Dickens with A Pack of Morleys
By Kate Dyer
Athena1600@aol.com 

CATEGORY: S, A
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Dickens with a pack of Morleys
TIMESPAN: Christmas
SPOILER WARNING: Small references
KEYWORDS: A Christmas Carol (by Charles Dickens), Cancerman
DISCLAIMER:  After many years of counseling, I now know that I do NOT own Mulder and Scully and all the other X-Files 
characters.  Apologies to Dickens, my writing isn't anywhere close to his.
ARCHIVE:  Yep
FEEDBACK:  In the spirit of the season?

Dickens with A Pack of Morleys
By Kate Dyer
Athena1600@aol.com 


CHAPTER ONE - DEMPSEY'S GHOST

	Nathaniel Dempsey was dead: to begin with.  There is not doubt whatever about that.  Vincent Temple had been there 
when he was buried six feet under, among the marble monuments that made up Arlington Cemetery.  Nathaniel Dempsey was 
as dead as a man could get.
	Mind!  I don't mean to say that I know, of my knowledge, that these men's names are genuine.  They could be nothing 
more than non-de plumes.  Nathaniel Dempsey was fixed with the code name 'Deep Throat'.  Vincent Temple often used the 
name Raoul Bloodworth, while some even called him 'Cancer Man'.  Yet, these are the names I know them as, and you will 
therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Nathaniel Dempsey was dead.
	Vincent Temple knew he was dead?  Of course he did.  How could it be otherwise?  For Temple was the one who 
ordered Dempsey's death.  And when Temple issued an order; it was to be carried out.  Temple and Dempsey had been 
associates for I don't know how many years.  Temple was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole friend, and his sole 
mourner.  And even Temple was not that cut up by the sad event.  Some might wonder how any friend could kill Dempsey then 
mourn for him, but when business came to business, a man had to do what a man had to do, and it was often considered 
business.  And in the name of business, Temple was able to work out a great deal on the funeral arrangements.
	The mention of Dempsey's funeral brings me back to the point I started from.  There is no doubt that Dempsey was 
dead.  This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. 
	Temple never removed Dempsey's name from the lease contract on the New York office on East 46th Street.  There it 
was written, years afterwards, above Temple's signature.  The office was under their names, and sometimes people who knew 
not of their real business called Temple Temple, and some Dempsey, but he answered to any and all names; as long as it was 
followed by '..sir'.  It was all the same to him.
	Oh!  But what a cold, uncaring man was Temple!  A wretched, covetous, surreptitious, deceitful old sinner!  His heart 
as black as his smoke filled lungs, his eyes as dim as a far away light.  He was as devious as a fox, as self-contained as an 
oyster, and as vehement as a tiger.  The cold aurora that he held about him chilled others to the bone and did not grow any 
warmer, not even on Christmas!  The heat and cold did not seem to bother him, nor did any season or degree of weather.  It 
was all the same: another day, another secret to protect.
No one ever called him to check on his health; even the tele-marketers seemed to stay far away from his phone.  No 
one ever acknowledged him, save to 'do business'.  No young children from the nearby high school volunteered to read to him, 
or play bingo with him, although he wouldn't have if they had made an effort to come.
	But what did Temple care?  It was the very thing he liked.  To travel unhindered by others, his paths clear of 
bothersome neighbors.  He preached self-reliance, and had no need to such petty ordinary people.  This was the very thing he 
liked.
	Once upon a time - of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve - old Temple sat busy in the New York office.  
It was frigid, disagreeably damp, bleak weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the cars in the streets below whizzing by, an 
occasional honk followed by thick New York accents piercing the brisk air.  The clock on the mantle had just struck four, but 
darkness had already begun to embrace the city.  The fog poured into the streets from unknown sources, until, covered by a 
blanket of fog, the Statue of Liberty could no longer be seen by the occupants of the New York office on East 46th Street.  By 
the sights of it, a storm was brewing off the eastern coast of New York, and there was sure to be a white Christmas.
	The phone of the New York office was to be found in Temple's hand, dialing a number that had been dialed many 
times in the past.  With the phone to his ear, he looked about the dreary room; stiff armchairs were placed in the corners, old 
and uncomfortable.  Rickety wooden tables sat next to the chairs, dim lamps on top of those.  The air was still and dense, 
accentuated by the odor of cigarette smoke and liquor.  From the adjoining room came the soft whir of a fax machine.  Other 
than machines, the room was devoid of life.  
	Placing down the phone upon receiver, Temple was almost startled when it rang in his hands.  "Merry Christmas, 
Father!  God save you!" answered a cheerful voice, Temple having answered the phone.  It was the voice of Temple's daughter.
	"Bah!" said Temple, "Humbug!"
	"Christmas, a hoax father!" replied Temple's daughter.  "You don't really mean that?"
	"I do," said Temple, "Merry Christmas!  What right do you have to be merry?  What reason do you have to be merry?"
	"Oh, come on," returned the daughter, "What right do you have to be dismal?"
	"Bah! Humbug!" was Temple's answer.
	"Say what you will.  I have called to invite you to dinner tomorrow night."
	Temple quickly turned down the invitation, replying, "Not if that coward of a husband of yours will be there.  Why 
did you ever marry him?  I could have arranged a powerful marriage."
	"I married him because I loved him…"
	"Love!"  Temple sputtered.  "Love brings nothing but heartache."
	"Not for me.  Merry Christmas father, don't work too late."  Temple harrumphed.  "And a Happy New Year too!"  
With that, a click, followed by a dial tone invaded Temple's right ear as a resounding knocking invaded his other.  Frowning, 
he pulled himself from an armchair and marched to the door.  Upon throwing it open, he encountered two men, both dressed in 
green tights with matching shirts, and pointy Santa hats atop their heads.  Decking off the outfit were curved elf shoes, each 
with a small, yet obnoxious, jangling bell.
	"Hello, sir, and how are you this beautiful Christmas Eve?  We're here to collect money for the poor.  Would you like 
to make a small contribution?" asked one.
	A frown had formed over Temple's grim features.  "Do you have any respect?  Can you read?" he asked, pointing to a 
small plaque to the immediate left of the door, which read NO SOLICITING.  
	"Well, in light of the holiday season, sir, we thought that a kind soul such as yours would not mind."  The other 'elf' 
answered.
	"Unfortunately, no one of such description works here!  What they need to do is lock up the poor!  All they do is 
spend this money that you are collecting on cheap whiskey and pass out in the alley next to this building.  I would consider 
giving money to a cause to rid the city of such lazy drunks, put not to aid them in their cause!  Now leave me alone!"  And with 
that, the door slammed in the faces of the men.
	Returning to his labors, Temple worked into the night.  As he did so, the night grew chillier, freezing the bones of the 
pilgrims on the streets below who traveled home or to view the large tree in Rockefeller Center.  Their breath erupted from 
their mouths in puffs of mist that dissipated in an instant.  A light snow had begun to fall, wetting the pavement with a slick 
coat of ice.  Small twinkling lights began to shine from nearby windows as strings of Christmas lights, flickering through the 
fog, were turned on.  In the distance, a group of carolers had begun to sing 'Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas' for the 
fourth time in a row.  Temple strode to the window, opened it, and threw an empty soda can toward the source of the 
cacophony.  Angry shouts followed, convincing Temple that he had reached his target.  Shutting the window, Temple decided 
to wrap up the night's activities.  
	Picking up the phone, Temple dialed a seven-digit number quickly and waited for the phone to be picked up on the 
other end.  After three rings it was answered by a gruff greeting.  Sounds of friendly talking and Christmas music filtered 
through the phone.  "I have a job for you."  Temple said in greeting.  He heard the phone being moved and the noise suddenly 
dimmed as the 'employee' moved into a different room.  
	"Do you know what day it is?" the voice asked.  "It is Christmas Eve.  Can't you put it off a few days?  Have some 
compassion, sir!"
	"If you are not capable of doing the job, I can always find someone else to do it, and probably for less money." 
Temple replied.
	"You do that."  Was the only answer before the phone was hung up.  Scowling, Temple decided that the job could 
wait after all, for he needed the best man for it.
	Grabbing his briefcase and struggling into his winter coat, Temple locked up the office, traveled to his car, and 
navigated his way into the streets of New York.  The streets were hazard areas, filled with angry workers who had been forced 
to work on the day before Christmas, cranky parents rushing home to their children, and foreign cab drivers that participated in 
colorful, multi-ethnic arguments from the middle of intersections.  The snow flurries had caused the road to grow slippery, and 
many a car lost control on the crowded streets.  In half an hour, Temple finally reached his dark, lonely apartment a few blocks 
away from the office.  Setting his belongings on the kitchen counter, he moved to the refrigerator.  Opening the door, the 
refrigerator provided an eerie halogen glow that bathed the kitchen in a pale yellow light.  The humming of its motor filled the 
quiet room.  Removing a beer and a TV dinner, he followed the instructions on the colorful cardboard package and in five 
minutes the microwave announced that his meal was warm and ready to eat.  Flipping on a few lamps throughout the 
moderately sized apartment, he sat at his dining room table, alone and forlorn, to eat his meal.  In an hour he found himself 
growing tired from the long day, and moved to retire to his room.  Stripping down to his underwear, Temple scratched at his 
chin and yawned noisily.  He reached for the knob to turn on the faucet and fill the bathtub.  Now, it is a fact, that there was 
nothing at all particular about the faucet in the tub, except that it was very large.  It is also a fact, that Temple had seen it in 
every night and morning during his whole residence in that place.  Let it also be borne in mind that Temple had not bestowed 
one thought on Dempsey, since last mentioning his name days ago.  And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it 
happened that Temple, having his hand inches from the faucet, saw in the knob, without its undergoing any intermediate 
process of change: not a faucet, but Dempsey's face.
	Dempsey's face.  It was not in impenetrable shadow, but had an indefinite quality to it.  It was not angry or ferocious, 
but looked at Temple as Dempsey used to look.  The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath and though the eyes were open, 
they were motionless.  That, and its livid color, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be, in spite of the face and beyond its 
control, rather tan a part of its own expression.
	As Temple looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was once again a faucet.  
	To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation, to which it had been a 
stranger from infancy, would be untrue.  But he put his hand upon the knob he had relinquished, turned it, and watched as 
water poured into the bath.  He did pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he stepped into the shower and he did look 
cautiously behind the shower curtain first, as if he half expected to be terrified with another sight of Dempsey.  But there was 
nothing behind the curtain, so he shrugged off any dread and stepped into the shower.
	Although Temple was usually not afraid of much, he made sure he slowly walked from room to room throughout the 
apartment after his shower.  Double locking the apartment door, and his room door, he settled into his bed and pulled a 
document into his lap to read.  After becoming comfortable after several minutes, he threw the blankets aside, retrieved his 
firearm from on top of his bureau, and laid it next to him on the bed.  This having been done, he once again climbed onto his 
bed and began to read the thick document.  Yet, every where he looked, all he could see was Dempsey's morbid face and blank 
eyes.  "Humbug!" he muttered, once again throwing the blankets aside and pacing across the room, contemplating the sight that 
haunted him.  The chiming of an ancient clock suddenly interrupted his musings.  Startled, Temple grabbed his gun and slowly 
opened the door, only enough to peek out.  Seeing nothing but the darkness that surrounded him, he crept closer to the chiming.  
When he reached its source, he stood before an old grandfather clock, a family heirloom, given to him by his mother in her 
will.  The clock had not worked for decades, yet now it kept perfect time, announcing the arrival of the eleventh hour.  Then, as 
suddenly as the chimes had begun, they stopped, and all was quiet.  Moonlight seeped through the window shades and left 
twilight paths across the hard wood floors.  A cold gale howled outside of the sixteenth floor of the apartment building, and a 
shiver ran up Temple's spine.  Gripping the gun tightly in both hands, he stood rigid, glancing around.  As he listened to the 
quietness of the building, he heard the muffled ascent of the elevator, and an electronic ding as it stopped on his floor.  
Footsteps could be heard slowly approaching Temple's door.  "It's Humbug still!" said Temple.  "I won't believe it."  His color 
changed though, when, without a pause, through the heavy door, double locked, and into the room came Nathaniel Dempsey's 
ghost.
	The same face: the very same.  Dempsey wearing his wise expression and best suit.  He drew a long chain about his 
waist.  This chain was quite peculiar, for it was made up of secrets, lies, broken trusts, and the blood of others.  His body was 
transparent: so that Temple could see straight through him.  Yet, still Temple could not quite believe it, and shook his head, 
hoping for clarity.
	"What do you want with me?" Temple asked, raising his gun.  His voice came out cold and caustic, his emotions 
controlled by poise.
	"Much, old man!"  Yes, it was Dempsey's voice, no doubt.
	"Who are you?" Temple demanded
	"Ask me who I was."
	"Who were you then?" Temple asked.
	"In life, I was your associate and colleague, Nathaniel Dempsey."
	"Can you… can you sit down?" asked Temple, looking doubtfully.
	"I can" replied Dempsey, who took a seat in a straight-backed wooded chair.  "You don't believe in me."
	"No, I do not.  If you want someone to believe in you, I would suggest visiting Mulder." Temple replied.  The 
apparition let out a hearty laugh to that.  Yes, it was Dempsey's laugh, no doubt.  Temple was not in the habit of cracking jokes, 
but he was trying to be smart, a habit he used to distract himself.  Yet, this time it was not working.  Dempsey, dead at his 
hand, sat before him, eyes cold and motionless, hair stirring slightly, though not a wisp of wind entered the room.  And as he 
stared straight past Temple, as if not even seeing him, a cold burst of air swept through the apartment, carrying the screams of 
all the forgotten souls, lost in the night.  Temple fell to his knees in front of Dempsey's ghost.  "Mercy!  Oh, apparition, why do 
you trouble me so?"
	"Troublesome man, do you believe in me or not?" the ghost of Dempsey asked.
	"I do, I do.  But why do you haunt me?"
	"To warn you, to save you, from the fate that is mine." the ghost replied woefully.  "See this chain I wear?  See these 
fetters?  I made this in my life!  With every secret, every lie, every death due to my hand, every deal.  I have imprisoned 
myself.  As you have been imprisoning yourself.  Yet, by now, your chain is years longer than mine is!  But there is still time 
for you.  I have come to save you."
	Through this monologue, Temple had begun to tremble and grow desperate.
"Nathan," he said imploringly.  "Old Nathan Dempsey, tell me more, speak comfort to me, Nathan."
	"I have none to give," the spirit replies.  "It comes from other regions, Vincent Temple, and is conveyed by other 
ministers, to other kinds of men.  Nor can I tell you what I would.  A very little more is all permitted to me.  I cannot rest, I 
cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere, weary journeys lie before me."
	"Then why come to bother me?" asked Temple.
	"Hear me!" cried Dempsey's ghost.  "My time is almost gone!  I know it was you.  I know you had me killed.  Yet I 
have learned that while I could not have saved my life, there is still time for you to save yours and your families' lives.  How it 
is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell.  I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day.  I 
am here tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate.  A chance of hope of my procuring, 
Vincent."
	"Oh, thank you, Nathan…" Temple began, his expression brightening.
	"You will be haunted by three spirits." interrupted Dempsey.  Temple's countenance fell as low as his morals.  "Expect 
the first tomorrow, when the clock strikes one.  Expect the second on the next night at the same hour, and the third upon the 
next night when the last stroke of twelve ceases to vibrate.  Remember what has passed between us, Temple."  And with this 
said, the spirit walked to the window and pulled it open.  The sounds of lamentation and sorrow by the many lost souls who 
wandered about on that night filled the apartment and Temple shrank back in fear.  Then Dempsey was gone.  
	Temple ran to the window, yet seeing and hearing not a soul, slowly closed and locked the window.  He walked 
toward the apartment door, examining the locks, which were still in place from when he had locked them.  Shaking his head in 
amazement, he slowly made his way to bed, turned down the sheets, and fell asleep, gun still in hand, the moment his head 
reached the pillow.


CHAPTER TWO - THE FIRST OF THE THREE SPIRITS

	When Temple finally awoke, it was so dark, that looking out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent 
window from the opaque walls of his chamber.  As he turned over in bed, the chimes of the old grandfather clock once again 
filled the apartment.  One, two, and now five, six, then on to ten, eleven, and finally stopping on twelve!  How could this be?  It 
was past one when he went to bed.  The clock must be wrong.  Glancing past the darkness of his bed, Temple saw the 
iridescent red numbers glowing from the digital clock across the room.  It now read two minutes past twelve.  Walking to the 
window and observing the darkness and lethargic activity, Temple decided that, indeed, it was twelve, and that he must have 
somehow slept the whole day.
	Temple went to bed again, and thought, and thought, and thought it over and over and over, and could make nothing 
of it.  The more he thought, the more perplexed he was, and the more he endeavored not to think, the more ht thought.  
Dempsey's ghost bothered him exceedingly.  Every time he resolved within himself, after mature inquiry, that it was all a 
dream, he would once again find himself asking, "but was it?".  Suddenly, Temple remembered the ghost's warning: that he 
would be visited by the first spirit when the bell tolled one.  And so he decided to sit up and wait for the hour to pass, knowing 
that sleep would not come to him at any time soon. 
	What was left of that one hour crept by like a sloth, for more than once, Temple believed he had fallen asleep and 
missed the coming of the hour entirely.  Yet, in due time, the clock began to announce the coming of the hour.  "Ha!" cried 
Temple, "The hour has arrived and no apparition appears before me."   It had been a dream after all.  Yet Temple had spoke too 
soon, for the hands of the great clock had not yet ceased vibrating.  And the second it did, a burst of light filled Temple's 
bedroom.  A great cloud of dust rose into the air, causing Temple's nose to itch, and he sneezed loudly.  The air was scented by 
the aroma of mothballs and mildew, the smells of a grandmother's basement.  
	When the light ceased and the dust settled Temple was amazed by the figure, or lack there of, stood before him.  The 
size of a small child, the apparition had the eyes of an old woman, knowledgeable and defiled.  The apparition was a girl child, 
dressed in a white garment, embroidered by gold thread.  On her head sat a wreath of golden roses and baby's breath.  Slippers 
the color of polished ivory adorned her ethereal feet.  Her porcelain face held bright eyes and rosy cheeks.  Yet, she possessed a 
peculiar quality.  As memories are fuzzy about the edges, the confines of her body were obscure and unclear.  When looking at 
her for long periods of time, her face and shape began to change and take on new forms.  She began to move towards him, with 
abnormally swift and tranquil movement, and in fear, he moved to the other side of the bed.
	"Who…who are you?" Temple asked, although he could not keep the waver from his voice.
	"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past," the spirit answered.  "My arrival here has been anticipated."
	"Which past?  And what business brings you here?" he inquired.
	"Your past, that which you have forgotten the value of.  I have come for your welfare."
	"That is very kind of you, but I have it taken care of, I doubt you are needed after all."
	"Enough!" the ghost replied forcefully. "We have but little time, and a long way to travel."  With this having been 
said, the specter extended its youthful hand.  Temple drew back, weary of the phantom.  "I do not wish to harm you, now take 
my hand, we must leave."  Temple slowly extended his aged hand until it lay in the spirit's childlike one.  At the touch, the 
nerves in his hand prickled, not hurting, but feeling as if the hand had fallen asleep.  It tingled and crawled with millions of tiny 
pinpricks.  After this feeling had passed, an immense warmth flowed through his body from his hand, still clasped in that of the 
youth.  Unable to resist, he was led to the window, and without even opening it, they passed through the wall and into the night 
sky.  Standing suspended in the air, Temple looked back at his building.  The windows were all empty eyes, vacant of life, void 
of feeling.  His one solitary light winked to them from the bedroom.  The apparition tugged slightly on his hand and they began 
to soar over the skyscrapers of New York.  Past Central Park, past Rockefeller Center, past the blinking Christmas lights atop 
apartment buildings, past the Statue of Liberty, past a large fishing ship, and out to sea, into the mist.  
	And then Temple found his feet on the ground.  Looking around, he seemed to remember this place.  Leafless trees 
reached for the gray sky.  A light covering of snow blanketed the landscape, its whiteness radiating light, as if it in itself was 
the sky and the gray sky the dark ground.  "Spirit, what is this place?  Where have you taken us?" he asked.
	"Why, don't you know this place?  It is your childhood home." the apparition replied.  This having been said, Temple's 
eyes lit up in recognition.  Turning, a large colonial home came into his vision.  Perfectly symmetrical, it boasted twin 
chimneys, both emitting gray smoke that blended into the sky.  Brightly decorated evergreens were covered with cheery white 
lights and popcorn strings, a gift for the chickadees.  An occasional Model T drove by, while more horses and carriages were 
seen travelling about the quaint town on Martha's Vineyard.  A shiny new tin lizzie sat in front of the house, complete with a 
blaring horn.   The spirit led Temple to the house and up the steps, drawing him through the wall and into the cozy room.  A 
fire blazed in the fireplace, flames leaping to life, spitting embers onto the hearth.  
	Temple chuckled, amazed.  "Why, this is home!  My mother used to sit write there!" he said, pointing to the loveseat, 
which stood close to the fire.  Walking through the room, he entered the kitchen.  "Look!  And there is Clara, our cook!  I 
would do anything for a bite of her stuffing once again!  But, spirit, how can this be?  Clara died years ago!  This can't be!"  
	"As I said before, this is your past.  The things that have been.  The things that have made you what you are today." 
Replied the ghost.  A voice emitted from a room, actually the foyer, and echoed about the house.
	"Vincent!  Vincent!" 
	"Why, that's my mother!"  Temple ran to the foyer and beheld a beautiful young woman, her hair braided and put up 
with a series of ivory pins, wearing a long burgundy velvet dress with a high neckline and decked off with two strings of 
pearls.  He began to advance, but stopped short when his mother took no notice of him.  "Spirit, what is wrong?  This is my 
mother, yet she does not acknowledge me at all!"
	"She can not see you, nor hear you.  We are from the future, and these are just the living memories of what has been.  
We can do nothing but sit back and watch what unfolds." the spirit replied patiently.
	At that instant, a young boy came running down the wide staircase.  "Vincent, where have you been?  Your father will 
be accompanying you to the boarding school." said his mother.
	"But it's Christmas, mother.  Why do I have to go back to school?" the boy pleaded.
	"Vincent, we are throwing a party.  I don't need you to get in my way or to bother the guests.  You'll have plenty of 
fun at your school." she replied.  Grudgingly, he allowed her to help put on his coat and load his belongings into the car.  The 
car disappeared from sight.  
	Temple felt a tugging on his coat tails, and upon looking down, saw that the spirit was impatiently waiting for Temple 
to grab its hand.  Doing so, the snow melted into a wooden floor, the trees transmuted into columns, and the sky to a ceiling.  
Voices surrounded the too pilgrims, and the familiar scenes of a Christmas party filled their eyes.  Looking around, Temple 
began to recognize old friends.  "Why, there is Jonathan Miller, and William Gentry."  Turning around, he encountered a 
beautiful young woman, with long brown locks that fell down her back in auburn waves.  She wore a magnificent forest green 
dress, which accentuates her hazel eyes.  Her light laugh levitated through the air loftily and struck his ears in jovial notes.  
"This is my graduation party, Christmas Eve.  I do remember it.  How could I forget?  This was the day I met the most amazing 
woman in the whole universe, spirit.  The most beautiful creature on this planet, my Helen of Troy."  Temple seemed to be lost 
in reminiscing, his eyes blind to all the festivities.  The spirit finally brought him out of this reverie.
	"And who would this beautiful woman be?  She seems to be quiet popular."  And indeed, she was.  She stood 
surrounded by many young suitors, all trying to convince her to one dance.  Yet she declined to all the invitations, and moved 
off to visit with some of her lady friends.  
"An enigma, I could never figure her out.  Yes, she was popular and pretty, too popular, too pretty, things that would 
come back to stab me in the heart."  Temple saw his younger counterpart sitting in a corner, observing the festivities, but not 
joining in.  He was approached by his roommate who said something to Temple, and motioned for him to follow.  Doing so, he 
was brought toward the beautiful woman.  
"Vincent, I'd like you to meet my sister!" the friend shouted over the commotion of the party.  Vincent shyly took her 
hand in his and brought his lips to it in a gentle kiss.
"Theodore has told me so much about you," she said in greeting.  Taking a seat on a Victorian couch near by, they 
talked for hours, the spirits listening in on the conversation.  They soon moved on to observe the other guests of the party.
"There is Master Stevenson!  He was a wonderful teacher.  How I wish I had thanked him more for his services.  He 
taught me everything I know!" Temple remarked to the ghost.  "And there, Bessie Smith, my 'mother' while I was at school."  
Temple's eyes grew bright and receptive, drinking in all the details of the party.
"The night grows late, we must move on, there are many more years to go." the spirit warned.  Hand in hand, Temple 
and the apparition once again left their present surroundings for those of another year.  This time, he was met by the images of 
an army training facility.  As planes zoomed over head, Temple loaded his gear into an army jeep along with three of his 
friends and they left that place.
	"So where are you off to, Vincent?  Going home to the wife and kids?" asked one of his companions.
	Temple chuckled in reply.  "No, the old ball and chain hasn't attached itself just yet.  But I am going home to visit my 
sweetheart."  This was followed by hoots from his friends.  
	"So that ball and chain isn't as far away as we thought, eh, Vincent?"  Vincent chuckled again and reached in his 
pocket, revealing a small jewelry box.  Opening it for his companions, a beautiful diamond engagement ring blinked out at 
them.  "Well, what's her name, Vincent?"
	"Teena.  Teena Kuipers.  I met her at a party a while back.  Best thing to happen to my life."  He closed the box with a 
snap and put it into his pocket.  The scene once again dissolved into another.  
	A roaring fire occupied the hearth of a large sitting room.  Temple's counterpart sat impatiently on a couch, getting up 
to pace, and sitting back down.  At last, Teena entered the room.  Radiance shown from her face like the light a star emits.  
Jumping up, Vincent kissed her hand.  "Ms. Kuipers." he acknowledged.  Nodding, she led him to the couch.  "I have missed 
you so much.  All the time I was away, I thought of you, my dear." 
	"Vincent.  Stop.  Before you go on, I must tell you something." she interrupted eyes large and sorrowful.
	"What is it?  What has happened?" Temple asked.
	"You have changed, Vincent." she began, ignoring his bewildered look.  "When you first joined the army, we wrote to 
each other every day.  And I still do.  But your letters have come less and less frequently.  It has turned from once a day to once 
a month.  In the future will they stop entirely?  My brother is in the army, Vincent.  I have heard about the girls you hang 
around.  Don't break my heart, Vincent."
	"Girls?  You're my only girl and you know that.  How often have I told you that?  I would never betray you or hurt 
you in any way!" Temple defended.
	"You have changed, though!  I know longer see that young, shy innocence in your eyes.  In its place is cruelty and 
coldness.  The army has changed you.  No, maybe it is I that have changed.  Maybe I am no longer a lovesick teenager." she 
paused, taking a breath.  "I have met someone else.  He has been everything that you aren't.  He is going to college around here.  
We are very close.  Vincent, I'm so sorry.  But he was here, while you weren't."  
Vincent's face fell and he tried to hold back tears.  "Teena, we promised.  We promised we would wait for each other."  
Grief changed to hostility toward the other suitor.  "What is his name?" he asked hoarsely.  
"William Mulder."  With the name having been revealed, Temple left the house, slamming the door on his way out.  
Teena jumped, startled and unnerved by the sound.
"Oh, spirit, why do you reopen old wounds?  What purpose do these shadows have?" the future Temple said, turning 
to the spirit.
"To make you understand.  Understand that you have separated yourself from others using irascibility and 
heartlessness, and that this will affect your life and the lives of your family.  But that is not my department, per se.  That is up 
to the next spirit.
"Why must this continue?  I wish to be home, in my bed, away from this dreadful place," Temple begged, clutching 
the spirit's hand in his.  Exhaustion spread over his limbs, encompassing him and pressing him into deep slumber.  


CHAPTER THREE - THE SECOND OF THE THREE SPIRITS

When Temple awoke once more; he could hear the clock announcing the third quarter of the twelfth hour.  This time, 
Temple thought, I will be prepared as to what comes next, keeping Dempsey's message in mind.  Upon the stroke of one, 
Temple sat in silence, waiting.  Yet nothing happened.  Five minutes, and still nothing.  Ten.  And not fifteen.  All this while, a 
peculiar light had seeped through the door and into Temple's bedroom.  Slipping out of bed, Temple opened the door cautiously 
and peeked out.  He was not prepared for that which he saw.  There, in the middle of the kitchen, now filled with post and pans 
and food, stood the spirit.  He took the shape of a short, plump man.  White hair spilled from under his red cap, and a white 
beard flowed onto the front of his coat, made of a red velvety material.  The cuffs were trimmed with white, and black buttons 
were lined in a row on the front of the coat.  The red cap was also trimmed with such white, and a white ball decked the floppy 
end.  Red pants matched the coat, and black leather boots finished the ensample.  "Ho ho ho!" the spirit greeted him, laughing 
joyfully.
"Are you the second spirit send to me?"  Temple asked in dismay.  "You look like….Santa Claus."
"Well, I am the Ghost of Christmas Present, what other way would I dress?" the spirit asked, laughing again.  "Here, 
man, try some turkey," the said, handing Temple a drumstick.  Temple politely refused.
"Your unearthly sister, who had just visited me, said that I was to learn how I have made my family members 
desolate.  Yet, I believe she was mistaken, for I have no family."  Temple remarked, motioning around the apartment to show 
that no one else was present.
The jolly spirit laughed once again.  "No, man!  We are never wrong.  You may not have a structured family, but you 
do have a biological family.  And I believe we must get on our way, the night grows short."  As if on cue, light streamed into 
the apartment and sounds of movement filled the city.  The spirit moved to the door, opening it for Temple.  "Off to visit your 
children."
"That might take a while." Temple joked.  The spirit's laughed filled the elevator as they approached the lobby.  In a 
few minutes they found themselves on the streets of New York.  Few cars traveled the streets due to the several inches of snow 
that had fallen the night before.  Men and women, children alike, walked the streets in brightly colored scarves and gloves.  A 
few young boys began a snowball fight, screaming and running for cover.  Bells rang and voices sang, spreading cheer and joy.  
Temple had even begun to feel lively.
"You have taken everything from your children, intentionally or not.  One day this will come back to haunt you.  Why 
do you work toward making lives miserable?" the spirit asked.
"I haven't taken anything from any of my children!  I have given them everything they ever wanted." Temple replied, 
appalled at the idea of trying to make his own flesh and blood's lives a living hell.
"We will see, all in good time.  Now to the youngest child's home we go."  The New York scene vaporized and once 
again, Temple found himself in another familiar home.  A large Douglas Fir tree stood in the corner of the room, lost in a heap 
of torn paper and ribbons.  Three small children ran about, chasing each other and playing with their new toys.  
"Spirit, there, I have given my daughter Samantha a family.  I brought her to her adopted parents and helped her 
through life.  I have given her everything she has ever needed and I could have arranged a very powerful and wealthy 
marriage."  Temple said triumphantly.
"You gave her nothing," The spirit replied angrily.  "You took away her family.  You used your own daughter as bait 
for Fox Mulder." 
Voices from the other room drifted through, almost incomprehensible over the giggles of the children.  In the kitchen, 
Temple's daughter stood at the counter, making a mug of tea while her husband poured milk for the children.  Samantha 
Mulder Collins sighed, "How is work going?" 
Her husband gave her a weary look, "Honey, it's not.  We've had this same conversation over and over.  We have very 
little money left in the account.  We could barely afford the presents for the kids."  Temple looked shocked upon hearing this, 
unaware of such a dilemma.
"What are we going to do?" she asked, sitting and placing her head in her hands. 
"Why don't you ask your father for money?  The scrooge must have millions saved away somewhere and nothing to 
do with it." Her husband replied.
"Mathew, I have told you before: I will never ask my father for anything.  It is just what he wants me to do." 
"To prove that I'm a terrible father and husband." Matthew muttered.
"No.  He has always given me everything I want.  For once I want to live my own life." Samantha said angrily.
"He has loads of money, and we have none.  I think that transgresses your opinions." 
"Oh?  It transgresses my opinions?"  Samantha said sarcastically.
"What is wrong with you?  Ever since you saw that man who claimed to be your long lost brother you've changed.  
We are your family now, so forget about this stranger.  You haven't seen him since, doesn't that tell you something.  Maybe he 
doesn't want to know you."  By this time both were screaming.  Samantha ran from the room, only to encounter the children, 
huddled together in a corner, crying.  Sudden flashbacks of her and Fox clutching each other in the dark night, trying to protect 
each other from the sharp obscenities being thrown around by their parents.  "I've become them." she whispered.
Temple closed his eyes, holding back the unexpected emotional urges of sorrow.  Opening them, he encountered an 
office.  Quiet familiar, yet so different.  The walls were orderly and neat, covered by evenly placed pictures of Janet Reno and 
Bill Clinton.  The desk that sat near the door was clean except for a few pieces of loose paper.  Temple, who hadn't been in the 
office since he had set it on fire, almost didn't recognize the office, yet there was Jeffrey Spender, examining some X-rays from 
the victims of his latest case.  A small, plastic tree perched on a table in another corner, red and green lights blinking on and 
off.  Turning toward the spirit, he tried to redeem himself once again.  "I have given Spender power, a man can't ask for 
anything more.  He was a nobody until I came along."
"Ah, yes, but now he is hated by other nobodies who tried out for the position.  Some think he is involved with covert 
political groups.  And I ask, why is he working on Christmas?"  
The scene once again changed and Temple found himself in the middle of the FBI Christmas party.  The spirit led him 
first to a group of men, involved in a conversation.  They were joined by Diana Fowley.
"Diana, where's your partner?  Did his mom tell him he couldn't come?" one taunted.
"Nope, remember, his mom was 'abducted'." Diana joked along.  The others roared with laughter.
"We wouldn't have let the pansy in anyway!  He has no right being in the FBI."
"He would probable cry if he was ever shot."
"Not like he'll ever get shot working on the X-Files!"
"Hey, I heard that Scully shot Mulder once."
"Ha ha!  I think Spender should hang around Scully more!"
"Let us go, spirit, I understand that no one likes Spender."  Temple said.  Another apartment now came into focus.  A 
large studio apartment surrounded them.  Lavishly decorated with art and furniture, it was clear that the owner possessed a 
large amount of wealth.  A straggly tree, needles falling off, sat practically dead on the wood floor.  One small wrapped 
package lay beneath the tree.  "It is obvious what I have given this child!" laughed Temple as he motioned around the room.  
"But is that really what this child needs?  Or wants?  Do you even know his hopes and aspirations?" the spirit 
questioned.
"Alex Krycek has no hopes or aspirations.  Look at him." Temple replied, pointing to a coach, where Krycek lay in his 
leather jacket and dirty clothes.  He emitted a drunken groan and rolled over, upsetting a bottle of empty vodka.  The phone 
rang and the message machine instantly clicked on.
"Alex.  I know you're there.  It's Marita; I need to talk to you.  Look, just call me back when you're sober enough."
Another inebriated moan arose from the couch.
"Maybe all he wants is freedom." The ghost said.  "Come now, there are other places to go tonight."
"I thought you said that I was only visiting my children." Temple said surprised.
"You are." the apparition answered
"But…there are no more" Temple began, stopping as the scene changed.  The apartment walls pulled in, the windows 
grew dense, the white walls changed to off white, and the furniture was downscaled.  Not a single item was the same between 
the two apartments, except for one detail: where Krycek had laid on his couch, another body lied on this one.  "It can't be!" 
Temple exclaimed.  "She would have told me if it had been so!"
"Your affair with Teena Kuipers was long lasting, was it not?" the ghost asked.
"Yes, but… If I had known, I…I…I could have helped him!"  
"Like you helped Jeffrey Spender?  Like you helped Alex Krycek?" 
"I could have saved the X-Files for him."
"What difference is it that he is your son or not?" the spirit questioned.  "I ask you, what have you given this child?"
"Well, I've…I've helped….I gave him…." Temple stuttered, trying to think of any way in which he helped."
"You took away his sister, ruined his parent's marriage, issued the order to kill his father, took away his job, his wealth 
along with his job." the spirit replied.  As if on cue, a sharp knock resounded through the apartment.  Fox Mulder pulled 
himself up from the couch and walked to the door.  The door opened and revealed his partner, Dana Scully.  
"Aha!" Temple announced.  "I have given Mulder Scully."
"You assigned Scully to debunk Mulder's work.  She gave herself to Mulder." The apparition replied.
"Scully.  I thought you were with your family over at your mother's." Mulder said surprised.
"Family isn't everything it's chalked up to be, Mulder, trust me on that.  I thought I would have more fun here."
"Well, I'd be happy to prove that wrong.  Come in." Mulder answered jokingly, stepping aside to allow Scully in.
"Before I come in, I have a gift." Scully said smiling.  Mulder could see that she held an object behind her back.  
Evergreen branches protruded from behind her back in every direction.  
Desperately trying not to laugh, Mulder replied, "Well what could it be?  One of my favorite videos?  A new stapler 
for work?  I would love that.  A monkey wrench?  Hmm…I give up."  Drawing the short tree from her back, she presented it to 
him.  "I don't need a tree, Scully."
"Of course you do.  What's Christmas without a tree?" Scully asked.
"I don't celebrate Christmas.  I celebrate Festivus." Mulder said.
"Festivus?"
"Yeah, you know, from Seinfeld…"  Receiving a blank look from Scully he muttered "Never mind."
"I have decorations too" she remarked, picking up a box from the floor.  Mulder let her into the apartment.  A path of 
pine needles that reached to the elevator trailed behind her.  They quickly began putting up the tree, decorating it with strings 
of lights and popcorn.  Most of the popcorn ended up in Mulder's mouth rather than the tree.  Occasional laughs burst forth into 
the cheerful Christmas air.
"Spirit, how is this?  The one child that I have tortured emotionally and physically for years, the only one which I have 
not tried to help, is happier than all the others combined." Temple remarked.
"He is the only one that you have not forced your influence upon.  He is walking his own path.  He has one that he can 
love - not physically or romantically, but truly love as a human being.  For all that has happened to him in his live, he has 
compassion and can still love; though he has often been deceived.  Scully has helped him see this; that to live, one must 
embrace their wounds, not fret over them.  In her own way, Scully is Mulder's guardian angel.  I hear the church bells tolling 
twelve, we must leave this place now."  And so Temple found the room dissipating as his eyes began to feel heavy and his 
body numb.


CHAPTER FOUR - THE LAST OF THE SPIRITS

	He lifted his eyes and found himself standing in a barren field.  Then his eyes fell upon a figure dressed in a black 
cloth.  Its head was covered by a hood, its face by a dark shadow.  It was almost as if the spirit had no face, no eyes, no mouth, 
just a shadowy head.  As the Ghost of Christmas Past had seemed to float toward him, and the Ghost of Christmas Present had 
walked, the Ghost of Christmas Future limped along slowly, aged and weary.  Yet even this frightened Temple, more than the 
sight of Dempsey's ghost.  The cabalism was alarming in its own way.  The sky behind the spirit grew black with ominous 
storm clouds, the air full of humidity.  No animals or life grew in his path, as if anticipating the foreboding figure.  
	"Are you the Ghost of Christmas Future?" Temple asked shakily.  He received no answer from the figure that now 
towered above him.  "Are you here to show me what will be?"  Still, no answer.  The spirit pointed its wrinkled hand toward 
the way it had come.  Nodding in understanding, Temple followed the Specter.
	He soon found himself in his apartment, unchanged from when he had stepped out of it the night before.  Yet time had 
passed.  From the kitchen came a low, quiet voice.  "I don't want any more of your money.  How does it help me?  It doesn't.  I 
want to go, I want to leave this place.  I fight for my life daily, whether from Mulder or the police or colleague retaliation.  I 
don't need more of your money."  A loud gun shot followed, alarming Temple.  Krycek ran out of the apartment, weapon in 
tow.  Temple fearfully looked toward the specter, who pointed his hand toward the doorway from which Krycek had run.
	"No, please don't make me go in there.  Please." Temple begged.  But the hand remained still, pointing toward the 
door.  Slowly, Temple made his way to the door.  Looking in, he saw his body on the floor, a bullet entry wound on his 
forehead.  A puddle of blood had already begun to form, crimson and thick, and would soon carpet the kitchen.  His eyes were 
still open, devoid of life, thought they looked about the same as they normally did.  Something haunted them, though, the what-
ifs and if-onlys.  From the positioning of the body, Temple could tell that his future self had been begging for mercy at the time 
of death.  Temple took a few steps back in horror.  A second later, he was encompassed by the apparition's cloak and deposited 
in a noisy hall.  The corridor was long, filled with men and women in suits and dresses who rushed to and fro doing their usual 
duties.  Temple and the ghost stood in front of the elevators, which announced their arrival by a chime.  The doors swiftly 
opened and out stepped Agents Mulder and Scully.  Scully was explaining to Mulder how UFOs defied the laws of physics and 
just could not exist.  They were stopped by AD Skinner, who motioned them into his office.
	"Agents, I have some…good news." he began.  Opening a file, he displayed it for the two agents.  "This man, known 
to us only as Cancerman, was found dead in his apartment yesterday evening by the landlord.  No known records of his past 
could be found.  He was labeled as another John Doe."
	"Can we be sure?  We've been tricked in the past."  Mulder asked.
	"His body is in the morgue refrigerators, wrapped up in a bow.  You may start the autopsy any time you wish, Agent 
Scully."  Skinner began, and at mention of this certain autopsy even Scully's eyes twinkled with sadistic delight.  "Merry 
Christmas agents."  Scully scampered off, Mulder in tow in the general direction of the morgue.  The ghost followed them, 
Temple reluctantly behind it.  An hour later, Scully wheeled out the body after readying her tools.  Mulder stood leaning 
against a far wall, cracking sunflower seeds between his teeth.  Usually avoiding Scully's pet subjects, he decided to stay for 
this autopsy.  
	"The victim is one John Doe…." Scully began, finishing with: "I'll begin with the Y-incision."  And so the cutting and 
clipping, poking and prodding began.  Temple began to grow even paler than his present state when Scully started weighing his 
organs.  "Lungs…" she said, and the lungs were placed into the scale with a small plop.  Black and disfigured, Temple instantly 
lost the urge for a cigarette.  Two hours later, pure torture for Temple, his body was wheeled back into cold storage.  The cause 
of death: a bullet wound to the temporal lobe.  The bullet had been cleaned and sent to diagnostics.
For the second time, Temple was enveloped within the spirit's black robe, and blackness took over.  When light once 
again became present Temple found himself in Arlington Cemetery.  The monuments, large and small, ornate and plain, 
surrounded him.  "Are one of these for me?  An ornate gravestone of my own?" Temple asked, more to himself than to the 
apparition.  And once again, the spirit raised its ancient hand, this time away from the hill they stood on and toward one 
covered with small, plain, identical white crosses.  Walking to the place the specter pointed, he observed a number - 3692, 
which was the only indication of the man who was buried there.  "Of course." He whispered.  "I'm just another nameless face, 
grouped among the bunches.  How fitting."
And yet again, the scenery changed.  Temple was now surrounded by the East 46th Street Office.  Men sat around the 
room, smoking and drinking.  "Now that Temple is dead we have some loose ends to clean up.  Those left over from the project 
that he has been protecting." remarked one.  A chorus of agreement filled the room.
"Send a sniper to the residence of Samantha Mulder Collins.  Make sure she is eliminated along with any offspring."
Temple gasped in dismay.  "Not Sam.  Not my daughter."  Even as he spoke these words, the office dispersed and was 
replaced by a familiar home on Martha's Vineyard.  Entering the home that belonged to William Mulder, he encountered Teena 
Mulder, sitting on the worn couch, still covered by a dusty sheet.  A photo album sat in her lab, now wet with fallen tears.  Her 
hair was gray, almost completely white, her green eyes dulled by age, yet she was still beautiful, the only thing that she had not 
lost in the years.  Finding the picture she had been looking for, she removed it and placed the album on the ground.
She ripped the picture in two, setting one half aside.  Now holding the other half, portraying Bill Mulder and Vincent 
Temple, she sighed.  Suddenly, without warning, she ripped it into small pieces, dropping them to the floor in a pile.  The 
pieces of Mulder mixed with those of Temple, both left to a communal fate.  She now picked up the remaining half, of her and 
her children, Fox and Samantha.  Fox, so driven that he often became lost in himself.  And Samantha, her baby girl, lost to the 
wind, much like Cruesa, wife of the adventurous Aeneas.  But not she was gone, never to return.  Temple also, she had held a 
flame of hope that he too would return to her.  But nevermore.  With this last thought, she picked up a glass of water that had 
sat waiting on a near by table.  Thirty empty sleeping pill capsules laid next to it.  Temple lunged toward her, seeing what was 
happening, forgetting the fact that he was unable to change the events.  Tears running down his face, he begged her to wake, 
but to no avail.  
"Spirit, take me home.  I have learned my lesson, everyone who has ever come into contact with me has been doomed 
from the start."  The spirit stood still, waiting for Temple to continue.  "I must possess hope and compassion to find happiness 
and satisfaction.  Only then will those I care about find it themselves.  Those lucky few who already have are fortunate.  Over 
the years I have been too self-centered to see beyond myself, but from now on, spirit, I will look beyond my sphere and see that 
of others."  Breaking down into sobs, crouching next to the couch on which the late Teena Mulder lay, Temple was transported 
to his own home. 

 
CHAPTER FIVE - THE END OF IT

	It took a few moments for Temple to notice that the material his head lay on was indeed his own.  Yet when he did, he 
jumped up and ran to the grandfather clock.  The hands had stopped moving, broken as it had been for years.  Dashing to the 
door he threw it open and encountered two small children running through the hall.  "You, there!" he shouted.  "What day is 
today?"
	The children looked at each other, then burst into laughter, merrily saying, "Why, it's Christmas, what other day would 
it be?"
	Temple hurried back into the apartment and quickly threw on his clothes.  There was still time!  He had not missed 
Christmas!  He could still change his life, and his children's.
	And in that day, four gifts were sent.  And four lives changed.  
	Samantha Mulder Collins received an address, which led to her brother and her family.
	Alex Krycek received a counterfeit passport, under the name Raoul Bloodworth.  Within ten minutes he was packed 
and on his way to board a plane to Europe.
	Jeffrey Spender was transferred to the Federal Emergency Management Agency, where he was given a modest 
position, and soon worked his way through the ranks by his own hand.
	And finally, Fox Mulder and Dana Scully were once again reassigned to the X-Files, and embraced the move 
wholeheartedly.
	Vincent Temple was never seen again.  His apartment sat empty for months.  Some say that he helped those he could 
and then left this mortal coil to join the ghosts that had visited him.  Others believe that like Krycek, he left the country to find 
freedom.  Some think he embraced his transformation and became a generous man, spreading love and cheer wherever he 
went. But a small minority say that in the last few years, Teena Kuipers Mulder has found a new love for life.  She bloomed in 
her maturity, strengthened by an unknown force.  While too late to save himself, Vincent Temple aided the lives he could 
salvage, and in doing so, inadvertently found redemption.