text: > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > examine the window
  The window is covered with frost, except for a small corner, where you have rubbed a clear area.
  
  > look at Tim
  He is in his Sunday Best for Christmas.
  
  Through the kitchen door you see two men, yourself and Bob Cratchit.
  
  > look through the window
  Tim ladles two generous helpings of the punch into pewter mugs, and carries them through to the room beyond.
  
  > examine Cratchit
  Which do you mean, Bob Cratchit,  or Tiny Tim?
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > talk to spirit
  "What do you see inside?" the spirit asks.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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]
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > examine the coin
  A silver sixpence.
  
  > 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".
  
  > 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!
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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
  
  > 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!"
  
  > 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."
  
  > 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]
  
  > examine table
  An old table: shabby, familiar, serviceable. On it are a package, a door key, a candle and a letter.
  
  > look at the candle
  A candle.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.