An Alternate Christmas Carol Betwixt

An Alternate Christmas Carol Betwixt

By Gerrard Wilson (inspired by the spirits of Charles Dickens and Lewis Carroll)

It was Christmas Eve. Or rather, it was almost Christmas Eve, though not quite—not yet. Time, as it often does when mulled wine and mischief are involved, had paused to fiddle with the clocks.

Somewhere betwixt one tick and the next, in the narrow crease of Time’s winter coat, stood a house that had no address, no chimney, and no sensible explanation. In that house sat a man named Erasmus Pinch.

Erasmus was neither wicked nor kind, neither rich nor poor, neither joyful nor glum. He lived betwixt extremes, in the beige middle of life, where nothing much happens and everything feels vaguely like boiled cabbage.

Now, Erasmus had heard of Christmas. He had even owned a Christmas jumper once (it depicted a reindeer stuck in a chimney and read “Get Me Out of Deer!”), but he had never felt particularly festive. To him, Christmas was a rather loud interruption in the quiet soup of existence.

That evening, as the frost scribbled runes upon his windowpanes and the fire refused to commit fully to either blaze or fizzle, Erasmus sat in his armchair, reading a book that refused to end.

That’s when he heard it.

Not a knock at the door, nor a clatter on the roof. No chains dragging, no ghostly moans. What he heard was a chime. A single, solitary bell ringing not from above or below—but from the air beside him.

He turned. And there, betwixt his book and his brandy, stood a rather impatient-looking spirit, with a face like a candle melting sideways.

“Who—what—?” Erasmus sputtered.

The spirit rolled its eyes. “Always with the questions. Can’t a spectral manifestation visit a man without an inquisition? I’m the Ghost of What Might Have Been. I work the betwixt-shift.”

“The… what?”

“The space between midnight and meaning,” said the ghost, now spinning a yo-yo fashioned from starlight. “You’ve been hovering between boredom and despair for far too long, Erasmus. Tonight, we fix that.”

And with a snap of its translucent fingers, the room collapsed like a badly-pitched tent.

---

Scene the First: The Feast That Never Was

Erasmus found himself seated at a long table in a grand dining hall, surrounded by people he did not know—but all of them knew him. There was laughter, music, the smell of cinnamon and overcooked sprouts. At the head of the table sat a version of himself that wore a paper crown and a pudding grin.

“What is this?” he whispered.

“This,” said the spirit, munching a spectral turkey leg, “is a Christmas you never had, but always could have. If only you’d said yes to that invitation. Remember it?”

“I… I do. I was tired. And the cat had been sick.”

“Yes, the famous Cat Excuse,” the ghost replied dryly. “But here’s the thing: sometimes, joy doesn’t knock. You have to chase it down and yank it by the sleigh bells.”

---

Scene the Second: The Solitary Tree

Suddenly, they stood in a quiet room. One chair. One lamp. One small tree decorated with mismatched buttons, feathers, and what appeared to be a spoon with googly eyes.

“Did I… decorate this?” Erasmus asked.

“You did. This is the Christmas you spent alone, but not lonely. You made your own cheer. You sang to the radio. You wrapped a present for yourself and acted surprised when you opened it.”

Erasmus chuckled. “It was socks.”

“Stripy ones. With pom-poms. You wore them until May.”

---

Scene the Third: The Betwixt Door

At last, they came to a vast hallway lined with doors. Some were ajar, others locked, many glowing faintly with colours not known to mortals.

“These,” said the ghost, “are the Christmases that lie betwixt. Not quite past. Not quite future. They wait for your choosing.”

“But how do I choose?”

“By living. Properly. Not sleepwalking through your days like an undercooked parsnip. You’ve got more Christmases in you, Erasmus. You just need to step through the door.”

The ghost handed him a key made of peppermint and possibility.

---

Epilogue: Christmas Morning (Sort Of)

Erasmus awoke with a start. The fire was warm. The book was still unfinished. But something had changed.

He rose, flung open the window, and shouted to nobody in particular, “Is it too late to make eggnog from scratch?”

He found an old jumper, rang up a forgotten friend, and went outside to give a mysterious coin to a street violinist dressed as a snowman.

And though it was technically still only the 23rd of December, for Erasmus Pinch—drifting happily betwixt memory and hope—it was Christmas Day.