Halls of Ghostly Holly: #minithology

Contents

Introduction

1. Story One: Scary Ghost Stories and Tales of the Glories

2. Story Two: Memento Mori

3. Story Three: The Trick of Treat House

4. Story Four: Holly

5. Story Five: The Haunting of Mrs. Montgomery

Thank You

Also By

Copyright

I will confess that ghost stories are not my thing. I grew up experiencing the traditional around the campfire experience of the story of the hooked hand and other such chilling tales. And I grew up with an aversion to the chilling, the creepy, and definitely to horror.

I will further confess that the tradition of the Christmas ghost story (which was a thing for a hundred years before the Victorians) catches my interest. Maybe because the juxtaposition of bright and merry festivities against supernatural chills and the darkness creeping in is captivating. Also, because my own Christmas traditions have included the most well-known Christmas ghost story of all.

The first time I remember listening to a radio drama of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, I was eight. The line where the narrator says something about standing as close to the listener’s elbow in spirit as whatever was happening in the story sent icy fingers sliding down my spine. This happening while I was standing beside our brightly lit Christmas tree and just after my dad had used a flashlight to put happy shadow puppets on the wall was surreal.

Because my maternal grandfather loved A Christmas Carol, listening to a dramatized version of it was a decades long Christmas Day tradition that has morphed into my own—The Muppet’s Christmas Carol. I definitely prefer Gonzo narrating the story to me.

Despite this tradition, it wasn’t for many years until I discovered Christmas ghost stories. I’d always thought A Christmas Carol an aberration but soon realized there were many, many such tales. Over a hundred years and more, the tales were spun. Tastes changed. Sometimes they were used to promote the supernatural. Sometimes to reveal that there were mundane causes for all things supernatural. Some as morality tales.

A high percentage of Christmas ghost stories were authored by women, as our stories are. Each of them has its creepy moments. And their lovely moments. Some humor. Some delight. Some eerie chills. Exactly what a Christmas ghost story should be.

Wait until the dark of night has fallen, curl up with your favorite comforts beside a crackling fire while carols play softly in the background, and join us in our halls of ghostly holly.

ND Gray

November 2022

Camp Verde, AZ

Heidi Moone grew up with ghost stories and wrote her first in Grade 7. Her heroine also seems quite comfortable with things of a ghostly nature, though she is intelligent enough to know that not everything is what it appears to be.

Miss Cordelia Knucker had had quite enough.

However, one simply did not have enough when one was in the middle of an intellectual and social holiday gathering at Lady du Merre’s estate, and so she smiled gallantly at Pierre Dandersby, he of the excessive sideburns and plum overcoat, and asked him to continue with his diatribe.

On the surface of things, all was well. She quietly assessed herself, having just commenced on the second post-dinner hour of this gathering of similarly-aged, unspoken-for people she was well-suited to socially be seen with.

Her pale lavender dress was quite appropriate, and of the current year’s fashion. It was not too provocative; neither was it too demure. The former style could be seen, quite apparently, on the flamboyant personage of Amelia Rierhart, who was laughing gaily, on her left, either to stolid Chet Broadwick’s joke or—from the tension in his back and neck—to some risqué thing the rakish Lucian Argyle had proposed in passing.

No one at the gathering could’ve quite managed that plunging, ruby-red neckline the way Amelia did, with her auburn ringlets bobbing in such a way that your gaze might very naturally slide down her pert face, bobble over her full lips, and then descend, as if drawn by gravity, into her ample, scarlet-swathed bosom.

Demure, in their party, was sweetly covered (no pun intended) by Yolanda Elsworth. She of the (to London’s sensibilities) exotic name was quite a delicate girl, and her large, dark eyes were quite set off by the lighter brown dress she wore, with its high, white lace-bedecked neckline.

If the dress was a year out of fashion, it was a decade, and yet, Yolanda had not suffered any slights for having worn it to the occasion. Perhaps it was because the young man who seemed to be drawn to her light was the similarly dowdy Angus Maddox.

Cordelia had, in fact, heard two of their feminine company conspiratorially giggling in the hall about how plain the potential couple’s children might be, to which she had directed a stern frown and pointed silence as she’d swept past.

Really now.

And so, I will reiterate that modernity itself requires ever-swifter means of the transportation of goods and persons, and if we fall behind, the very Empire itself would be at stake. Pierre sniffed a little on the end of that. Cordelia would’ve proffered her handkerchief, but that meant Pierre might, well, use her handkerchief.

Surely he had his own.

That’s absolutely a complete summary of your perspective, she agreed, nodding her head. Whatever do you think of the weather nowadays, Mr. Dandersby?

He blinked at her.

The…weather, Miss Knucker?"

Yes, she nodded. The atmospheric changes that happen on a regular basis, Mr. Dandersby.

He looked rather a loss for words at such a pedestrian turn of topic, but perhaps the man could be excused, having used up all his energy on transportation to remedy the ills of a changing Empire.

Goodness, she declared after another moment of extended silence. I must go speak with our hostess for a moment. Do pardon me.

Decidedly, Cordelia did not fancy herself Mrs. Cordelia Dandersby anytime soon. She knew her Father wouldn’t be opposed, of course, if Pierre were to ask for her hand. But this was hardly something that would crush Father if it didn’t come to pass.

Their hostess, the inestimable Lady Louisa du Merre, was indeed overseeing things preparatory to reconvening in the conservatory for an evening’s entertainment. The august Lady, resplendent in a soft grey velvet dress, adorned with pale pearls her husband, the Admiral, had returned from the South Seas with as a wedding present, turned and smiled genuinely as she beheld Cordelia.

If your Mother could see you, she murmured, her eyes shining with pleasure as she took Cordelia’s hands in her own. It’s so good to have you here, my dear.

My Mother helped select all my dresses for my visit, Cordelia demurred. It made her a little sad, of course, to not be at-home in the days leading up to Christmas. Doubtless, at the moment, her younger brother, Jasper, was hopefully back on his feet after a recent malaise, and now regaling their charming cousin, Miranda Lockley, with tales of Christmases past, while their younger sister, Madeleine, enacted her latest fiendish plot to determine what might be forthcoming on Christmas morn, if she wasn’t contemplating the overthrow of Parliament.

And precious baby Earnest! Being away from home at the holidays was almost intolerable, but Cordelia simply must put her fragile sentimentality to one side to focus on her social responsibilities as a young lady of society.

She was, after all, here in pursuit of a spirit.

There were, altogether, fourteen young people in attendance that evening, evenly divided between young ladies and young gentlemen. This was, as everything was for young persons between the ages of seventeen and twenty, firmly geared toward meeting a future spouse and becoming engaged as quickly as was societally prudent.

And fortunately, Lady du Merre hosted the right sorts of young people in her soirees to please Cordelia’s family, who were particular in regard to the quality of potential suitors. One did want one’s grandchildren to be superior, Cordelia had been given to understand, though sincerely, the idea of her smart, social parents turning into doting grandparents was quite beyond her.

Not that she should be thinking about such things. Imagine if someone in attendance realized the direction of her thoughts! As she looked up, she was certain she caught Douglass Reeves smirking a little in her general direction.

Scandalous!

She was able to recover herself in time to take her turn in the evening’s entertainment. Cyril Berrycloth had taken up residence at the piano—a safe refuge from perhaps being asked to dance, he’d once confided in her—and Cordelia, having a passing ability to sing in-tune, opted to sing the carol O Tannenbaum, in the original German, a celebration to the tree they’d decorated earlier in the evening, and which now stood in the center of the conservatory in which they were all gathered, twinkling away with carefully placed candles reflecting against the pretty paper ornaments and strung cranberry and popcorn strings.

Her interpretation was well-received, and Mr. Dandersby nodded vigorously at the end, having recovered his composure over being asked his opinion on the weather.

Graceful, graceful, Cyril murmured to her, smiling owlishly in that damnable way he had of knowing when something was afoot with her. Really, he was entirely troublesome, and yet diabolical good fun as well when the opportunity presented itself.

You’d better take a break from tickling the ivories once in a while, Cordelia advised. I hear the young Miss Claire du Merre is hoping you might favor her with a dance."

Cyril shot her a particularly ghastly look at that. He was perfectly aware of the seventeen-year-old ingenue’s interest in him, and worked diligently not to return the favor. Really, Cordelia thought, Cyril seemed determined to enter into a prolonged state of bachelorhood, to the consternation of the women in his family. She currently beheld what had to be his third-best suit and his somewhat unkempt hair, an errant ink-stain on the pinky of his left hand, and quietly despaired of one of her oldest and dearest friends.

Well, I suppose we could have you play the piano, he noted as the enthusiastic Miss Rierhart flounced up with sheet music held firmly in-hand.

Oh heavens, Mr. Berrycloth, you wouldn’t abandon me in my moment of need, she said, her eyes widening with horror. Your performance will add so much to my feeble attempts at singing.

As Amelia sang like a songbird in a fairy-tale, there was little fear of a rescue needing to be mounted. Cyril’s left eyebrow darted toward his hairline, and Amelia laughed, and turned to take in Cordelia with a bit of a tightening around her eyes.

You could depend on the pretty, confident girl to throw up a bit of a wall between her and any potential female companion in the area. Cordelia, who had several female friends, had always marveled at Amelia’s sheer solitariness.

She smiled, curtseyed, and went to take a chair next to the tender Claire du Merre, who in turn sat next to her protective Mother.

The young lady glowed, her beautiful peach silk dress a marked contrast to Amelia’s rich scarlet. At that moment the jaunty notes began to come from Cyril’s playing, and the delightful Here We Come A-wassailing was warmly received by their company.

She’s so lovely, Claire murmured in Cordelia’s direction. Her hair was artfully pinned back into a massive bun on the top of her head, but her eyes danced in a way Cordelia felt was more reminiscent of her younger siblings than someone who was certainly intended to find a future husband for herself in the next year or two.

Miss Rierhart is possessed of many talents, Cordelia agreed, and it was entirely truthful. Amelia could sing, recite, and was very well-read. Her needlepoint and lace-knitting skills were very respected, and rumor had it she could even drive one of the automobiles that were finally making their way even into the cosseted world Cordelia and her family lived in.

Personally, she would take a buggy any day. Automobiles made her ill whenever she was in one.

As she turned in her chair, Cordelia saw Yolanda and Angus leaving the room in the company of Lucian Argyle and quiet, elegant Eleanor Yarrow.

Glancing across, she saw Lady du Merre nod to her, once. It was barely perceptible, but Cordelia hardly needed further instigation. She slowly rose and exited through the same door.

Down the hallway, towards the parlor, the four young people went, rather companionably.

And where do we think they’re going?

It was Douglass Reeves, a young man who’d been on the periphery of various gatherings and events all autumn. She vaguely recalled him having come from abroad, but as that covered a rather large swath of the planet, Cordelia was rather ignorant of how to converse deeply with him.

On the other hand, perhaps she could simply let him do the talking. It worked with most young gentlemen.

What are your thoughts on the matter, Mr. Reeves?

His lips twitched.

My thoughts were to ask you, as you exited before I did, he noted. Now my thoughts are inclined to a genteel pursuit.

He offered her an arm, however, which Cordelia took after a bare moment of consideration.

"I was