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Christmas series: The girl in the window Wednesday Dec 13, 2017 at 12:01 AM Editor’s note: This serial, which explores the days leading up to that fateful night in Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol,” continues through Christmas Day. The story thus far: A hooded phantom shows Jacob a vision of the future in which Jacob warns Ebenezer Scrooge of his fate. I survey the snowy ground, the sky, the trees, the graves. All is as silent as it had been, moonlight trickling down through scattered clouds from a generous moon. The phantom stands where it had been when he found me, hands at its sides, a soft winter breeze ruffling its robes. “This vision,” I say. “Why show me such a revelation? Why manifest something that can never be? It is torture to watch, spirit.” The phantom shakes its head back and forth lazily. “Will you not speak?” The night’s disappointments have stacked up. The same rage I felt in the crypt moments ago, when The Council thwarted my quest, still simmers on the surface. I hear it boil, feel the heat. "Speak, wraith. Or has a cat got the tongue of The Council's lapdog?" Bolts of lightning carve the sky, stiff cracks of thunder accompanying them. The phantom raises its right hand, hooks its fingers, clenches. I feel a pressure in my chest, gripping right where my heart would be, closing, compacting. The once-peaceful clouds burst. Rain pours down in a violent flood. Lightning again. Again. Trenchant thunder claps surge through all of it. The phantom continues his vice-like grip, wringing, squeezing. “P-please…” A pitiful whimper escapes my lips. The phantom lowers its hand. I fall to the ground in a splash of wet snow. The rain subsides. Peace falls on the graveyard once again. I stumble to my feet and stare at the phantom, ready to run — or at least try — in case I misspeak a second time. I fear it, more than any other I’ve seen in this realm, and peace must be made. “You’re not from The Council,” I say. The phantom shakes its head. It seems quicker this time, anger-driven. “You cannot speak.” Nod. “Why?” Shake, shake. “Why are you here?” It points a withered finger. “For me?” Nod. “Why…but…” The vision of my dead form conversing with Ebenezer flashes before my eyes. “I am here tonight to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate.” The phantom nods before I even say it: “Ebenezer? We may but save him from…this place.” Nod. “How?” It points at me, then itself. “Us. Together,” I say. My voice is catching in my throat. Please let this be real. Please don’t disappear. Stay, phantom. Stay right where you are. I feel as though a misstep may shatter your very form. It points toward the London skyline, toward the dim glow of candles and dark lanterns that highlight the rooftops. “There are others?” Nod. “Where?” The phantom begins to move. It rises mere inches from the ground, ghastly purple light spilling out from beneath its robes in plum-colored tides. A hum accompanies it. A hum like The Council’s hovering seats. The tall phantom drifts away over the graveyard grounds. It reaches backward with one long arm and beckons me. I follow as quickly as my hindering chains will allow. We pass through the graveyard gate to the street. The phantom travels down now-quiet avenues to the front of a Catholic church. But for the candles burning out front, it’s dark. The creature points toward it and continues its trek, held aloft by its transport of purple energy. It passes easily through the church doors and I follow. The interior is black but for a moment. Then fire springs from dozens of candle wicks in the chapel and darkness is replaced with flickering light. Pews sit silent, roughly handled hymnals and Bibles set on the seats. A small stage at the chapel’s front contains a small podium, basin of Holy Water and large cross. The Christ hangs on it, head cast right. The firelight illuminates in the surrounding stained glass windows. Scenes from the Bible: God creating the Earth. Abraham killing Isaac. David felling a giant. The Christ’s birth is at the front, facing the congregation. The colored pane shows a humble manger, hay-covered ground, Joseph and the Virgin. She tucks the child into her robes while the famed star and a chorus of open-mouthed angels illuminates the scene from above. The phantom points at me and opens its hand: Stay. I oblige. The scene this creature revealed is still fresh in my mind. I’ve no explanation for what I’ve seen, but remembering it spurns me on. This phantom has my full cooperation. For now. It turns to the stained glass window depicting the Christ’s birth, one wretched palm still extended toward me. It reaches with its free hand toward the window, finger extended. The lit candles flare up a second time in sudden bursts of light. I stumble, land on the floor, try to regain my footing. I’m up. The pews rattle and quake. Clouds of long-restful dust bloom from the floor, spiral through the air. The window. My God, the window. The stained glass shimmers with a brilliant glow that sprays outward and flows in waves across the wood floor. The columns of roaring firelight fade, become motes among so much white. A shrill pulse screams in my ears. The phantom’s robes are lost in it all, fade to indistinct shadows. The strident hum grows louder, louder still. Another noise joins it. It starts low and grows to the height of sirens. A song sung by a choir of thousands, millions; voices that erupt from countless mouths and hurtle about in the illuminated air. A new shadow begins to take shape in the maelstrom of white and noise. It grows from a dull gray to a more defined construct. Details pop from it in an erratic metamorphosis. Short in height. Flowing hair that glistens and swells like windswept fields of diamonds. A white flowing robe. Child-like features sketch outward from nothing, find shade and dimension. I see freckles that twinkle like stars on a semi-transparent face, cherub’s cheeks, chubby hands with tiny fingers. The spirit sees me in the blizzard of light, looking round fearfully while clouds of illumination spin about the room. Her mouth falls open. The white light ebbs. Three spirits now haunt this holy place. Tomorrow: The ghostly companions offer hope for Marley's quest to spare Ebenezer his fate.