scurlock | 2012: ghosts of christmas plot

2012: ghosts of christmas plot

He'd avoided the majority of the in-bar festivities by spending the day outdoors working in the stables, but once night had fallen and the cold had set in, he'd forced himself back inside. Christmas Eve was a better holiday than New Year's Eve, in his opinion, but the entire time of year always reminded him of what used to be - and it wasn't something he particularly enjoyed dwelling on.

After a shower and taking dinner in his room, he'd retired to bed early.

(It's the glowing that wakes him.)

Doc squints against the light coming from the corner of the room - and then feels his heart stop when he realizes that it's not just a light, but a figure. His fingers curl around the grip of the Colt revolver that stays hung on the headboard in its holster, and while he doesn't draw (this figure doesn't seem threatening) he's definitely aware and alert.

And wondering what the blazes is going on.

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"The same to you," he replies, watching as her figure dims and then fades out. Alone in the hallway, he looks down to either end of the corridor and isn't sure if he's supposed to go looking for her siblings, or if they'll find him.

He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, pulling in a deep breath to steady his heart and head.

"Now's not the time for a breakdown, Scurlock," he mutters to himself.

The festive colored bulbs that line the hallway's ceiling then flicker, glowing brighter...

And suddenly he's not alone in the corridor anymore.

"Merry Christmas, cowboy," says the Ghost of Christmas Present.

"I take it you're expecting me?"

He can't help but smile, even if it is a bit half-hearted.

"You could say that," he replies. "Your sister told me you'd be comin' along 'fore too long. Wasn't sure if I was t'go lookin' or you'd find me yourself. Guess you answered that."

A pause.

"Christmas Present?"

"The one and only."

He said.

There may only be one of him...her...it, but the Ghost does enjoy changing it up.

"And you're Josiah Scurlock."

The Ghost of Christmas Present holds out an arm.

"Come. Walk with me."

Nodding, he moves forward and takes the other man's arm - it feels pretty unnatural, but for the sake of not getting lost in wherever they end up going, he'll do it.

At first, the surroundings shift to simple haze; non de-script and unremarkable in any way, shape, or form. He's not sure where they're headed (part of the problem - he needs to pick the path) but figures they'll get there eventually.

It's not Milliways.

And it's not New Mexico Territory. It's not Sherwood Forest and it's not Wheelsy, either. And it's not aboard the Enterprise.

It's Alabama. Tallapoosa County.

There's no snow on the ground, but the air is cool. They're walking alongside the creek that will run into a river, joining up with another before it hits the lake. The road doesn't kick up dust.

"I know where we are now," he says. "This is home."

A small farmhouse glows in the distance through the trees. It won't take long to reach the front porch.

(Hopefully his mother will refrain from greeting him with his daddy's Winchester this time.)

"It's lovely," the Ghost says, her elaborate skirts sweeping along the ground.

She looks up at the house.

"Shall we go in?"

He nods, as they step up onto the porch and head through the front door. Part of him cringes at how easy it is for them to gain entry into the house, but he has to remind himself - the rules don't apply here.

There is a small cedar tree stood in the corner of the parlor, and his family (those that are left, anyway) are gathered around.

His sister sits on the low couch, holding a nursing babe in her arms.

Doc's smile brightens at the sight.

"M'an uncle and I didn't even know 'bout it," he says, moving closer. His hesitation has left him, and while he wishes he was actually here and participating in the festivities, it's a welcome sight to see the members of his family so happy.

His mother is radiant, dressed in her finest skirts and blouse - his father must have gotten them for her after the War, and after Doc had 'left' for the west from New Orleans. He doesn't recognize the garments, but he's glad to see her in them.

"S'good to see her happy. She was so sad, for so many years, durin' the War," he says. "It was hard. Even then jus' bein' a boy, I knew it was rough."

"You have a beautiful family, Josiah," the Ghost says.

It is indeed a fine sight to look upon.

"It must do your heart good to see them."

"Thank you, it does," he says. "Especially..."

His eyes close as his mind replays the visions from earlier - of Christmas past.

The idea of Yen and Jonathan being gone makes his head swim a bit, but he forces his eyes open once again - this image is too precious to ignore, and he knows that they won't have much time here.

"Especially after what I saw earlier," he finishes.

It isn't a particularly lavish occasion here in Tallapoosa County, but it is familiar, and a welcome familiarity that he hasn't felt in many years.

"I wonder if she's told them I ain't dead," he says, of his mother. "I know it came as a blessin' to her when I came back, after the years...but I don't know if she'd tell 'em. Not sure if it'd be safe to have folks know...but livin' like this is hard," he admits.

At least you are livin'. Don't you forget that, Scurlock, he thinks. It's a sobering reminder.

"We can stay for a while if you want," the Ghost says.

That is the thing about the Present. It is, in the end, a moment.

They can wait for a moment.

"Let me know when you're ready to go, man."

For they will have to move on eventually.

He nods, barely even acknowledging this shift of the ghost's physical form (can ghosts have physical forms?) from female to male. It doesn't matter, and he's honestly gotten a little used to the rotating kaleidoscope of companions at his side tonight.

And for all that time marches on, this is a moment in the present.

So he spends it watching and listening; to the conversations being had between his sister and her husband, between his mother and her grandchild. He focuses on the glow of the fire in the hearth, and of the smells in the air - there is cedar and pine and hot coffee.

And the familiar, comforting warmth of being home...

But eventually, he turns - because he knows that the moment must pass, even if he'd rather it not - and nods at the ghost.

"We can head out," Doc says, motioning for the front door, taking care to keep his steps quiet against the hardwood floorboards.

She (a she this time) nods with a smile, holding out her hand again.

"Come on then, honey," she says kindly.

Time to walk on and see where their feet will take them next.

He takes her hand and offers her a smile in return, as they walk out the door and head back to the same hallway as earlier. The lights flicker as the ghost begins to fade from his view.

"Thank you for helpin' me get t'the farm," he says - not sure if she'll hear him, but he hopes so. He does appreciate it.

Even as present fades away, the shadows in one corner of the room stir, swelling and parting to reveal a slim figure, cloaked and cowled.

She extends one hand, slender and bone-cold, and beckons Josiah forward.

Or perhaps it is more accurate to say 'demands'.

This is different, and something that he didn't entirely expect.

Caution painting his facial features, he steps forward - though to be quite honest, 'caution' is his default expression most days, given everything that he's been through and lived through.

But he does not hesitate in extending his hand to the figure.

"The other two made sense, past and present," he says. "I ain't quite sure where we're intendin' to go."

(How can he chose his own future vision if he doesn't know what is going to happen?)

The mistake is in thinking that he chooses anything. Or that she does.

Her hand closes around his, grip cold and immutable as granite.

Then she takes them a step forward, two --

Around them fold the shadows, and when they fall back again, both the spirit and Josiah are somewhere else.

The shadows fade from black (so thick he can hardly even breathe) to charcoal-grey and then to a brilliant, blinding white that hits them with a burst of bone-chilling cold that cuts through the clothes he's wearing.

They're standing in the middle of a snowstorm, a blizzard, really, and the wind whips her cloak around them with a ferocious intensity; it gusts so strongly that he's nearly knocked off his feet and into the deep drifts they're standing in.

"Fargin' hell--"

He has no idea where they are.

But there is a treeline he can just barely made out through the swirling snow, so he sets off for it. Her hand is still gripped tightly in his, but she doesn't seem to fight the progress towards the relative 'safety' of the stand of ancient hemlocks in the distance.

He has to struggle through the drifts, each step numbing his legs and feet to the point where they feel as if they're solid blocks of ice.

Once they finally reach the treeline, the snow lessens (but the cold does not).

Doc wipes the snow from his face and focuses his eyes to the shaded area, a welcome respite from the blinding whiteout - and then notices that they're not alone. A small cabin sits dark in the clearing, seemingly empty.

He trudges toward it - hoping it's unlocked...

Indeed it is unlocked, though the ghost makes no move to open it herself.

This is Josiah's to do, if he will.

And the relative emptiness within --

Who that belongs to is anyone's guess.

He does indeed open the door, closing it behind them to ward of some of the chill that hangs heavy in the air - though it is only just barely warmer within the tiny building than it is outside.

No fire has burned in the hearth in some time, and the layers of dust and dirt that cover every surface show no evidence of being disturbed in many, many years. A draft swirls through the cabin, bringing a small drift of snow inside through a broken window pane on the far wall.

Shivering, he moves towards the mantle, where a rusted (though he can hardly tell for the coating of grime and patina) blade sits, leaned up against the rough-hewn stones.

And then the air stills, and the howling of the wind cuts off abruptly - the room is silent, save for his breathing, which has gone ragged due to the cold that's burning his lungs with each inhalation.

(It feels a bit like he's trapped in a cave or tomb with a decreasing amount of oxygen available, and that reminds him of sitting in the pit beneath the gallows in the middle of Lincoln's town square, waiting for the trapdoor above to open - and his likely hanging to occur.)

Doc swallows roughly, and glances around, looking for a way out. The whiteout outside would be better than this. Anything would be better than this place.

The ghost's hand sits firmly on his shoulder, bone-cold and heavy, as if to make sure that he sees.

Maybe, too, to make certain that he understands.

Then her grip shifts to his wrist, tugging lightly as they move back into shadow --

Returning to Milliways, and a different sort of silence.

As the world shifts in reverse, so do the shadows - white to grey to black - before they're returned to Milliways.

But they're not the hallway.

They're in his bedroom, in the staff hallway; Doc looks around for the figure, but all he gets is a glimpse of shadow that ripples and fades into non-existence, as quickly as it came. He shivers, reminded of the biting cold they'd just stepped from, and makes his way to fetch a heavy coat from the rack near the door.

It may still be early, but he won't be going back to sleep. The crowded Christmas-morning bar will be better than this silence that permeates the apartment.

He wants a cup of coffee, with bourbon. And marshmallows.

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2012: ghosts of christmas plot

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