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Christmas series: The secret weapon: Marley's chains Friday Dec 22, 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: In a vision, Marley learns of the overthrow of the dead realm, and how a prophecy foretold that it would be reclaimed — but only with his help.  The girl spirit and the phantom drift toward the church doors. “Wait." The spirits stop mere feet from the exit and turn, their respective white and purple auras illuminating the walls. “Why do you need me now?" I ask. "How does an image of me with Ebenezer suggest I also aid you in this coup?" The girl answers quickly, eager to leave. I’m to be a distraction of sorts, she says, to prey on Samuel's sensibilities while the spirits pry the powerful torch from his grasp. But it's more than that. It’s my chains, she continues, the cold metal that entwines me like spider webs. They are the key, the answer to all of this. They are live spirits themselves, hundreds of immature evil shackles lashed together. They feed on what you’ve taken with you to the grave, she had told me. The secrets you’ve kept, the lies you’ve told. And now, they will feed again; feast, in fact, on the infected torch. They’ll sweep over it like maggots and ingest the rot. “You’re the only one who can make it how it used to be,” the girl says. We stare at each other, the phantom hovering by the doors. “I showed you the shadows of the things that have been,” she says. “What the rest of your story will look like is up to you. My companion showed you nothing more than a possibility earlier, the result of our success. But the journey from now to then is murky, fluid." I think of the phantom’s words to Samuel: "I’ve seen how this ends." It is time to end it, then; time to navigate from the thoroughfare of Easy back to Right. But not for me. Not for this spirit girl or her taciturn friend. For Samuel, the old man whom I'd rejected when it was convenient. For Ebenezer, whom I corrupted as an adult, at an age where there was no excuse to do so. I set him on the wrong path knowingly and without apology. Because sharing darkness is easier than learning to beat it back with light. I’ve paid the price for that choice. Ebenezer must not. Samuel must see that. He must let go of this vengeful course, and that starts with me — on my hands and knees if necessary — begging for forgiveness. “You have me as an ally,” I say. “On one condition.” Because it will not be enough for me to appear in Ebenezer’s bedroom. He’s liable to think the sudden appearance of a ghost is no more than a slight disorder of the stomach brought on by bit of bad beef, a blot of mustard. “Humbug,” he’d hiss. I’d wager five pounds. I will not be enough, no. The other spirits must appear with me. He must see what I have seen, a vision of what he used to be and how that changed, how enshrouded in darkness his future is. The spirits agree. We empty out of the dark church and drift across town. A glittering girl, a shackled inmate in a dark afterlife and a mute nightmare. A demented trinity my friend's salvation depends upon. *** We hide near The Council’s crypt and wait for the dark spirits to depart. It doesn't take long. The cracked rock doors start to glow a sinister lilac sheen. The council members exit, deformed, unrecognizable spirits corrupted by their own respective hatred of the living. They float like paper lanterns into the moonlit night toward the Christmas spirit's birthplace, guided by the now-mutant torch. Samuel comes last, the infected torch in his fist. I can hear its whispers, even from such a distance. The very trees seem to cower at the sound. The phantom trembles and massages its throat. The girl crouches lower, lower still. “Shall we continue?” I whisper. The girl jumps at the sound of my voice, stares at me with trembling eyes. The sight of me seems to reassure her. She nods. “Lead on,” she says. We follow the well-lit procession from the graveyard. The ghosts pass into the city. More shadows are here, cast by the high buildings blocking the moon’s rays. Candles burn in the street lamps. The occasional swaying eyes of lanterns held by block watchmen peer out at us, seeming to follow our secret movements as we pass. Holly, wreaths and garlands adorn every block. Though healing visits from our realm have been absent for years, it would seem the spirit of the holiday remains. I think of the starburst, of the phantom's vision that began all this. The caravan arrives in front of St. Andrews Church, fans out into a circle with Samuel in its center. My queer associates and I keep to a shadowy area behind a hill. I pace in the darkness, waiting. Samuel holds the torch aloft. Its purple tinge alights the churchyard in a swelling glow that flows unevenly like floodwater. “Do you feel it, my brothers?” he asks composedly. “Do you comprehend the exact magnitude of what we are on the eve of accomplishing?” The other council members answer in a murmur of quiet acknowledgment. “Years ago, centuries in fact, a rarity took place,” Samuel continues. “The earth and heaven-bound realms of all human souls saw fit to open a doorway between our two worlds, one that would allow us to interact with the living, perhaps in an effort to save them from themselves and illuminate the dark paths on which they trod. A noble idea, albeit folly. The strength of our cries was not enough. They were whispers in a storm, brothers, tidings and prognostications that required faith and quiet to comprehend and retain. It was foolish methodology.” He grins. The rotting torchlight grows. “Which is why we stand here today,” Samuel says. “Why we stood hand in hand and demanded such idiocy be remanded. The veil healed because of us, and tonight, its scarring will close in full, never again to be torn asunder because of some mystical romanticism. The living must make their own way, just as we make ours.” “We haven’t much time,” the girl whispers. “I’ll go in first. I’m the fastest of us three. I’ll create a distraction, enough time for my hooded mate to toss in some artillery. Should add to the disorder nicely.” The phantom holds its clawed, gray hands close together. A purple light erupts in the center of them and grows into a grapefruit-sized sphere that crackles like a cannonball made of lightning. The phantom pulls them apart and the glow disappears. “Impressive,” I say. The specter nods. “And me?” “Some of the council members will undoubtedly chase us; four at the most, split among the two of us. They’ll lob their own artillery back. Once we’ve pulled away, you must make your move, Jacob.” “And do what, exactly?” “Nothing beyond focus,” the girl says. “Your chains, by design, will seek out corruption. It’s as tempting as blood to a shark. The closer you get, they will start to make their own way. They will pull you and glow red hot with hunger.” Tomorrow: The battle for the torch.