The day after I foreclosed on Bloor’s tavern, I acquired two other houses and their assets. It was a damnable nuisance having to prepare papers and list the properties—of course, I did most of the work myself to save the cost of lawyers.
I was heading home to an empty house with my briefcase full and my head whirling with plans, when I made the fateful detour to the dollar store. I was starving, having worked through lunch and the Marshmallow treats were calling me—well, that and the fact they were priced at three for a dollar.
The temptation was too great to resist.
I ate two on the walk home and the third while organizing my files. Within minutes I felt nauseous and barely made it to the washroom where I threw up. Stomach cramps made it impossible to stand, let alone sit, so I took to my bed.
It was just before six and I immediately fell into a deep sleep.
While I slept snow fell and blanketed the streets. The usual sound of passing traffic was muffled as if the city itself was wrapped in cotton.
I awoke just after midnight—unsure what caused me to stir, but sat bolt upright in my bed listening intently to creaking timbers and settling floors.
I could hear a shuffling from downstairs and concluded there was a burglar. Unfortunately, I had gotten rid of my landlines and my cell was nestled in the pocket of my coat in the main floor closet.
I could probably stay safely in my room and be robbed blind, or take the offensive, surprise the intruder and scare him off. Greed rather than bravery dictated my actions.
I had been proactive in one thing though—I kept a baseball bat near my bed, so I grabbed hold with both hands and crept out and down the stairs. The shuffling grew louder as I approached the main floor.
“Well, Peter, off to baseball? You could use some fun and exercise.”
I turned to see Uncle Archibald in his housecoat and slippers, shuffling towards me. I fell back, sprawling on the stairs, my mouth open, but unable to scream.
“A little surprised to see me? Good, then maybe you’ll hear what I have to say. I wanted to rattle a chain or blow open your door, but unfortunately, I didn’t know how. You’ll have to settle for a good old-fashioned apparition.”
I recovered my voice. “But you’re dead.”
“I am, but plainly, it’s not the end. I’ve been watching you, Peter, and feeling remorse for what I’ve taught you. If you don’t change, you’ll be worse off than me.”
“Are you in hell or purgatory?”
“Don’t know. Don’t know rightly what state I’m in. Mostly lonely, I suppose—and sad.”
I stared at him struggling with mixed feelings of fear and pity.
“Are you in torment?”
“If you mean hellfire, no. The pain I feel, Peter, is my own. So many times I tried to reach out and stop you. I was powerless until tonight. Now, I’m able to reach you and you’re able to hear—you may not get another chance.”
“A chance for what?”
“A chance to live, Peter—and to love—to reach out to others and to share.”
“But Uncle, I’ve worked hard to amass my fortune—you know that. You yourself told me others were foolish and incompetent. Surely you don’t want me to give it away?”
“You need people, Peter—not things. This house can’t love you back. You own it, but the only things you’ll take with you to the grave are the moments you spent with others.”
“But surely you spent moments with others—where are they now?”
“I wasted time with others—even if you were to die, Peter, we’d have nothing to share, because we never took the time to care. You’d be trapped in your own private hell and I in mine.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“It’s for you to decide, Peter. I only talk of lack, because that’s all I have.”
He fixed me with his sad eyes and I watched as he faded into the night.
I have no recollection of what happened next, but awoke the next morning in my own bed.
I missed work for the first time in my life and spent the day trying to calm my trembling and working through the harrowing experience.
In the end, I couldn't make sense of it—I couldn't accept the fact I was visited by a ghost, but couldn't dismiss it either. I just put the whole experience on the shelf , so to speak, and tried not to think about it.
But lately, I’ve been doing just that—I can't help myself. I keep thinking about my dream—that’s what I call it.
It was a delirium brought on by food poisoning. I don’t believe my uncle spoke to me from the dead. But I think my sub-conscious has been showing me there’s more to life than what I’ve got.
I’ve begun dating Kathleen—even taking her advice on life and love. My business seems so petty now—what really inspires me is helping others grow.
Maybe Scrooge’s ghost was undigested beef and maybe my ghost was a rubbery marshmallow treat—but if it changed Scrooge for the better and even helped me, then who cares about details?
What Uncle said in the dream made me think. It's true— the only things you’ll take with you to the grave are the moments you spend with others. And I can't think of anyone I'd rather spend my life with than Kathleen Montgomery.
Besides giving away what you can't keep while making others happy along the way simply seems the right way to live.
It makes perfect sense to me.