rubbery marshmallows...A Christmas ghost? Naw, probably indigestion.

If Marley’s ghost was a bit of undigested meat, why couldn’t Uncle’s ghost be the result of rubbery marshmallows? It makes sense to me.

It all began with a marshmallow Santa from the bargain store’s old stock—the perfect storm for my sensitive stomach. I felt nauseous shortly after arriving home and despite a briefcase full of work, took to bed.

I live downtown on a dead-end street in a Victorian manse time forgot. I could easily picture Scrooge turning his key in my front door lock and being frightened by the gargoyle.

I could see him scurrying up my staircase with nightgown flying, running at break-neck speed down the oak-paneled hall to the safety of my own four-poster bed. To tell the truth, I could even see myself as the nephew of the grasping, wheezing, covetous old sinner himself—because in many ways I am.

“You’re a tightwad, Peter. You’d steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes.”

James Bloor was furious. I foreclosed on his tavern and was now forced to evict him. He sat angry and sullen, staring at me with blood-shot eyes.

“Don’t make me call the bailiffs, James—it’s your own fault—you knew you were over-extended.”

“Give me a break, man—it’s a month before Christmas. Haven’t you any decency?”

“You should have thought of that when you took my money and wasted it. Now I want you out.”

There was a moment when I feared the worst—a dark shadow crossed his features and his eyes filled with blood. He held the shot glass high and flung it full force against the wall behind me, narrowly missing my head.

“I’ll add that to the list of damages,” I said coolly, noting the battered plaster.

“Rot in hell,” he spat back, as he grabbed his coat and stormed out into the snow.

I checked off another property to add to my list.

Aided by the weak economy and the incompetency of men like Bloor, I was now a multi-millionaire. My uncle would be proud. He taught me well.

“Buy land,” he told me, “God’s not making any more of it this side of Paradise.”

Archibald Parsimony had made a fortune in real estate—or as some would have it, swindling others out of property. He lived and died a bachelor, friendless, with only me as his heir.

“You’re the one I trust, Peter—you’re even more driven even than me. Keep driving your hard bargains after I’m gone. Fools only learn through affliction—but you, Peter—you’re a man after my own heart. You’re the son I never had.”

I buried him in a modest pine coffin in a soldier’s plot—he fought in the war and was entitled. No sense squandering money on a lavish funeral or monument. Uncle Archibald would have been proud.

Everything worked according to plan, except for one small glitch—Kathleen Montgomery. She was vinegar to my teeth and smoke to my eyes. Why I hired her, was beyond me. Why I didn’t fire her, was one of life’s mysteries.

“You spent twenty dollars on a charitable donation? Preposterous!”

Kathleen cringed, but in this case, sorry didn't help. I was out twenty bucks.

“But Peter—it was for the food bank—all the local businesses have given much more. I couldn’t refuse.”

“Aha, that’s the operative word—You couldn’t refuse. You are so generous with my money, that I’ll have to return the favor and dock your pay.”

She opened her mouth to protest and then wisely thought better.

Oh, she was a beauty, Kathleen, with thick, copper hair that just missed being red and huge brown eyes. So many times she’d turn and smile—not now, of course, but generally, and it made the days go faster and the nights seem longer until I’d see her again.

Still, I couldn’t allow her into my life—it would upset my plans. Besides, it was just feelings and feelings pass.

The day after I foreclosed on Bloor’s tavern, I acquired two other houses and their assets. It was a damnable nuisance having to prepare papers and list the properties—of course, I did most of the work myself to save the cost of lawyers.

I was heading home to an empty house with my briefcase full and my head whirling with plans, when I made the fateful detour to the dollar store. I was starving, having worked through lunch and the Marshmallow treats were calling me—well, that and the fact they were priced at three for a dollar. The temptation was too great to resist.

I ate two on the walk home and the third while organizing my files. Within minutes I felt nauseous and barely made it to the washroom where I threw up. Stomach cramps made it impossible to stand, let alone sit, so I took to my bed. It was just before six and I immediately fell into a deep sleep.

While I slept snow fell and blanketed the streets. The usual sound of passing traffic was muffled as if the city itself was wrapped in cotton.

I awoke just after midnight—unsure what caused me to stir, but sat bolt upright in my bed listening intently to creaking timbers and settling floors.

I could hear a shuffling from downstairs and concluded there was a burglar. Unfortunately, I had gotten rid of my landlines and my cell was nestled in the pocket of my coat in the main floor closet.

I could probably stay safely in my room and be robbed blind, or take the offensive, surprise the intruder and scare him off. Greed rather than bravery dictated my actions.

I had been proactive in one thing though—I kept a baseball bat near my bed, so I grabbed hold with two hands and crept out and down the stairs. The shuffling grew louder as I approached the main floor.

“Well, Peter, off to baseball? You could use some fun and exercise.”

I turned to see Uncle Archibald in his golf cap and sunglassess, shuffling towards me. I fell back, sprawling on the stairs, my mouth open, but unable to scream.

“A little surprised to see me? Good, then maybe you’ll hear what I have to say. I wanted to rattle a chain or blow open your door, but unfortunately, I didn’t know how. You’ll have to settle for a good old-fashioned apparition.”

I recovered my voice. “But you’re dead.”

“I am, but plainly, it’s not the end. I’ve been watching you, Peter, and feeling remorse for what I’ve taught you. If you don’t change, you’ll be worse off than me.”

“Are you in hell or purgatory?”

“Don’t know. Don’t know rightly what state I’m in. Mostly lonely, I suppose—and sad.”

“Are you in torment?”

“If you mean hellfire, no. The pain I feel, Peter, is my own. So many times I tried to reach out and stop you. I was powerless until tonight. Now, I’m able to reach you and you’re able to hear—you may not get another chance.”

“A chance for what?”

“A chance to live, Peter—and to love—to reach out to others and to share.”

“But Uncle, I’ve worked hard to amass my fortune—you know that. You yourself told me others were foolish and incompetent. Surely you don’t want me to give it away?”

“You need people, Peter—not things. This house can’t love you back. You own it, but the only things you’ll take with you to the grave are the moments you spent with others.”

“But surely you spent moments with others—where are they now?”

“I wasted time with others—even if you were to die, Peter, we’d have nothing to share, because we never took the time to care. You’d be trapped in your own private hell and I in mine.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“It’s for you to decide, Peter. I only talk of lack, because that’s all I have.”

I watched as he fixed me with his sad eyes and watched as he faded into the night.

I have no recollection of what happened next, but awoke the next morning in my own bed.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my dream—that’s what I call it.

It was a delirium brought on by food poisoning. I don’t believe my uncle spoke to me from the dead. I think my sub-conscious has been showing me there’s more to life than what I’ve got.

I’ve begun dating Kathleen—even taking her advice on life and love. My business seems so petty now—what really inspires me is helping others grow.

Maybe Marley’s ghost was undigested beef and maybe my ghost was a rubbery marshmallow treat—but if it changed Scrooge for the better and even helped me, then who cares about details?

It makes sense to me.

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