Dark December [A Holiday Filled Horror Anthology]

The All New and Improved Ending to A Christmas Carol by: DebbieGoelz

The All New and Improved Ending to A Christmas Carol by DebbieGoelz

Dear Potential Readers:

I must warn you that this story may shake your faith in humanity and permanently ruin Christmas for you. For that reason, I suggest you stop reading now and go about flaming your figgy pudding, or dressing perfectly good evergreens in plastic silver strips and stale popcorn, or inflating gigantic glowing snowmen in your front yard.

This story is for the rest of us...

The All New and Improved Ending to A Christmas Carol by DebbieGoelz 

Scrooge wakes in his bed and discovers the bedpost is his own. The bed is his own. The room is his own. He checks under his goose down pillow, examines his bedspread, inspects the folds of his fine damask bed curtains, but the spectre has disintegrated back into the ether, retreated into its mist of gloom.

Relief courses through his veins like mulled wine. "A dream," Scrooge declares. "It was all a dream." Scrambling out of bed, he splashes his face with icy water from the bowl, his meager fire from the previous night has turned to ash. But Scrooge rejoices in the cold; it is his oldest friend.

Though it is Christmas Day, Scrooge cannot wait to return to the counting house to assure himself his money is still there. He dresses in "all his best" and pulls open the front door to be greeted by a mound of snow. Finally managing to extricate himself from this impediment, he bursts onto the street a new man with no lingering doubts about who he is. He faced his biggest fears and survived. Now he is free.

The people of London are already out, pouring forth from their houses. Walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regards each passerby with a sneer. He looks so frightening that three or four soot-smudged children dressed in rags hide behind the ancient church gates just as the gruff old bell, peeping slyly down on Scrooge out of a Gothic window, strikes eight o' clock.

The wind blows bitter, and Scrooge tightens the grey woolen scarf about his neck. He continues to make his way to his place of business scowling his usual scowl, muttering "humbug." Unlocking the door, he enters the abandoned room. Why did he give his clerks the entire day off?

His breath, in the dank, earthy air has shape and substance. He smiles, and allows himself a mirthless chuckle, reveling in his invincibility. Scrooge lights a small fire, which coughs and sputters like a victim of the dread disease.

The worn black leather cover of his banker's book creaks when he opens it. Running his fingers down the rows of numbers, Scrooge is soon engrossed and beguiled by his assets.

The door opens, and his nephew Fred enters, face ruddy and aglow, wearing a ghastly red scarf and holding a Christmas wreath.

"Bah!" says Scrooge. "Humbug!"

"I thought you would be here, Uncle. I am very sorry to bother you on Christmas with bad news, but Mr. Cratchit asked me to tell you he will not be to work tomorrow," says Fred.

"What?" the old skinflint thunders. "He will be out of a job." Scrooge slams shut his book of figures.

"Uncle, his son, Tiny Tim, has died. He passed away not an hour ago. Bob must bury him and mourn."

"Humbug," Scrooge says.

"Uncle, you are the worst of sinners."

"That may be, my dear nephew, but I have work to do."

"I shall leave you to it then, Uncle." Fred throws the wreath into the fire and slams the door with such vigor the building shakes—a furious onslaught upon the beams that hold it together.

A loud crack issues forth as fragments of plaster fall from above. A jagged line worms its way along the ceiling.

There's a pop and a whoosh in the stove as Fred's wreath becomes engulfed in flames, casting a demonic orange pall about the room. Scrooge has a sharp intake of breath and grips the edges of his desk—hands glowing orange. Why had he not had the fungus in the attic laths seen to?

The counting house rumbles as the ill-maintained ceiling, weak from rot, collapses in a torrent of plaster and wood. Scrooge covers his head with his banker's book, but to no avail. Thousands of the gold coins he had horded and stored in the attic rain upon his head. He collapses beneath their weight, gasping for air. And as he breathes his last, the word "humbug" is ever-frozen upon his lips.

***

The next morning when the first clerk arrives to work, he finds Scrooge entombed in a mountain of gold.

THE END

Thanks so much for reading my alternate ending to Dickens' A Christmas Carol. I initially did this as an assignment for Taos Toolbox, in which we were required to rewrite the ending of a well-known book or movie. I chose A Christmas Carol because while I think the ending of the original is lovely, I find it hard to believe a person like Scrooge can change in one night. I know! I know! It's an allegory. But I am part curmudgeon, so this is what I came up with. Besides, I warned you!

Happy Holidays to you all!!!!