Three More Visitors
Paul Stanley
Christmas I6 Platypus library parser Penultimate not numbered Speed IF Victorian
Christmas Eve! You tell Bob to go home early; tidy up a little, and lock up the office shortly after four. You look on the old brass plate, which still reads "Scrooge & Marley", probably for the last time. After visiting the engravers to pick up your package, you spend a few hours simply walking the busy streets, soaking in the happy anticipation all around. Then a simple, but magnificent, dinner at Kettners and a gentle stroll home. Time for bed.
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Christmas Eve! You tell Bob to go home early; tidy up a little, and lock up the office shortly after four. You look on the old brass plate, which still reads "Scrooge & Marley", probably for the last time.

After visiting the engravers to pick up your package, you spend a few hours simply walking the busy streets, soaking in the happy anticipation all around. Then a simple, but magnificent, dinner at Kettners and a gentle stroll home. Time for bed.

Not everyone is complimentary about this courtyard, or the house whose front door you now face. "A gloomy set of rooms" it has been called. But it has been your home these many years; it was the site, a decade past to this very day, of the great visions that changed your life forever. And so here you stay, and here you expect to end your days. The door is north.
About yourself
Others might call you elderly -- though you feel, especially at this time of year, sprightly and young. A respectable, respected, much-loved pillar of this great city. "Good old Ebenezer", they say. "There is a man who knows how to celebrate Christmas".
Inventory
You are carrying:
a door key
a package
You look at the key
A brass door key.
You examine package
You picked it up from the engravers earlier. The package is about six inches wide, and eight inches long, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. The label on it reads "E Scrooge Esq, to await collection". It's rather heavy.

Whisps of frosty mist nuzzle into the corners of the yard.
You look at your surroundings
Not everyone is complimentary about this courtyard, or the house whose front door you now face. "A gloomy set of rooms" it has been called. But it has been your home these many years; it was the site, a decade past to this very day, of the great visions that changed your life forever. And so here you stay, and here you expect to end your days. The door is north.
You look at the house
A huge old house. Your late partner, Jacob Marley lived here until he died, and you have lived here ever since. You keep a small suite of rooms on the first floor, having given the rest over to your nephew and his family -- but they are out of town visiting your brother for Christmas. They begged you to go with them, but you have your own plans: you always visit the Cratchits for Christmas, and this year you have a most particular reason to keep that appointment.

You catch a strange, sweet smell, carried on the mist.
Go north
(opening the door)
(unlocking the door)
As you push the door open and enter, you stop for a moment to look at the knocker. Who knows why, for you see it every day -- morning and evening, and it is unremarkable enough. But you can't forget how, on this very evening a decade ago, you saw it transformed into the very image of your late partner Jacob Marley: the first of the very strange and disconcerting events of that wonderfully disconcerting night.

So you glance at the knocker now, and you are shocked to see it, again, assume a once-familiar appearance. But this time the face is not Marley's, but almost your own, though one you have not seen for twenty, even thirty, years. It is the face of your brother, Mordecai.

Shivering slightly (whether from the cold, or the disconcerting behaviour of your door knocker, you could not say) you go through the door, light the candle that stands ready on the hall table, lock the door carefully behind you and climb the wide staircase to your chamber.

A leopard never quite changes its spots, and your bedroom is still plain by most standards, but that is how you like it. Nevertheless, you allow yourself a few hints of comfort if not luxury. The heavy green brocade curtains are closed. Your table has a few papers on it. Your bed is ready for you. The door, leading east, is closed.
You look at the papers
The papers are scattered on the table. You really should talk to Lucinda about cleaning up -- since she has been walking out with the Jameson boy she has become quite distracted.The only one of any moment is the letter you received this morning from your attorneys.
You open the curtains
You open the curtains, revealing a window.
You read letter
45 New Square
Lincoln's Inn

My Dear Mr Scrooge,

As presently drawn, your will leaves your whole estate to your brothers, and their issue. In practical terms, that means to your nephew and (if he still lives) your brother Mordecai.

We understand that you wish to amend the provisions of your will. Mr Robert Cratchit is to become a partner in the firm of Scrooge & Marley, and he is to inherit the partnership absolutely, the rest of your estate passing to your nephew.

We have accordingly prepared a revised will and partnership deed. If you would be good enough to raise the matter with Mr Cratchit, we look forward to seeing you on the twenty-seventh of this month, at our offices, at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, where the documents can be executed.

I beg to remain, Sir, your obedient and humble servant,

Wm Jarboe.
You examine the window
The glass is lightly glazed with frost, but you can just see through it into the darkened yard.

Late as it is, you think you hear footsteps outside the window.
You take the letter
You take the letter.

You can definitely hear voices: indistinct, but it sounds like an old man and a young man.
You listen to the window
You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.

Outside the window, a coarse, sly old voice. "You lad, where are you going?"
You look at the window
The glass is lightly glazed with frost, but you can just see through it into the darkened yard.

It's hard to make out more than a few words: something about "Mr Scrooge" and "the compliments of the season".
You listen
You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.

The older man says something, but you can't make it out.
Look around
The heavy green brocade curtains are open. Your table has a few papers on it. Your bed is ready for you. The door, leading east, is closed.

The younger voice is raised indignantly, and you catch a few words -- "mistaken ... kind gentleman". Suddenly you recognise the voice: It is Bob Cratchit's son, Tiny Tim.
You open the door
You open the bedroom door.
Sleep
You wouldn't be able to sleep with this queer conversation going on outside.

The old man is talking: "... grasping ... miserly ... I have found him out ..."
You listen
You hear low voices in the yard, though it's hard to make out most of what they say.

The old man is talks, low and secretive. You can make out few words -- "Jarboe" perhaps and "visit". How can he know about Mr Jarboe's visit to you?
You open the window
You open the window slowly and carefully, hoping not to be noticed. You can hear the voices in the yard better now.

Tiny Tim's voice, quite clear: "Yes, Sir, I know that he visited, for my father told me of his visit."
You listen
You hear the voices in the yard, still talking.

"Now, my boy, you must be more careful. He told you that he visited, but I wager you he did not tell you the purpose of that visit. I wager you that.
You listen
You hear the voices in the yard, still talking.

"Indeed he did not, and we all wondered what it might be!"
You listen
You hear the voices in the yard, still talking.

"Well, I can tell you. He intends to sell his business. Lock, stock, and barrel. Hook, line, and sinker. Every contract, every note, every bill drawn on London and every bill drawn on Petersburg. All to be sold to a consortium -- that is to say to a bunch, young man -- to a bunch of Italians from Leghorn. A bunch of Italians who will show your father the door soon as you can say 'Merry Christmas'."
Wait
Time passes.

Young Tim's voice, clear as a bell: "Is there nothing that can be done to stop him?"
Wait
Time passes.

"Ah, my lad. Now I knew that you were a smart boy. An intelligent young man. A young man with his head screwed on. Of course there's something that can be done."
You sit on the bed
You get into the bed.

The old man reaches his hand into his pocket, and hands something to Tim Cratchit.
You jump
You jump on the spot.

"That little bottle is a remarkable concoction. A miracle of science, young man. The work of the great Doctor Faustus from Berlin. A drop of this in a man's drink will drive out the spirit of miserliness, and drive in the spirit of Christmas. If you could slip it into his drink tomorrow, the problem will be solved."
You look at the bottle
The bottle is no more than an inch or two long, and contains a greenish liquid -- the colour of chartreuse.

"Very well, Sir," you hear the Cratchit boy say, "I will do it."
You stand
You get out of the bed.

The heavy green brocade curtains are open. Your table has a few papers on it. Your bed is ready for you. The door is open to the east.

"Now you be sure that Mr Scrooge doesn't see it, my boy. He's as sly as a rat, and he'll know directly what it is and not take the bait. Let this be our little secret."
You read the bottle
The glass bottle is outside. Just watch and listen.

"You'll thank me for this, my boy, This will be our little secret. And in time you will thank me for it. Indeed, my lad, you will."

The voices fade.
Wait
Time passes.

You feel very tired. It is time to go to sleep.
Sleep
You blow out the candle, and get into bed then settle down to go to sleep.

You wake with a start. What is it that woke you? Perhaps only the church bell, chiming ... one ... two ... three-quarters ... no, the hour. One o'clock. You sit up in bed, alert as a cat before a mousehole.
You look around
Bedroom (in the bed)
The heavy green brocade curtains are open. Your table has a few papers on it and a number of other objects besides. The door, leading east, is closed.

The door creaks open, and light -- as of a giant candle -- floods the room. And there, on the threshold, he stands. A spirit you have not seen for ten years, and yet familiar to you: the Ghost of Christmas Past.
You talk to Ghost
"I know you, spirit," you say. "I remember you."

"I am the spirit of Christmas past. Your past!"
You wait
Time passes.
You talk to Ghost
"What is it you have come to show me?" you ask.

"I am here to show you a beginning," says the ghost. "We are going to trace a noxious river to its poisoned source."
You talk to Ghost
"What must I do, then?"

"Just walk through the door."

"What? I can tell you what is outside the door: nothing but my own staircase, up which I climbed not much more than an hour ago!"

"So you may think," the spirit says enigmatically. "But you might be surprised."
Continue
The spirit stays silent, and merely gestures towards the door.

The spirit gestures towards the door.
You go south
(getting out of bed)
You can't go that way. The door is east.

The spirit gestures towards the door.
You go east
The spirit ushers you through the door. But you feel yourself changed, diminished somehow. And instead of the staircase, you find yourself in a quite different place -- a room once just as well-known, but which you have not thought about these many years.

Your mother's parlour, a cosy little room, spotlessly clean and smelling of wax and lavender. Sunlight is splashing bright patterns on the rug. Your mother is resting on her chaise longue.

A wooden box lies on the rug.

Your mother has kicked off her shoes, which lie beside the sofa.
You look at the box
A wooden box, about as long as your arm, and half as wide. There are letters burned into it. Because you are your mother's clever boy, you can read those letters. "E. PEEN: TOYMAKER". Your mother has given this box to you for Christmas, because you have been good all year. The box is closed.
You examine the shoes
Your mother's brown leather walking shoes.
You take shoes
You take your mother's shoes.
You wear the shoes
Although it can hardly be said that they fit well, it gives you a remarkable sense of confidence to walk in your mother's shoes. You feel unaccountably stronger, faster, fleeter of foot.
You open the box
You open the wooden box, revealing your toy hammer, your wooden peg and your wooden saw.
Peg and saw
You take the wooden saw, the wooden peg and the toy hammer.
You examine Mordecai
To a superficial glance -- or indeed, to even the most penetrating inspection by anyone other than your family -- there is no difference whatever between you and Mordecai. Not physically; but morally, in spirit, as souls -- you could not be more different.

Mordecai comes over. "I want that hammer, Ben," he says. "Give it to me now!"
You hit Mordecai with the hammer
You know there is no point. Mordecai is your twin, but he is stronger than you, and faster than you, and more resolute than you.

Mordecai grabs the hammer from you. "Mine!" he says.

"No, Mordecai, it is mine. Mother gave it to me. I have been a good boy all year. You have not."

"Good boys get given presents. Bad boys take them!"
You wake mother
You should let her sleep. She needs to rest.

Mordecai advances towards you with his hammer held high. "Now I have taken this," he says, "you must give me all your toys. You must do as I say or I will beat you and smash you, you vile boy." As he says those words "vile boy" he sounds just like Father. That is just what Father always says.
You give the saw to Mordecai
Mordecai takes the wooden saw with an acquisitive glint in his eye. "Mine now!" he giggles.

Mordecai brings the hammer crashing down on your head, with a crack. For a moment you feel nothing. Then you find yourself on the floor. Your face is sticky, and your mouth tastes of sweet iron. Your brother, as usual, has made himself scarce.
Look around
Your mother's parlour, a cosy little room, spotlessly clean and smelling of wax and lavender. Sunlight is splashing bright patterns on the rug. Your mother is resting on her chaise longue.

A wooden box lies on the rug.

Your mother stirs, and wakes. She looks down at you, and shrieks. "What on earth has happened, little Ben?" she says. "What have you done? Your face is covered in blood!"
You tell the mother about Mordecai
To converse in this game, use TALK TO [PERSON] (though in certain special situations, when you are asked a specific question, YES and NO could be useful).
You talk to mother
You sob.

Your mother gathers you up in her arms. You feel her tears mixing with yours, and with the blood that covers your face. You turn to kiss her. As your lips touch her cheek she seems to liquify, like wax at a candle wick. And with her everything in the room seems to liquify too: chaise, rug, toys, all pouring away, until there is just you, and the spirit, in an empty room.

Still, apparently, your mother's parlour -- or at least a room its size, and its shape, and with its window and door; but sadly altered. Dust and shadows have spread themselves thickly on every surface, and crept into every corner. The furniture is gone -- the floor bare apart from the rug, which incongruously remains. The door is west.

The ghost of Christmas past stands in the middle of the room.
You talk to Ghost
"What has happened? Where has my mother gone?"

"You have grown up, Ebenezer. The world is a little colder, emptier. You are on your own."
You continue
"Why, then, are we still here?"

"We are tracing the evil to its source," the spirit says. "A little childhood bullying is hardly evil; but that was not the end of it for Mordecai, was it?"

And you shake your head, because you know he is right.
Keep going
Ths spirit simply watches you in silence.
You say no
You mutter to yourself.

The spirit gestures towards the door. "Some things are best left in the past," he says. "I wish I could show you happier moments; for there were many happier moments, were there not? But tonight my task is to warn. Let us go!"
You talk to the spirit
The spirit simply watches you in silence.
You look around
Still, apparently, your mother's parlour -- or at least a room its size, and its shape, and with its window and door; but sadly altered. Dust and shadows have spread themselves thickly on every surface, and crept into every corner. The furniture is gone -- the floor bare apart from the rug, which incongruously remains. The door is west.

The ghost of Christmas past stands in the middle of the room.
Exit
As you step towards the door, you feel the room you are leaving dissolve into shadow, and the spirit with it. No way back now. You must return (you know it) to the present -- or at least to some possible version of the present. You are half expecting the sight that next meets your eyes ...

Your room is transformed. The ceiling is hung with great boughs of holly, the berries glistening in the light of hundreds of candles. All around the room are piles of wonderful food: hams, great roasts, gilded turkies, piles of sugar plums and oranges, chocolates and candy-canes. A vast table is set with a white damask cloth, laden with dishes. In the midst of this a man with a deep green robe and a vast beard reclines on your bed, his head surrounded by a garland of ivy: the ghost of Christmas present.

The ghost of Christmas present lounges on your bed, bathed in brilliant sunlight from the canopy.
You talk to Ghost
"I recognise you, spirit," you say. "You are the Ghost of Christmas Past. I remember meeting you -- ten years ago now, and the good you did me then."

"Not I," replies the giant, "for I can be here just one Christmastide, and never again; but one of my brothers no doubt."
You look at the giant
A giant of a man, with ruddy cheeks, chestnut curls and an auburn beard. He's wearing a green velvet robe, trimmed with ermine.
You examine the food
Everything is set as if for a feast; it all looks quite delicious.
You eat
(the bed)
(taking the bed)
The bed is fixed in place.
You eat the food
Somehow you hand passes straight through, and yet your soul seems nourished.

"Spiritual food brings spiritual sustenance," the Ghost says. "Tomorrow, my dear Ebenezer, you can eat your fill."
You talk to Ghost
"Why are you here? I am a changed man. There's not a man in London more devoted to you than I am. I have no further need of your help."

"So you might think," the spirit replies. "But you do need my help tonight: not to save you, this time, from yourself; but to save you, and others, from harm."

The spirit beckons you towards his robe.
You talk to Ghost
"What sort of harm, spirit? And what should I do?"

"I will show you," says the Ghost. "Touch my robe, and I will show you."
You touch the robe
As your hand brushes the spirit's robe, he takes you firmly by the hand. He opens the window, and, safe in his firm grasp you are launched headlong into the air.

You soar over tightly-packed streets through a grey London dawn.

Frost glistens on the flagstones, and on the identical doorsteps of the identical houses in this neatly nondescript street. You stand outside number 17. Cast iron railings surround a basement area, painted black like every other house; a neat front door and whitened step. It is the house where your clerk, Bob Cratchit, lives with his family. The great City lies to the south. Steps lead down to the basement area.

Someone has dropped a sixpenny piece on the ground.
You look at the piece
A silver sixpence.
You take the piece
You take the sixpence.
You check what you're carrying
You are carrying:
a sixpence
About yourself
You feel strange, pinched, dreary and angry. You seem to be wearing a shabby coat and a shabby hat (not at all in your usual style) and a strange smell lingers about you.
You smell yourself
You smell odd: a sickly sweetness -- like meat that has started to turn -- lingers about your person.
You go to the south
That way would take you home, but the spirit has brought you here, and must have his reasons.
Go downward
Like so many London houses, Bob Cratchit's is set half-down into the ground, with a dingy basement yard with space to store coal, and ash, and rubbish. Overlooking this dreary scene is the window of what you know is the kitchen, although it's so covered in thick frost that you can't see anything through it at the moment.

The spirit stands just behind you.
Rub window
You rub at the frost. It burns your hands, but you manage to clear a small area, through which you can peep.
Peep
Like so many London houses, Bob Cratchit's is set half-down into the ground, with a dingy basement yard with space to store coal, and ash, and rubbish. Overlooking this dreary scene is the window of what you know is the kitchen. The window is covered in a heavy frost, apart from a small area that you have rubbed clear.

The spirit stands just behind you.
You look through the window
You look into the Cratchits' kitchen. It is set for Christmas, with various delicacies arrayed on the table. Beyond it is a door through which you can see into the back parlour.

As you watch, you see a young man come in. It is Tiny Tim.
You examine the window
The window is covered with frost, except for a small corner, where you have rubbed a clear area.
You look at Tim
He is in his Sunday Best for Christmas.

Through the kitchen door you see two men, yourself and Bob Cratchit.
You look through the window
Tim ladles two generous helpings of the punch into pewter mugs, and carries them through to the room beyond.
You examine Cratchit
Which do you mean, Bob Cratchit,  or Tiny Tim?
You examine the men
Certainly you, come round no doubt to wish Bob the compliments of the season and to have a glass of wine and some lunch with him.

The two men in the parlour raise their mugs. Oddly you have a premonition of what is to follow. More oddly still, instead of willing yourself to drop the mug on the floor, or throw it in the fire, you find yourself hoping that you will drink it. You find yourself taking positive pleasure in what you know will be a disaster. It is as if you are not yourself. As if you are a second version of yourself, and wish yourself harm.
You look at the men
Certainly you, come round no doubt to wish Bob the compliments of the season and to have a glass of wine and some lunch with him.

The draught takes its effect. You and Bob look to be in excruciating agony. You grasp at your throats, tear at your collars and neckscarves, as the fatal liquid tears at your bowels. And yet you, Ebenezer Scrooge, watch your own death-pangs not merely dispassionately, but with positive delight.
You look at the men
A terrible sight -- and yet, for some reason, strangely compelling to you.

You and Bob lie quite still now. Anyone who knows death could say, instantly, that you are both quite dead. And watching this you feel not (as you should, as you know you should) horrified at your own demise and at the painful death of a beloved friend, but elated.
You talk to spirit
"What do you see inside?" the spirit asks.
You enter the window
That's not something you can enter.

Above you, you hear the front door open then slam shut. A limping step works its way down to the street; you hear the tapping of a crutch as the steps recede.
You look inside
(the frosty window)
Mrs Cratchit's tidy kitchen is empty. Beyond it you can see into the back parlour. Two corpses lie there: your own, and Bob Cratchit's.

The steps fade into the distance.
About yourself
You feel strange, pinched, dreary and angry. You seem to be wearing a shabby coat and a shabby hat (not at all in your usual style) and a strange smell lingers about you.

The spirit reaches towards you and touches you. As he does so you watch his arm shrivel, his robe darken. Before long you find yourself looking at a different ghost altogether -- a loose grey robe with a great cowl, which completely obscures the features of whoever, or whatever, is within. Only two piercing dark eyes, unblinking, give assurance (no, not so much assurance, "warrant" then) that the figure is more than a great empty sack. The ghost of Christmas future leans on a long, slender staff of bone or ivory, gripping it with a talon-like gloved hand.

[Press any key]
You look at Scrooge
(yourself)
You feel strange, pinched, dreary and angry. You seem to be wearing a shabby coat and a shabby hat (not at all in your usual style) and a strange smell lingers about you.

The spirit reaches towards you and touches you. As he does so you watch his arm shrivel, his robe darken. Before long you find yourself looking at a different ghost altogether -- a loose grey robe with a great cowl, which completely obscures the features of whoever, or whatever, is within. Only two piercing dark eyes, unblinking, give assurance (no, not so much assurance, "warrant" then) that the figure is more than a great empty sack. The ghost of Christmas future leans on a long, slender staff of bone or ivory, gripping it with a talon-like gloved hand.

Dusk is falling on the tightly-packed warehouses, taverns and doss-houses of Limehouse. To the south you can hear the gentle slapping of the river, the creaking of wet timber on piers and jetties. In this insalubrious alley, windows are either boarded or broken, or caked with dirt. To the west is an open doorway hung with red and gold lanterns, and painted with a dragon.

You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.

A chinaman stands in front of the doorway, barring entrance.
You examine chinaman
The man is Chinese. He's dressed in a sailor's fashion in cotton duck trousers and a rough shirt. He is muscular, self-possessed. He's reading a magazine.
Examine magazine
A copy of Doom, issue III. A popular magazine, which contains lurid accounts of horrible murders and railway accidents, and even more lurid ghost stories. The man appears to have been engrossed in an account of a mining explosion. There is a picture (very fanciful, to your way of thinking) of a canary being lowered in a cage to see if there is gas in the mine.
You talk to the chinaman
"What is this place?" you ask.

The attendant looks at you suspiciously, and puts his magazine aside. "Who's asking? This is a private residence; the private residence of Mr Chu. Mr Chu is having a party for a few friends." You do not believe him.
Continue
"I'm not a magistrate," you say.

The man looks at you suspiciously: "Answer stands," he says. "This is Mr Chu's place, and only for friends of Mr Chu. You best be about your business before I have to make you go."

The phantom turn towards you and gestures to your pocket, where (you now remember) you still have the coin you found outside Bob Cratchit's house.
You examine the coin
A silver sixpence.
You give the coin to the chinaman
"Thank you, Sir," says the man. "You may go in."
About yourself
Others might call you elderly -- though you feel, especially at this time of year, sprightly and young. A respectable, respected, much-loved pillar of this great city. "Good old Ebenezer", they say. "There is a man who knows how to celebrate Christmas".
You talk to the chinaman
He is engrossed in his magazine and doesn't seem interested in talking. "Don't waste my time, Sir, with gossip. If you want to go in, go in. If you don't, be on your way. No refunds!
You go in
A cavernous room, full of nooks and crannies, lit only by a brazier and a few oil lamps. All around the room people are lying. A thick, sickly smoke hangs over them, rising from the long opium pipes that each is smoking. A deep, stupefying torpor pervades everything. Time slowed to a crawl, reality replaced with phantoms and visions: the addicts are here, but not here; half alive in the half light.

You are aware of the shade as a dim presence beside you.
You examine the addicts
Most of them seem to be deeply asleep. Occasionally they stir themselves, or mutter, or wake briefly to take deep breaths of the long pipes that lie beside them. Amidst them all, there is a face that, to your horror, you recognise. Beside the filthy mattress, not just a pipe but a crutch. And upon it, emaciated, filthy, Tiny Tim.
You examine tim
Tiny Tim is still small, but he has aged terribly. His hair is thin and greasy. He skin is sallow, and hangs off him. His eyes -- once so bright and hopeful -- are glazed. He lies, wearing nothing but a filthy shirt much too big for him, on a filthy mattress, with a pipe smouldering beside him
You wake tim
He wakes up, and looks at you as if he has seen a ghost. "Have you come," he says, "for revenge!

Tim looks at you in terror and shame. "How am I cursed for my terrible deeds," he says. "You and my father! Both dead! And by my hand!"
You talk to Tim
"But why did you do it?" you ask.

"You have to believe me, whatever spirit or creature you are, I did not do it out of malice, but out of ignorance. A man -- now, curse him, my tormentor, beguiled me to do it. How I wish I had not; but I did it in the hope only of helping my father."
You talk to Tim
"I believe you, my lad, when you say that you did what you did in ignorance, and not out of evil."

"But yet I did it," he says, "and it cannot be undone. So here I try to forget a little, and wait for kind death to bring a forgetfulness that will never pass."

The spirit reaches a hand towards you -- not so much a hand, as a claw -- little more than bones in a dark glove. It wraps you in its cloak, which smells like earth and mould. The earth begins to fill your mouth. You choke; you wake. The spirit shrinks, and hardens, and you find yourself staring at -- nothing more sinister than your own bedpost.

[Press Any Key: S to save]
You examine table
An old table: shabby, familiar, serviceable. On it are a package, a door key, a candle and a letter.
You look at the candle
A candle.
You get up
You get out of the bed.

The heavy green brocade curtains are open and you are relieved to see clear winter sunshine filtering into the room, bearing some assurance that the night's visions are over. Your table has a few papers on it and a number of other objects besides. Your bed stands placidly in its usual place. Who would think what scenes it witnessed last night? The door is open to the east.
You read letter
45 New Square
Lincoln's Inn

My Dear Mr Scrooge,

As presently drawn, your will leaves your whole estate to your brothers, and their issue. In practical terms, that means to your nephew and (if he still lives) your brother Mordecai.

We understand that you wish to amend the provisions of your will. Mr Robert Cratchit is to become a partner in the firm of Scrooge & Marley, and he is to inherit the partnership absolutely, the rest of your estate passing to your nephew.

We have accordingly prepared a revised will and partnership deed. If you would be good enough to raise the matter with Mr Cratchit, we look forward to seeing you on the twenty-seventh of this month, at our offices, at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, where the documents can be executed.

I beg to remain, Sir, your obedient and humble servant,

Wm Jarboe.
You get all
But the table is fixed in place.
GET PACKAGE,KEY,CANDLE,LETTER
You take the letter, the candle, the door key and the package.
You look at the package
You picked it up from the engravers yesterday. The package is about six inches wide, and eight inches long, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. The label on it reads "E Scrooge Esq, to await collection". It's rather heavy.
You look around
The heavy green brocade curtains are open and you are relieved to see clear winter sunshine filtering into the room, bearing some assurance that the night's visions are over. Your table has a few papers on it. Your bed stands placidly in its usual place. Who would think what scenes it witnessed last night? The door is open to the east.
You open the window
That's already open.
You listen
All is silence, apart from the usual sounds of the city.
You look at the bed
An ancient four-poster, old-fashioned and heavily carved. The sheets and comforter are turned back.
You look through window
The yard is bright underneath the Christmas sun.
Sleep
On Christmas morning! Certainly not. You must be up and about and on your way to Bob's.
You go east
You leave your room, and head down the staircase, out of the front door, picking up a Christmas card that has been delivered while you were asleep, and off towards Camden, where you are bidden to celebrate the day with the Cratchits.

Smithfield Market is uncharacteristically quiet this morning, though the debris everywhere bears testament to the busy day that was had here yesterday, as all the sides of beef and pork, all the hams, all the geese and turkeys and ducks that London required to celebrate the day were carted around by the porters. Now there are just families in their best clothes, walking to church, or back from church, or off the the bakehouse with their roasts ready for the oven. The City itself lies to the south, but your way is to the north, up through Clerkenwell towards King's cross.

Some way ahead of you is a man who seems vaguely familiar.
You examine man
It's hard to say from this distance, but he is definitely wearing an astrakhan coat, with a low hat pulled down low over his head. He seems to be heading north.
You look at your surroundings
Smithfield Market is uncharacteristically quiet this morning, though the debris everywhere bears testament to the busy day that was had here yesterday, as all the sides of beef and pork, all the hams, all the geese and turkeys and ducks that London required to celebrate the day were carted around by the porters. Now there are just families in their best clothes, walking to church, or back from church, or off the the bakehouse with their roasts ready for the oven. The City itself lies to the south, but your way is to the north, up through Clerkenwell towards King's cross.

Some way ahead of you is a man who seems vaguely familiar.
You examine the card
It depicts a gentle giant, in a green robe, regally reclining on a cornucopia of fruit, lightly sprinkled with snow. Inside is written in a neat hand "Mr Scrooge, Merry Christmas, with all best wishes, Tim Cratchit"
You go to the north
You cannot accustom yourself to Mr Brunel's vast railway terminus. It is a hideously plain construction, as if some vast mill had crept here from Manchester or Huddersfield or Bradford and sat itself down on the edge of the City, like a charmless squatter.

You are no fuddy-duddy; but it astonishes you to think that young people take for granted the ability to make in just hours journeys that used to take days. Your first trip to London, as a young apprentice, was partly by horse, partly on foot. It took you four days; now you could complete it in three hours. Today, however, for once, it is silent; just a few people like you hurrying to luncheon appointments.

Your way lies to the west of the station.

The man you saw in Smithfield is still ahead of you, and heading west himself.

You can see a man here.
You examine man
It's hard to say from this distance, but he is definitely wearing an Astrakhan coat, with a low hat pulled down low over his head, and you are more and more certain that it is Mordecai. He is walking west.
You look at the terminus
A brand new looking yellow-brick barn, already stained with soot, London terminus of the Great Western Railway.
You go northeast
You need to head west, since the clock on the station already tells you that you are some quarter of an hour behind yourself. By railway time!
You wait
Time passes.
You go west
The journey to Cratchit's is a Grand Tour of Railway Station architecture, and here we pass from Yorkshire Monolithic to the Classical. Euston Arch stands ahead, guarding the Euston Railway Terminus. Sooty, dirty, under this thin winter English sun it looks nothing at all like you imagine the Parthenon to be (when -- and it is rarely indeed -- you give any thought to such things); or rather it looks quite exactly and forlornly like some exotic Greek goddess transported in her indecent shift to spend the winter in the London sleet. Opposite it the goddess's older sister, St Pancras New Church, shivers just as uncomfortably. Your way lies north now, towards Camden and Bob Cratchit's house.

The suspicious man in the astrakhan coat is still in sight. He does not, as by now you half expected him to, head north, but disappears into an alley to the northeast.
You look at the Arch
A moment of misanthropic delight seizes you as you look at the great thing, dumped down like a great exotic beast in the middle of the London suburbs. What can they have been thinking, those men of business -- directors of the Railway Company -- to have commissioned and paid for it? You have not bought any shares in any railway companies, and you do not intend to do so, if this is how they would waste your money.
You look at the Church
You do not hold with these odd temples. Spires and towers, in the old style, homely and undesigned -- that is how churches should be. And although you have shed, these last ten years, many of your old habits, you cannot help feeling a pang of disgust at the wastefulness of the money spent on something so unnecessarily ugly -- so unnecessary, period. You allow yourself (under your breath) a brief "Bah, humbug!"
You go to the northeast
Alleyway, near St Pancras
Jerry-built tenements close in all sides of this blind alley. Here, there is no sign of Christmas cheer; just grimy windows, unwashed doorsteps, scraps and trash thrown anywhere in the street. You can see nobody at all; the place is quite deserted. The only way out is southwest.
You examine trash
The detritus of London life.
You look at the windows
This is an awful looking district. You shudder to think what depravity lurks within the high yellow-grey houses.
You go to the north
The only way out is back to the southwest.
Go southwest
Euston Arch stands ahead, guarding the Euston Railway Terminus. Sooty, dirty, under this thin winter English sun it looks nothing at all like you imagine the Parthenon to be (when -- and it is rarely indeed -- you give any thought to such things); or rather it looks quite exactly and forlornly like some exotic Greek goddess transported in her indecent shift to spend the winter in the London sleet. Opposite it the goddess's older sister, St Pancras New Church, shivers just as uncomfortably. Your way lies north now, towards Camden and Bob Cratchit's house.
You go to the north
The flagstones are covered in frost, and on the identical doorsteps of the identical houses in this neatly nondescript street. You stand outside number 17. Cast iron railings surround a basement area, painted black like every other house; a neat front door and whitened step. It is the house where your clerk, Bob Cratchit, lives with his family. The great City lies to the south. Steps lead down to the basement area.

Someone has dropped a sixpenny piece on the ground.
You get the sixpenny
You take the sixpence.
You look at what you're carrying with you
You are carrying:
a candle
a Christmas card
a door key
a letter
a package
a sixpence
Go downward
Down to the basement? But why? You are a guest, and a gentleman, and the front door is the door for you.
You knock
(the door)
The door opens, and Bob Cratchit opens it. "Merry Christmas, Mr Scrooge", he says. "You must be half frozen. Come in and warm by the fire downstairs." He leads you through a tidy hall, down some precipitous steps and into the back parlour. "Come and join me in a glass of punch, Sir," he says.

There is, of course, a front parlour; but it is more or less kept for weddings, christenings, funerals and the reception of grand, august, unfamiliar and official visitors. But you are an old friend, for whom the cosy back parlour will do much better.

A bright, clear fire burns in the grate. Mrs Cratchit has followed the latest fashion, and a fir tree decorated with ribbons, tinsel, sugared almonds and paper snowflakes stands in one corner of the room.

Mrs Cratchit's canary is in a cage in one corner of the room.

Bob stands before the hearth.
You examine the canary
The little yellow bird is hopping around from perch to perch.

"He's a queer little chap," says Bob, "and he's Mrs Cratchit's pride and joy. He gets up to all sorts of tricks. Would you believe it, he even likes a drop of sherry now and then, or a morsel of brandy. Mrs Cratchit will put it on her finger, and he just hops over and takes it."
Look around
A bright, clear fire burns in the grate. Mrs Cratchit has followed the latest fashion, and a fir tree decorated with ribbons, tinsel, sugared almonds and paper snowflakes stands in one corner of the room.

Mrs Cratchit's canary is in a cage in one corner of the room.

Bob stands before the hearth.

"Well now," says Bob, "let us have some punch to warm us while we wait for the ladies to return with lunch. Tim! Tim! Will you fetch us two glasses of claret cup from the bowl in the kitchen? And one for yourself if you care to join us."

From the kitchen you hear Tim's reply, "Of course, father. I'll bring you some directly."
You wait a while
Time passes.

"Mrs Cratchit and the girls (or at least such of them as are not already married and at home with their husbands) are across the road visiting a friend. I'm sure they will be back soon, and dinner won't be long in the making," Bob explains.
You look at the tree
You have heard about these trees -- seen them in engravings in the papers, too -- but never seen one. Perhaps you are getting old, but the impression it leaves on you is not good. It is rather a short tree -- hardly more than a sapling -- and it droops disconsolately in the heat of the fire. The decorations on it are pretty enough; but you cannot help preferring the more rough-and-ready decorations of your childhood (the mistletoe, the boughs of holly and wreaths of ivy) over this glittering teutonic import.

Tim comes in, bearing two cups of claret cup in pewter tankards. He hands one to you, and one to his father.
You examine the hearth
Bob has heaped up a good warm coal fire in the black iron grate. It is burning hot and clear.

Bob raises his mug. "A Merry Christmas, Mr Scrooge. And many more like them. Your very good health, Sir!"
You give the punch to the canary
(your punch to the canary)
You put a drop of punch on you finger and hold it through the bars. The little bird flutters down, and takes a drop. The effect is almost instantaneous. The bird shrieks, and falls over, stone dead.

Bob looks concerned. "Oh my goodness me," he says, "what on earth is Mrs Cratchit going to say. I simply cannot understand it, the poor little thing is generally fond of a drop or two. What can have done it."

Tim is even more anxious. "Oh Sir!" he says. "Do not drink a drop of that punch. I did not mean any harm, I swear; I only did what I thought best. I meant to hurt nobody."

The whole story comes out then. How Tim met a stranger, who told him that by putting a drop of a strange, green liquid in the punch he would prevent disaster befalling his family; how he did as he was told, expecting nothing but good to come of it.

And so the story ends. Bob becomes a partner in the firm; Tim is saved from a life of addiction and misery. And Mordecai? Well, who knows. You like to think that he saw his plan fail. You would like to think that he repented and reformed; but whatever his fate, at least ...