When I was a boy, I was haunted by a ghost, and only on Christmas. Every year, when I went to bed, this old man with a bushy beard and top hat would stare from the apartment across the alley.
For a couple years, I told my parents, and they would stare right at him and say they saw nothing. Eventually, I gave up. I didn’t know what or who he was, so I named him “Marley”. Seemed the right name for a Christmas ghost.
On my eighteenth Christmas, I snuck into the building next door, and went to Marley’s apartment. The door was locked, but a large brass key jutted from the handle. I turned it, letting the door fall open. I could see Marley silhouetted against the window. He didn’t move. I crept forward. He still did not turn to face me.
I was inches from him when I placed my hand on his shoulder, and he finally turned. His eyes were wide, mad, and unblinking, as always. But for the first time, I saw an equally manic grin through his beard. In an instant, he ran for the door, slamming it before his top hat hit the ground.
I’ve been trapped here since. Well, not here. This is where I’m allowed to rest, once a year. The others are an eternity that shames everything I thought hell could be. But I stare out the window every Christmas, not because I’m grateful to see the snow, or remember that pain can stop.
No, I stare because there’s a little boy across the street, and I think he’s seen me.
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Credits to: lokiago
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