I’ve heard of haunted houses and chill-filled castles, I’ve even heard of spooked-out spas—but a spectral snowman? That’s just way over the top.
I’m Paul Chambers, the new curator of Stickley House, an 1881 Painted Lady.
Technically, in order to qualify for the title, the Victorian or Edwardian house should be painted in at least three bright colours—Stickley House is a modest buttercup yellow with a sober black roof.
Notwithstanding the aforementioned, the mansion's architectural charm and abundance of gingerbread make it the recipient of its own share of oohs and ahhs, regardless.
I became curator of the house in order to escape the crass commercialism of overseeing a turn of the century distillery turned tourist attraction.
I had no idea how obnoxious crowds of people could be—I’ve always prided myself on my humanism, but now concede that applies to the race as a whole.
I’ve had it up to here with the petty idiosyncrasies of a herd of boozy customers wanting a side of history to garnish their pub-crawl.
So, now you know how I got here and why my tolerance for foolery is extremely low.
I suppose it also explains why I was so dismayed when I learned dignified Stickley House was about to be marketed as the prime attraction on the city’s Christmas Light Tour.
“You’re such a stuffed shirt,” Beth teased, “C’mon Paul—I think families coming to see the house is wonderful—it’ll revitalize us and enable us to bring history to a new generation.”
“And you’re such a positive lady,” I spat back.
Beth was impervious to cynicism. “I’ve been conducting tours here for five years and from the response, I’ll bet more people see the house over the next month than visited in the previous sixty.”
“Ah yes, Paul Chambers—purveyor of fine spirits to the masses.”
Her violet eyes flashed. “Is this what it’s all about—you’re upset you’ll have to deal with crowds of people disturbing your dignified mansion?”
“Partly,” I conceded, “It’s that and the influx of sticky-fingered children and boorish oafs with no real regard for history other than seeking some kind of paranormal thrill.”
“I think the legend of Clarence is cute.”
“Cute?” I exploded. “I don’t do cute—I hate cute!”
She put on an elfish grin. “Nevertheless, no matter how endearing Clarence Stickley was in life, he seems just as charming and loveable as a wraith.”
I was pouting and I knew it.
“Why can’t he be a dignified wraith and swirl his ectoplasm discreetly through the museum, rather than be Frosty the Snowman in our backyard?”
She just giggled at my discomfiture and departed to lead her next tour, her laughter tinkling like icicles in my ears.
This abominable Bonhomme will be the death of me, I muttered.
It was fascinating in a ghastly way. I began studying the peculiar history of the Stickley Estate. All the history books conceded that the phenomena first began in 1914, at the beginning of the First World War. Visitors to the residence that year noticed a snowman in the backyard that bore an uncanny resemblance to the late owner of the house.
The newspapers caught wind of the story and did a feature on the house. The attendance that month was greater than the previous twelve.
Everyone supposed it was a publicity stunt, but it served to get people’s minds off the grim news of war and was greeted as a happy respite.
The following year, the snowman appeared again and was dubbed ‘Clarence’ by some wag of a reporter.
The name stuck and attendance figures for visits to the Stickley House again soared.
By the end of the war, Clarence was a fixture in the manse’s backyard over Christmas, dutifully melting away after the Feast of the Epiphany on January the sixth.
It was odd though. It seemed nobody ever did much by way of serious investigation.
I wondered—could the ghostly spectre simply be the work of pranksters or a covert publicity stunt invented by the former curators?
I was determined to find out. It was necessary to do something, anything to curtail the stampede of curious gawkers descending on the grounds come December first.
Beth adamantly opposed the idea. “Why do you have to be so rational Paul?”
“Someone has to be sensible about these things. We have a responsibility to the community to preserve the beauty of Stickley House.”
“I think you have your own agenda,” she parried.
“Oh and what could that be?”
“Who knows? —To be the Christmas Grinch and rub the gilt off the gingerbread, I suppose.”
I was offended. “I think you protest too much.”
“And what does that mean?” she asked haughtily.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t sneak out at night and build the snowman yourself—you seem so eager to perpetuate the myth.”
That did it—I saw the colour creep up her neck as her violet eyes flashed lightning.
“I’ll gladly spend the night in that backyard with you to prove I have no part in any trickery.”
“Fine,” I agreed, “Tomorrow night’s November the 31st and the snowman’s always there on the first of December. We’ll see what we shall see.”
She grumped off toward her office, “You will see!” she shot the words back over her shouder.
I felt warmth spread over me. I secretly loved Beth, but what chance did someone who acted and talked like Tony Randall have in attracting a young Elizabeth Taylor?
I sighed wistfully and then proceeded in making a list of items needed for next night’s watch.
We met precisely at six at the Stickley mansion. The sun had set and the grounds were dark.
Beth looked unbelievably lovely in her long dark coat and soft black hair.
My heart ached for her especially every time she turned her lovely violet eyes upon me. I almost wished there was a ghost and I would gladly have defended to the death its right to be there, if it meant winning her heart.
As it was, I felt like a curmudgeon—like the Grinch who stole Christmas.
My thoughts were racing again, but this time in a different direction—do something, anything—but preserve the mystery.
But how?
The moon rose above the mansion's dark roof and cast long shadows across the snow.
It didn’t seem to matter if there were snow or not or even an unseasonably warm December—the snowman always appeared and lasted a week into the New Year.
I glanced at Beth, her hands encircling a steaming cup of hot chocolate from my thermos.
A pang of loneliness pierced my heart. Here I was in the lovely deserted grounds of the museum by night, alone with the girl of my dreams, and my whole purpose was to debunk a myth and ruin Christmas for a bunch of kids. I felt like a cad.
“Maybe we should just forget about this,” I said lamely.
“Oh no you don’t,” She flared, “You’re not going to harbour ill thoughts about me.”
“I was wrong to say what I did, Beth. I harbour no ill will toward you—quite the opposite, to tell the truth.”
Her huge eyes widened even more and I felt miserable, cold and foolish. I wanted to die.
Her lips parted as if she meant to be speak and then I saw a light reflected in her pupils.
“Oh, look!” She smiled, her face filled with childlike delight and awe.
I turned and followed her gaze. My heart stopped.
In the still silence, a tiny breeze was swirling, lifting grains of snow.
A tiny, sparkling vortex formed made up of eddies of glistening slivery filaments. I felt some celestial elf was weaving straw into gold, but in this case, silvery threads into the likeness of—Clarence Stickley!
I felt my knees go weak and buckle, but pathetic as it seems, Beth’s arms were under my armpits holding me up.
I felt her cheek against mine and the soft nearness of her lips.
I didn’t know what was more magical—the snowy stars forming constellations and shaping into a man or the stars I saw in Beth’s eyes.
“I love you,” I confessed and she gently brushed my cheek with her lips. “I love you too, Paul—I always have.”
Each year Clarence rises up from the grounds of the old mansion, clothes himself in snow and brings joy to the hearts of young and old.
There are always detractors and those who complain about the crowds and all the unseemly joy, but there are two people who keep the feast and honour it more than most.
There is no more devoted believer in the spirit of Christmas, than one who is a reformed skeptic.
I count myself lucky to have known both sides and to have chosen to follow my heart instead of my head—to have found Beth and my own snowy tract of heaven on the grounds of the Stickley Estate.
