Christmas Carol by Natalie Vivien

Author:Natalie Vivien
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Rose and Star Press
Published: 2015-12-03T08:00:00+00:00

Part Three: Christmas Present

“Knock, knock.”

“Who's...there?” I sit up abruptly; then I leap to my feet—or try to. My leg is caught beneath me, and I bang my chin against the corner of the coffee table.

Ouch.

Cursing, I rise, rubbing the bloody gash on my still-bearded cheek.

Where am I? I squint, taking in the messy table in front of me, piled with stained coffee mugs and wrinkled magazines addressed to Elizabeth Scrogg.

Home.

Home.

I'm in my apartment.

My current, real-life, present-day apartment. And... I stumble around in circles, searching for signs of Deedee the ghost, but there isn't a swish of hot pink tulle in sight.

I think I'm alone now.

Marvelously, blissfully, properly alone.

Relieved, I rake a hand back through my tangled hair and breathe out a heavy, ragged sigh.

Oh, my God, what an awful nightmare.

I must have fallen asleep on the sofa after I drove home from work. I was pretty wiped out, and, let's face it, Christmas is a dismal time, chock-full of bad memories and regrets. If only I could sleep straight through tomorrow—

I tilt my head, then, muscles tensing. Because I thought I heard—but, no, that's ridiculous. Why would I hear a dog panting in my living room? I don't have a dog, or any pets at all. In fact, this whole apartment building is a pet-free zone.

But—wait. There it is again. Heavy, doggie panting.

I ball my hands, wincing. Haven't I dealt with enough weirdness tonight?

On tiptoe, I round the corner of the couch, hoping to find nothing—well, aside from some tossed-off socks, maybe, or the missing remote control—but there, squatting quite serenely on the hardwood floor, is a small white dog, fluffy, disheveled...and panting. It looks like a Christmas present: around its neck is a shiny red bow.

The dog wags its tail at me.

Then it says, “Hello!”

“Hello.”

Eyes wide as saucers, I turn on my heel and fall flat onto the couch, face buried deep in the cushions.

“I've gone crazy,” I mutter into the tightly woven tweed. “Mad. Bonkers.”

“No, I'm Bonkers,” comes a cheerful, doggish-sounding voice. “That's my name!”

I shift slightly and regard the small animal, its paws poised on the edge of the sofa, its pink tongue lolling out of its shaggy mouth. “Ha! Right. Bonkers the Talking Dog. Of course. Of course! Nice to meet you. I'm Ebbie. Pretty bow; is it silk?”

“Satin, actually.”

“Satin. Yeah, satin's nice, too. Um, could you excuse me? Don't mean to be rude, but I've just got to go back to sleep—or, no, I've got to try to wake up, because I'm clearly still trapped in a nightmare here...”

“I'm afraid you aren't dreaming. Didn't Deedee explain all of this to you? Now, now, don't cry.”

“I'm not crying.”

Oh.

Huh.

I am crying.

Why am I crying?

Suddenly angry, I sit upright, swipe a hand over my face, and narrow my brows at—God, really?—Bonkers. “Are you another ghost?” I ask him, shoving my hands into the pockets of the Santa Claus coat.

“I,” he announces proudly, scratching at the couch, “am the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

“Okay. But...why are you a dog?”

Bonkers tilts his head, considering this.

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