped on the mistletoe icon that represented the Tinsel app, and held up the screen. The app’s slogan at the top read “Turning the Yuletide on the Most Pressing Issues.”

“Ugh. Social media.” I rolled my eyes.

“I know, right? The elves already get breaks every hour,” Paul said. “And when they ‘unionized,’ they didn’t actually ask for anything. So I think this is just a phase. Last month they watched Cool Runnings and did nothing but bobsled for two weeks. Now they’re totally over it.”

The elevator stopped and we exited the factory among a bustle of elves. Paul’s coat was thick to shield him from the North Pole cold. I needed no such thing. Ghosts thrived in winter, the icier the better. We made our way down the sparkly cobblestone path through the snow.

The Claus operation lit up every part of my periphery with glimmering buildings. A few penguins wearing scarves and beanies with pompoms waddled past. Elves on break sat on benches drinking cocoa or played in the snow. Farther off, two elves in aprons chased a couple of baby polar bears that had denim pants hanging from their mouths.

Paul and I crossed a small bridge and approached a twostory townhouse. Icicles hung from the edge of the roof like tiny stalactites. Luminescent candies decorated the walls. Snow caked the windows and main door. The sign over the front read Naughty & Nice Department.

“Knock, knock,” Paul said as he opened the door.

Inside, five elves perked up. “Paul!” they chorused in glee.

Every inch of wall space was lined with books or stuffed with scrolls. In the center of the room, one unfathomably long scroll spilled over the table and ran across the space, curling like a roller coaster, swerving in and out of rooms, and laying over any piece of furniture in its way. The elves were stationed at different parts of the scroll, inspecting it with magnifying glasses.

“Are Betty, Troy, Phil, and Nona upstairs?” Paul asked.

“Yep,” said an elf with an afro. He looked around, then scampered over to Paul and held up a hand to the side of his mouth, feigning the telling of a secret. “The upstairs elves clock out at three o’clock these days. They don’t have much to do now that they’ve made their Scrooge selections.” He shook his head. “They say they’re still working, but truth is, they don’t start on next year’s preliminary choices until January. They’ll spend the next month playing chocolate milk drinking games while they bet on ping pong and the NBA.”

Paul folded his arms. “You’re the list supervisor, Moe. Why don’t you say something to them?”

Moe’s eyes shot wide. “And start a conflict? Goodness, no! Nona bakes my favorite strawberry pies. Troy is teaching me Portuguese. And Betty, Phil, and I are on the same igloo building team.”

“Well, it’s your call,” Paul said as we began to ascend the spiral staircase in the center of the room. As our steps took us to higher vantage points of the room, I marveled how holly bulged out of every nook and cranny a decorator could get to. Over a dozen live turtledoves rested on perches hanging from the ceiling, canoodling in pairs.

“Afternoon, Nona,” Paul said to an elf with pigtails when we mounted the final stair. “I’d like to introduce you to Frost Mason of the CCD.”

Nona—who had been upside down on a couch reading Holly Happenings Magazine—did a flip off the seat and landed on her feet. “Oh, hello there! We were wondering when we’d get our first ghost visit.”

“Frost is always the first one,” called an elf from another room. He stuck his head through the doorway. “Hey, Frost.”

“Troy.” I saluted. “Nice buzz cut.”

He winked and disappeared.

“Can she see the Scrooge info on Jay Nichols please?” Paul said to Nona.

“Of course!” Nona scurried past the ping pong table where two other elves were enjoying a game. The bells on her floppy shoes jingled all the way. She climbed onto a stepping stool to reach a high shelf of an ornate bookcase, then pulled out a hefty volume.

Nona hopped down to ground level in a single bound and presented Paul and me with the cerulean colored book, which featured a large silver “N” on the cover. I took it. A pair of bookmarks stuck out from the top. “Jay Nichols is the second bookmark,” she explained. “Nice to meet you by the way, Frost.”

I smiled. “The feeling is mutual.”

I flipped to the section with Jay’s name in cursive font. Then I paused. Scrooging more than one journalist in my century at the CCD taught me to always ask the most obvious question when you found a credible source. “Before I start reading,” I said to Nona, “Tell me. Why this guy? What makes Jay Nichols so special?”

“Well, he has the power to influence a whole generation,” Nona said, bouncing on her toes. “He’s a rising—”

“Political star, I know,” I interjected. “I mean, why has he reached a point in his life where he needs the CCD’s intervention now?”

She paused. Thought. Then held up her hand. “In short, three things.” She counted off on her fingers. “Resentment toward his family. Disorganized priorities. Fear of rejection.”

I nodded. Sounded like a typical Scrooge. Those first two anyway were very common reasons people ended up on our radar. “Thank you. Mind if I borrow this book for a few days?”

“Well . . .”

Paul gave Nona a nod.

“We usually prefer CCD ghosts read the books here,” Nona replied. “But for a friend of Paul’s . . . Just bring it back by Wednesday. Margo does inventory every Thursday morning.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “My OCD younger sister would have the reindeer organized alphabetically if the song didn’t already specify the order.”

I put the book in my bag and thanked Nona, then waved to the other elves as we departed the Naughty & Nice Department. We walked back through the winter wonderland until we came upon a low-roofed, unmarked building.

I looked at Paul. Snow had started to fall from the azure sky—the flakes sticking to our hair and clothes. “Good luck, Frost,” he said sincerely.

“I don’t need luck, Paul. This job has a formula. I’ve done it ninety-nine times; I can do it again with Jay.”

“I don’t mean good luck with Jay,” Paul said. He gave me a concerned look. “I’ve known you my entire life, Frost. You went from my babysitter to one of my best friends. I feel like every year you seem a little less . . . spirited. I don’t like seeing you lose your sparkle.”

“Sparkle is for tinsel and ornaments. Most of mankind manages without it. So can I.” I smiled sadly. “I’ll see you when I bring the book back.”

“Want to have pancakes at Short Stack when you do?” Paul asked hopefully. “The elves have invented an apple cider recipe this year.”

“Tasty offer, but maybe another time. It’s going to be a busy week.”

I turned and entered the building. The lobby was an expanse of marble floor with the building’s name written across it in gold lettering:

Crazy, Magical, Interdimensional Travel Depot

Four silver elevators, two on each side (one of which was a larger freight elevator) were the only things in the room. The realm-evators. A strand of glittering garland framed each one.

My heels clicked across the space and I pressed the down arrow then waited, thinking about Paul. I appreciated his concern but spirit wasn’t necessary to exist. And I didn’t need to believe wholeheartedly in what the CCD was doing to help them do it. That altruism started to evaporate ages ago and it hadn’t affected my performance because people don’t need to like their jobs to be good at their jobs. As long as I kept my feelings hidden and put on a nice show, everything was fine. Scrooging was like a movie—emotion, special effects, dramatic conclusion. Another assignment, another production. The plot and main characters were always predictable.

One set of doors opened. Inside, the realm-evator panel had half a dozen chocolate bar sized buttons, all of which required ID or a key to use. I swiped my CCD ID over the reader and pressed the button labeled “Christmas Carol Department,” right between the “Earth” button and key-required “Portalscape” button, whatever that was.

The scanner flashed green and the doors slid closed. The realm-evator shook like a malfunctioning massage chair.

FLASH.

Following a burst of Caribbean blue light, the doors opened and I was back in my ghostly realm. The CCD wasn’t just a work environment—it was a world. Ghosts of Christmas Present spent the majority of their time on Earth in December, trailing our Scrooges, but our home base was here with our Past and Future colleagues. This place was a weird slice of the afterlife that certain souls were sent to. In addition to office space, conference and ballrooms, and a huge cafeteria, there were dorms, a library, screening rooms, and so much more. Plus, the North Pole was only a quick realm-evator ride away.

I stepped out. Unlike the relatively plain realm-evator lobby of the North Pole, ours was ornate. A floor of shimmering crystal fragments supported two dozen pillars—spaced out with no clear pattern. The high ceiling hosted a glorious assortment of gold and silver bells dangling from a snowflake skylight

I paused at the pine adjacent to my realm-evator. The lobby was shaped like an equilateral triangle, a massive Christmas tree in each of the three corners. One held a star at the top inscribed with the word “Past,” another was labeled “Present,” and the third “Future.” Despite this difference, the trees featured identical striking décor. Each pine was adorned solely with crystal ball ornaments. The baubles pulsed with the faintest aura of light, like fireflies taking their last breaths.

Fascinating things.

I strode between the columns, meaning to pass the lobby’s centerpiece without a glance, but my steps slowed and I couldn’t help looking into the icy eyes of Charles Dickens. My favorite author, and the man best known for chronicling how our department worked, had been immortalized here in a detailed ice sculpture. Within the ice, enchanted lights glowed and changed colors.

I stopped for a moment in front of the statute. At his feet, a frosted silver plaque bore a quote from his classic A Christmas Carol:

“I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach.” – Charles Dickens

I sighed. It was a lovely sentiment; unfortunately, most humans forgot its message as easily as a person turned a page in a book.

When I first began working for the CCD, I couldn’t read those words without my soul glowing a little brighter, like a candle flame regrouping after a breeze. Now the quote had become a steak without seasoning, a cupcake without frosting, a cookie without crunch.

I still believed in Christmas, and in the value of what the ghosts and I were trying to accomplish. It was people that I had lost faith in. They talked a good game, and once you got through to them, they were receptive to lessons of humanity. Sadly, despite their intentions, the majority couldn’t help but relapse, returning to who they were before they tried to change because that version of themselves was easier and familiar, whereas changing demanded something of you every day.

It’s like, the other ghosts and I could open a door to a new life for them, one that would save their souls from withering and destroying their potential for good, love, and decency. But our Scrooges had a bad habit of letting that door shut again. We were the brick propping the door ajar, and without us most people didn’t seem to have the strength to keep it open on their own. So what was the point of us? We were a bandage to problem people; we hardly ever healed them permanently. That’s why my job and the department’s purpose didn’t fill me with optimism anymore. Too frequently they were a valiant waste of effort.

I left Dickens and the lobby and trekked down the maze of corridors to my office, the same one I’d had since I arrived in the afterlife. When a ghost awakened in the CCD, we got the welcome speech from Specter One, the welcome packet, a dorm, an office, and then “Best of luck with the next century” well wishes.

I spotted my den and went for the ornate bronze handle. Outside my door, a silver nameplate read:

Frost Elise Mason

Born 1891

The second I entered, my slumbering Westie terrier barked and sat up in his checkered basket. He scurried over, tail wagging.

“Hello, Marley.” I bent to pat him on the head affectionately before heading to my desk.

I liked my office. The window faced a snowy mountain range. My bookshelf and desk were antique, plucked from my era with the kind of detailed craftsmanship modern furniture passed over. The thick lavender carpet complemented the violet sofa, and my fireplace across the room was pure white marble.

As Specter One had promised, files and several canisters of film reels about Jay Nichols waited on my desk. Midori and Brandon would have files in their offices too, and they would have their own investigations to make into Jay’s past and future, but the reels were just for me. Ghosts of Christmas Present couldn’t travel through time like they could, so Specter One and the North Pole compiled these as add-ons for our research.

Beside the resources, I also found a folder with a note from Specter One:

“Frost, this is Brandon’s first year with a Scrooge assignment, so keep an eye on him. Here’s a little background about his time on Earth to give you perspective.”

Hm. I’d give that a read later.

I moved all my folders to the coffee table between the sofa and fireplace, then unpacked my book from the North Pole and placed it there too. A decent amount of information in the book would be redundant with the files, but the Naughty & Nice elves tended to expand on details in their own books, sometimes even writing side notes as they narrowed down their Scrooge selections.

I walked over to the marble fireplace, grabbed a matchbook, and struck a light. I hesitated a moment as the glow of the flame flickered in the reflection of the silver engraving over the mantle. It read: “Face All Plans Unafraid.”

I tossed the match into the fireplace.

As the hearth roared to life like I sometimes wished I could, I grabbed a fluffy shawl from a wooden coat hook in the corner. I wasn’t cold. I was never cold. The internal temperature of the CCD was kept in the low twenties on the Fahrenheit scale, which ghosts preferred. The shawl, like the fire, were out of habit. They added atmospherics of calm and Christmas, which helped me study.

Marley watched me—tail wagging and expression eager. I patted the seat beside me. “Come on, boy.” He barked happily and leapt onto the cushion, curling into a contented ball at my side.

I smiled fondly at the creature, giving him a scratch behind the ear before picking up the North Pole book. The orange glow of the flames illuminated the text as I flipped back to my Scrooge. My finger traced his calligraphied name.

“Okay, Jay Nichols. Who are you?”