Charles Dickens sat at his writing desk. All inspiration had left him. It was late, but he couldn't sleep not when he suffered from writers block.
Perhaps a warm glass of milk will help my inspiration return to me. He thought.
Moments later, he sat in front of the fireplace with a glass of warm milk. Deep down, some thing was troubling him. Some thing he was unwilling to face. It was the reason for his lack of creativity.
It was nearly Christmas, the holiday season usually made him feel wonderful inside. But this year it only caused a bad taste in his mouth.
DING!
The clock told one.
It was a night just like any other, but for some reason he began to have an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Suddenly a large gust of wind rushed in from an open window, blowing the curtains.
That's odd. He thought. I was sure that window was closed.
He stood and walked across the room to close it. When he turned around to return to his seat, he was surprised by what he saw.
Standing in the middle of the room was a beautiful young girl. Her skin was pale and glowing. She wore a simple white nightgown and her feet were bare. Though she was young her hair was as white as the snow that covered the ground outside. Her glowing blue eyes had an ancient wisdom about them. But she smiled with all the warm joys of youth.
Though she seemed harmless, Charles was startled by her sudden appearance. "Who are you?" He asked.
"I am the ghost of Christmas past." She said. Her voice was as sweet and soft as a young girl's, but as wise and stern as an old woman's.
"Gggg... ghost." He stuttered.
She smiled at him, trying to reassure Charles that she meant him no harm. But it did no good, he was so startled that he fainted. He fell to the floor, out cold.
Moments later, he opened his eyes to find the ghost of Christmas past staring down at him.
"Charles Dickens, I have been sent to help you." She said, reaching down as if to help him to his feet.
Reluctantly, he excepted her outstretched hands. But as he pulled himself up, his feet could not find the floor. He looked down to find that they were flying over London.
He gasped and gripped the girls hand tighter. She smiled and gestured towards the ground. He looked down obediently. As he looked closer, he saw that the people walking along the street were moving backwards.
"What's happening?" He asked.
"We're traveling through time, to Christmas past." She answered.
"Long past?" He asked.
"Your past," she answered.
Soon, they came to a place that Charles hated. The workhouse where he had been forced to shovel coal as a boy.
"We have arrived." She said.
"Please not here, spirit." Charles begged.
"You must face your past, that's the only way you can move on." She answered.
She lead him down to the ground. He resisted, but she pulled him to the window of the workhouse. They looked inside to see a group of children working hard to shovel coal.
They saw a young boy. His clothes had once been nice, but were now dirty, and worn. His face was blackened from the coal. It was Charles.
He frowned at the sight of himself on Christmas day, as a boy. He had spent the day shoveling coal like any other day. He watched as his childhood self struggled to carry a heavy bucket of coal.
"Hurry up!" Shouted the workhouse master. "We haven't got all day!"
Charles stumbled, spilling coal across the floor.
"Clumsy boy!" The workhouse Master yelled, striking him across the head.
Tears streaked down the young boy's face.
Charles looked away. Tears streaming down his face now, as it had then. "Must we stay here?" He asked. "Haven't you tormented me enough?"
The ghost of Christmas past offered him her hand. He took it, ready to leave this dreadful place. These painful memories.
The Ghost of Christmas Past lifted him up off of the ground and up into the night. They flew over the streets of London, until they returned to Dickens' house. They flew in through the window.
Charles was glad to be home and on the ground again. "Why did you show me that painful memory?" He asked her.
"You must learn to face your past. It might be hard, but you must expect it." She replied. "You can't change your past, but it can change you, if you let it."
Charles nodded, realizing that she was right. "Merry Christmas." He said.
"Merry Christmas." She answered, smiling. "And may God bless us, everyone."
Then she faded from sight.
The next morning he opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep in his armchair. He looked around, suddenly remembering the events of the night before. Was it just a dream? Or had he really been visited by the ghost of Christmas past?
Either way, he was filled with a new inspiration. Suddenly a story was forming in his mind. A story about Christmas. A story about ghost. A Christmas Carol.
