Hume Nisbett (0:12)

Hume put down his brush. It wasn't working. He could put paint to canvas, but it was just that. Paint on canvas. It wasn't art. Not today. He stood in his studio and then started putting his paints away. As he did so, he thought about his choices, the ones that led him here. Choosing his art over family, friends, love. His eyes went to the letters by the door from his sister. He loved his art. But what about on nights like tonight, when art abandoned him, when no amount of work would flow from the tip of his brush? You can't force it, he consoled himself. Once all his paints were away, he went down to the pub. But since it was Christmas Eve, he could hardly find a seat. He was alone, even in a bustling restaurant. He was cold, with the fire and warmth all around him. After eating alone, tucked in the dismal corner with the moving shadows that were absolutely rats, Hume found his way back up to his studio. He was restless. He drank too much to sit down with the book and not enough to go to bed. It was too cold for a walk. Then he snapped his fingers. Perfect. The frames. He went by a shop just over in Soho last week and bought a few frames. He never cared much for what was on them. Either it was kitschy, sentimental tripe, or it was. He looked at one of the frames. Yikes. It was a publican, a heavy set, graying man, and it was detailed. Every wrinkle, every vein, every knob in his arthritic hand. It was like when you see your nose in one of those curved mirrors or someone takes a way too high resolution photo of you. Whoever painted this pub owner either loved him enough to accurately recreate every detail of the man's face, or absolutely hated him enough to accurately recreate every every detail of the man's face. The artist was a genius by both ridiculing this man and giving him exactly what he wanted. Given that this masterpiece was in a second hand shop in Soho, though, it wasn't terribly precious and definitely not enough to save. Hume pressed in on the canvas a bit. And yeah, it could be reused. Three of the corners of the frame were chipped, but they could be recreated from the template. The fourth provided meant he'd still come out ahead, cost wise. Hume held the painting up. The publican's bulging, rheumy eyes looked both at him and nowhere in particular. Sorry, friend, Hume said, set the painting down, dipped his sponge in the water and got to scrubbing. And as he did, he noticed that there was something underneath the painting. There were eyes looking back at him. I'm Jason Weiser from NextPod. This is fictional. The aroma of wine and the stench of turpentine combined with about three hours of deliberate nudges with the sponge. He resisted looking at it in total until after a final wash and after the clock struck midnight, he saw her. It was masterful. As a painter, he marveled at the technique someone had used to recreate her. And as a man, frankly, he was captivated. She looked out with eyes that seemed to match how he felt that evening. Lonely. Lost, forlorn. Her black hair hung down one side, spilling onto her neck and chest that glowed with an otherworldly pallor. She was wearing a black dress. The setting was a crypt that seemed to stretch out behind her. The whites of her eyes, the pallor of her skin and her lips were all the same. She was like a statue looking out at him, not so much begging for help, but knowing that no help was coming. He felt a draw to her that was only heightened by his fear and unease. It felt like somehow she would have understood him. It was then that he noticed the frame. What he had previously taken be flowers and stems. They were worms. Worms in charnel house bones. Hideous and beautiful. It seemed to heighten the theme of death and despair of the woman in the painting. It was then that he realized that he was alone, utterly in the darkness of his studio. Not even his flat. He wasn't just the only one in the studio. He was the only one in the building. He shuddered and went to go add some wood to the stove. Then he realized how tired he was. It was nearly 1am and he had been working all night. He lay down on the couch and as he pulled the blanket from the top, he saw her. The painting. He had left it propped up against the wall and it was facing him. But the blanket was warm and the studio cold and as off putting as the frame and the painting were. She. There was something alluring about her. Her gray skin and her sad eyes that seemed to gaze off into nowhere. Except as sleep started to take him. She wasn't looking off to nowhere. She was looking at him. Then she blinked. Hume jerked up with a start. What? The eyes looking at him blinked again. And the woman. She. She gasped. She looked around her and her slender fingers found the edge of the frame and then they felt the outside of the frame. She looked as confused as he felt, but then her other hand found the other side. She looked back at the crypt behind her and shuddered. As if with trepidation. She leaned forward and looked out into the room. When she spotted Hume, relief washed over her face. Hume was wondering if he was going absolutely mad. Did he need to vent that turpentine? Like, what was going on? How was this happening? Her fingers traced the edges and she sat on the bottom edge of the frame, swinging her legs around and her bare feet finding the floor. Soon she was standing, her billowy black dress hovering mere inches above her feet. She seemed to float toward Hume. Um, hi, hume muttered as she leaned down, pressing him back on the couch. She spread her hands out on his chest and kissed him. She kissed his face and neck. Her long black hair fell onto his face and it was ecstasy. She worked her way back up. Then she looked him in the eyes and kissed his lips. It was intoxicating. He began to forget about the frame and the worms. He just wanted her. He forgot about her eyes and her bloodless lips. As she kissed him, more seemed to fade, too. The dour night in the pub, the work that just wouldn't come, the despair of being alone. It all disappeared in her arms. He felt like he was floating. Then a flash. Too much. It wasn't fading, it was leaving him. The despair first, then the joy. The thrill of making art, the warmth of holding his nieces and nephews or meeting a friend or falling in love. She. She was taking it. He was floating. But it wasn't intoxicating. It was terrifying. He wasn't enraptured. He was in her power. Finally, his very breath began to leave him. And he heard a voice. Her voice. Like a song. It told him to let go. With her, there was no more fear, no more pain, no more despair, no more anything. But Hume pushed back. No. Life may be difficult, but it was better than oblivion. If he died, he. He would die fighting. He cried out and he pushed her away. Hum awoke with a scream on his couch, the cold light of the late Christmas morning coming in through the windows. He sat up and slicked his hair back, feeling his chest and face and vest and everything. He breathed. He was alive. It was. It was all a dream. Then his eyes looked past the sponges and water and towels, past the easels and paints and stacks of frames, to the walls, to the portrait, to the young woman. But the portrait had changed. The previous night she was cold and colorless and dead. Now her face was flush, her eyes bright, her lips full with a speck of blood on the bottom one. She had a hungry look in her eyes. She was looking at him. The story tells us that the narrator took his knife and cut out the canvas of the frame, stoked the fire and burned the canvas immediately, not taking his eyes off it until it was ash. At the end of the story, he still had the frame, but as grotesque as it was, he had not found a suitable use for it as of yet. I like to think that he then picked up the letter by the door and went to join his sister and their family for Christmas dinner. It was apparently a tradition in Victorian England to tell ghost stories on Christmas. If you think about it, it is the darkest time of the year and cold and bleak, so it does kind of fit today. On Fictional we have three Christmas ghost stories. The next begins with a surgeon who's eager to get out of work so he can get to that holiday punch. Alright, here we are sitting down in my chop, the surgeon said, finishing up his sandwich, wiping his hands on his pants and picking up a knife. Alright, time for surgery. I have some hot Christmas punch waiting for me after this. The surgeon nodded to his assistant. The assistant didn't comment on the surgeon calling surgery his chop or just how motivated he was by alcohol. The assistant was selling newspapers last week and now he was an orderly in a surgeon's office. So maybe all these are common practice. Uh, hi, the surgeon said when he exited his office and passed the waiting room before heading to the operating room. The man before him had a ghastly visage. His eyes were sunken and ringed with blue. Disheveled hair brushed a greasy collar as he propped himself up on the desk at the front of the surgeon's office. The assistant was also the secretary. Patients were scarce in this part of London, in fees even more so. The surgeon had sawed off the arm of a conscious human and even he found this man unsettling. The stranger seemed panicked and desperate. I'm sorry, I'm just about to go into surgery. I can't diagnose and pres No, I am not ill. With every word, the stranger seemed only breaths away from screaming or sobbing or both. I believe you are not rich, the man said, gesturing to the surgeon, the office, and the secretary. Assistant, orderly, would you be willing to earn £1,000? The man's hand shook as he stroked his beard. The surgeon had to stifle a laugh. Um, yeah, yeah, he would. That would take him multiple years, though for some context. £1,000 in 1900 is about £150,000 today, or US$200,000. The surgeon decided he would humor the man. What would be the service required of me simply to attend a deathbed? The blue black lips muttered. Oh, that's that's all. Whose? Mine? The voice sounded hollow and distant. The surgeon stepped forward and circled him. Sure, the man was a bit dirty and pale, but he seemed healthy. He brought himself to the office under his own will and power. He certainly wasn't dying. Hush, he interrupted. I know all of this. You cannot be more convinced of my physical health than I am myself. Yet I know that before the clock tolls the first hour after midnight, I shall be a dead man. The surgeon opened up his mouth, but he didn't know what he planned to say. Luckily, the stranger continued, he, according to his quavering lips, received a mysterious summons from the dead. No mortal aid could avail him. He was doomed. This was a fact. He just he wanted someone to witness it. A medical man. The surgeon, like most of his age, had been in the war, had he not? The surgeon nodded. The old man said then he wasn't a stranger to horrors. This some may seem extravagant, but it didn't matter. After tonight he would have no use for it. He set a piece of parchment down on the table. Pointing to it, he said he had it drawn up within the last 24 hours and signed in the presence of witnesses. And it said, and to Mr. Frederick Keed of 14 High Street, I bequeath the sum of £1,000 for certain services rendered to me. Mr. Keed looked to the will and then to his assistant. Cancel the appointment. It was late when he left his office, and later, when they arrived at the snowy hillocks of the churchyard, a church bell rang off in the distance. The men listened as they walked in silence. Eleven, groaned the stranger. Gracious God, Two hours. Two more hours and the ghostly messenger would bring the summons. They continued walking through the snow until they arrived at a low wall and a large mansion, which we could probably just say mansion by the time the man settled into the chair in the room upstairs, there was only an hour and a half remaining, according to him and the quaver in his voice. Shaking in the chair, he said he thought he had more fortitude. He thought he would be braver in the end. He shuddered and pointed to Mr. Keed. The surgeon would see. He would see. The surgeon shook his head. This was obviously a troubled man. He lived alone in a mansion that wasn't haunted, but it was so tropey it might as well be surrounded by graves, dilapidated cobwebs, unaccountable creaks and noises far off. What this man needed was a good night of sleep. Sit back, Mr. Keats said, and rose off near the table in an adjacent room was a dusty bottle of wine the doctor had seen on his way in. He pulled the cork, found a glass, and poured it. Then he looked on the man, still shaking in the chair. Why? Might not do it. Popping open a vial of sleeping powder, Mr. Keed emptied half, no, the whole thing. As much as he wanted the thousand pounds, he wasn't going to let this man suffer when the surgeon could help him. The surgeon helped him with his coat and his shoes, and the man, half insensible already, took the wine and drank it in a few gulps. Mr. Keed settled him down in bed. The stranger wouldn't receive any summons that night. The surgeon would stay, though he should see this through and he could sleep on that couch against the wall. He poured himself a big glass of wine, tapped what remained of the sleeping powder into his glass and down it. He found a blanket and pillow, removed his shoes, and settled into the couch after pushing it up against the doorway to that private staircase in the back of the room. Ten minutes later, he got up and pulled the curtain between him and the man. The fire was keeping him up, and moments later he was asleep. Then everything was blue with the ringing of church bells off in the distance. The surgeon blinked awake and the room was awash in blue light. From behind the curtain, he was about to utter the stranger's name when he heard a cry. No, no. He heard from the stranger. Noiselessly. He crept across the room and peeked behind the curtain. The surgeon froze. There was someone else in the room. It seemed to float above the floorboards, wearing clothes that looked like they came from the grave. Its face was torn and festering and eyes seemed to glow green. One of its hands reached toward the bed, the other hung like a claw at its side. The surgeon. Look, he cared about the man. He did. But that thing, whatever it was, didn't seem to notice him. And he wasn't about to confront an actual ghost and end up like the stranger. It was over in minutes. The ghost leaned over the man, whispered something in his ear, and even though the surgeon ducked back behind the curtain to avoid looking, he couldn't not hear the horrid whispers. Then the man was choking. The surgeon shot up. If the man was dying, he had to do something. He stepped out and the ghost was gone. The blue of the fire was already fading back to a warm orange. And the man. Well, he was dying. He was convulsing on the bed and the surgeon ran over just in time for the man to grip his jacket and then go limp. The surgeon had seen enough to know that the stranger was dead. The surgeon read his pocket watch in the light of the fire. 104. He checked the body without touching it. No apparent punctures or trauma. No bruising. It was like the man had his soul pulled from him by a ghost. Which was, yes, ridiculous. But it was the only explanation. Regardless, the surgeon had to go. He made a note of the time of death, and if anyone came asking about it, he would tell them. But as for right now, he literally could not afford to be investigated for murder. Making ends meet was difficult as it was, and if word got out about this man that wasn't even his patient. Nope, this would have happened if he wasn't here. And not telling anyone about it wasn't wrong, because no one would have known about it anyway. Taking his wine glass with him, he slipped down the back stairs, back across the courtyard, and ran all the way home. Hey, isn't that the man who wanted you to watch him die? The assistant asked as he and the surgeon were on their way home from a house call. The surgeon looked to the church. The one by the mansion. What? No. Sure it is, the assistant said. It's the guy you keep pretending didn't come in and offer you the equivalent of 200k to watch him die and you shut up the clinic for the last surgery. I don't even know what clinic you're referring to. The surgeon grimaced. That was too far in terms of denial. Still, he didn't have to answer this employee's questions, and in a time with very few worker protections, the assistant knew better than to ask. They made their way back to the clinic to find someone waiting for them. The man doffed his hat and explained that he was a solicitor working for the estate of the rich man, the stranger. It was odd, but Mr. Keed was named in the man's will. Did Mr. Keed know him? Mr. Keed laughed. What? No, of course not. The solicitor folded the will as he thought it did seem strange that the man would leave him the equivalent of 200k. Mr. Keed sighed and looked to the assistant. Yes, okay, he did know the stranger and that he was named in the will. He was sorry to hear that he died from the newspaper, like everyone else heard it. Did the solicitor have his money? The solicitor said that, well, there was a bit of a snag. You see, the rich man was married and his wife was contesting the will. She got everything except for that £1,000, but she wanted everything, including the £1,000 she was requesting to see Mr. Keed. In her late husband's mansion to ascertain the nature of the pair's acquaintance. The solicitor said the mansion was up. Oh, I know where it is, the surgeon said, then backtracked. It is what I would say if I knew where it is, but I don't. What's a mansion, then? He swore. Nope, too far again. The mansion, warm and glowing from the outside, might as well have been a completely different place. He heard about her weeping inconsolably at her husband's casket. Mr. Key didn't know the man was married, or if he was, hadn't seen any evidence of it in the mansion. Mr. Key greeted the woman at the door. He had come looking for Mrs. Mysterious Stranger, presumably this woman's mother. The woman at the door laughed. No, Mr. Keed. He was looking for her. Come right in. The house was bright and decorated. The cobwebs were gone. It was nothing like the other night. Mr. Keed took his scarf off in front of the roaring fire and took a seat at the woman's bidding. She said this was awkward, but how did the surgeon know her husband? And why did the man leave him the equivalent of US$200,000? She turned to prepare the surgeon a drink. Mr. Keed said the man was troubled. He thought he was dying. He wanted to come speak to a doctor. And yet he went to a surgeon in your part of town? The woman smirked. She said he was right about one thing, though. Her late husband was troubled in his last days. He thought he was haunted by a ghost coming to take vengeance for all the terrible things he had done in life. And there were terrible things, Mr. Keed. My husband could be cruel. He was lecherous. He was spiteful. No one will miss him. I don't know what sort of low life friend he made in you or why he left you that money, but you will not see any of it. You can fight it in the courts if you wish, but I don't think you have the means to challenge his entire estate. She handed him his drink and he had to stifle a gasp. What's wrong? The surgeon took the drink. Nothing. It was. Well, it was as if he had seen a ghost. He threw back the drink and rose. Oh, one more thing. He wasn't a low life friend of her husband's. He didn't even know the man. Their relationship, as others in his life no doubt were, was purely transactional. Her husband asked the surgeon to note how he died. So that night, up in the apartment, up the main stairwell, third door on the right the surgeon said. He sat with the doctor until he grew tired and thinking his tales to be a mere ghost story. The surgeon did go to sleep, but he was awoken by a ghoul. A monster, A horrible creature that haunted the old man and seemed to know all of his sins. Of all the things in the ghoul, from the sunken eyes to its tattered grave clothes, the surgeon noticed one thing in particular. The woman was already reeling. The surgeon pointed to her left hand. The ghost appeared to have a claw, but I noticed it was missing the ring finger on its left hand. Just like you are, it seems. The wife brought her hand to her chest. The surgeon set his glass down on the table and picked up his hat. He had taken extensive notes on that night. He wondered if the coroner might like to read those. He donned his cap, nodded, and walked out the door, heart beating out of his chest. The entire Two days later, the bell in his shop rang and cleaning the blood off his hands, Mr. Keed stepped out. It was the solicitor working with the estate of the mysterious stranger. He slid an envelope across. There was his inheritance. He counted out the £900. There was the legacy duty tax and slipped the rest in his pocket. He said, wow. So the wife wasn't challenging it anymore. The solicitor laughed. Nope. Whatever he said worked. Mr. Keed shrugged. Should he say thanks? The solicitor laughed again. He could good luck finding her, though. She took her share and left for the continent. He the solicitor, was in charge of selling off the mansion, but that would be kind of hard. Why is that? The surgeon asked. Well, that's why she was leaving. Apparently she saw the ghost, the one that killed her husband. Our third and final story today starts out with a young woman who has lost her parents and she's been sent to live with her uncle in a big old Dower mansion with a secret. Bertha sat across the table from Mrs. Dipperton, her new governess. Smiling, Bertha said she thought she might go out and pick flowers today to brighten up the house. Her smile was not reciprocated either from Mrs. Dipperton or Lord Applejoy. Your uncle enjoys the scientific study of those flowers. They are not to be touched. Mrs. Dipperton didn't look up from her sliced ham and anemic berries. Lord John Applejoy gave a stately and dignified hmph, noting his approval or his will or his existence. It was all quite unclear. But they were not to ask for clarification. They were to understand and obey, at least as far as Mrs. Dipperton described it. Bertha's old life had vibrancy and flowers and Tom. That was before the illness that drained all the color from her world. Now she lived as if in a tomb with two specters. Lord John Applejoy, having long shed his need to work, simply existed. He frittered away his life in small diversions, the days becoming weeks becoming years. He looked somehow young and impossibly old, like a child who pretended to be an old man for so long that he forgot who he was. Helping him in his slow crawl toward mortality was Mrs. Dipperton, who labored under the irrefutable conclusion that Lord Applejoy knew what he was doing, that his word was law. She would spend her life in service of his and in that way make it worthy. At least this was what Bertha saw. Bertha, now just 19, could feel the house beginning to drain her own color, her own youth, embalming her until she became the next Mrs. Dipperton for whoever inherited this estate, and the cycle would begin anew. She tried to engage them in conversation over breakfast, but in the months since she arrived, Lord Applejoy could only mumble about the Empire this or the stock market that. Mrs. Dipperton only corrected her posture, her chewing, even her dictionary, though she never responded to the content of her words. After lunch was more instruction, embroidery, drawing, violin, and French. After, Bertha would be allowed some leisure time to explore the grounds, though after the first time she came back with a torn dress from the forest red, jellied eel from the street vendors. Her external excursions were limited to the garden only, and only when Mrs. Dipperton could lend an eye out the window. Now that it was December, though, Bertha was forbidden from doing even that. It didn't matter, though, because that's not where she wanted to be anyway. All Mrs. Dipperton was down in the kitchen. She found her way up to the third floor. It was strange. She knew that Lord Applejoy herself and Mrs. Dipperton were the only ones in the house. So why did she hear noises on the fourth floor? When she asked Mrs. Dipperton about it, the woman only laughed at her girlish fancy. They didn't have a fourth floor. It happened every morning now. As she walked up the second floor stairs, there were footsteps that she could hear through the ceiling above her, voices. But as soon as she set foot on the third floor, nothing. Silence. She spent days looking around for an entrance to an attic or something, but if there was one, it was hidden well. Whatever was going on up there, it was meant to stay a secret. While her finger was tracing the wall of the third bedroom on the floor. She suddenly knew that she wasn't. She wasn't alone. The small hairs on her neck stood up. She felt a chill. She turned and screamed and Lord Applejoy started. Bertha smiled. Oh, it was only him. You can't be here. Lord Applejoy was serious, but not in the usual absent minded way. He was scared. I just thought I heard noises. Bertha pointed to the ceiling. You didn't. Lord Applejoy's eyes widened. Bertha said, but every day then, something peculiar happened. Lord Applejoy's eyes seemed to glaze over. His neck twitched to the side and then straightened. He looked down to Bertha with a sneer. Leave, he said, his eyes burning. Bertha trembled. Lord Applejoy, luncheon is ready. A voice called out from the door. It was Mrs. Dipperton. Bertha looked back to her uncle and he was his normal, meek, mild self. He looked confused. He tapped his lip like he didn't even see. Bertha looked to the bookshelf and with a nod slipped a book free. Slouching, he went to join Mrs. Dipperton at the door. Bertha followed, looking at the ceiling as she went. She didn't know what was happening, but someone, something else was in this house. As far as she could tell. If Lord Applejoy had any memory of their talk, he didn't betray it to her. That really was nothing new. He didn't speak to her much anyway. Mrs. Dipperton did more than enough of that for both of them. Each night she was permitted a little bit of tea and some quiet needlework or reading with Mrs. Dipperton and Lord Applejoy in the sitting room. And then she retired early to her room on the second floor, where she would lay and dream of the life that that was, the one she had, the one that was gone now. She would dream of Tom. Tom Burcham. He had been in love with her before. Bertha held her breath. She didn't know how she knew, but she could feel it. Someone. There was someone else in the room. There was that same chill as earlier that day. On the third floor. Someone was here. Daring to open her eyes, she saw him. A tall man in a cocked hat. He wore a waistcoat trimmed with lace. In his one hand a cane, his other stretched out toward her. He looked down at her, eyes wide. She could see the outline of the doorway and the window. Through him he was a ghost, a specter. Bertha was not going to go quietly. She wasn't going to be scared. She lost her parents. She lost Tom. She had to live in this dismal mausoleum with these two Shades. She wasn't going to be cowed by a third. She sat up and looked the ghost in the eye. Oh, you're awake. The ghost smiled. Yes, and I'm not scared of you, she lied, but prayed the ghost couldn't hear the quiver in her voice. Oh, my gosh. Good. I was so worried you would be. The ghost looked visibly relieved. Bertha sat up. Um, he was. Wasn't that what ghosts do? Haunt? What was going on? Then she gasped. Wait. I know you, she said. The painting in the entryway. You're Lord Tom Applejoy the First. The man dipped his cocked hat. Her great grandfather, she said. But he was dead. The ghost grew. Grew confused. He looked around the room. I'm dead. What? I know. He laughed. Yeah, I've been dead for, I don't know, nearly a hundred years. Now I live in the attic. Well, lived being not the term for it, but I hear you up there, she said. He said he knew she was the reason why he had to be so quiet each morning. He didn't want to scare her. But then it was you who talked through my uncle. Yeah, sorry. Not used to vocal folds. It comes out all demonic, old Applejoy said. Does Uncle John know about you? Bertha crossed her legs and sat back against the wall. I mean, yes, old Applejoy said. In a way, John, look, you love your grandkids. But John could not be more different from him. While he, Old Lord Applejoy, was freewheeling and fun loving, John was serious and parsimonious. He mostly ignored Old Applejoy. The one place Old Applejoy could actually speak to him was in his dreams. And Mrs. Dipperton, um, she's so tightly wound, I think I would literally kill her from fear. Or she would get an exorcist in here and ugh. Bertha asked if that was something that would affect her grandfather. I don't know. I don't want to find out, old Applejoy said. He was so glad to be able to speak to Bertha, though. She brought life into this house after so many years. He was afraid of scaring her off with rumors of hauntings, so he stayed in the attic. She was like him, though. She loved life. She loved happiness and celebration and community. She was nothing like her one chicken uncle. She wasn't aware of that particular insult. One chicken. That was all the man had prepared. Christmas is in two days and he had one chicken that a cold leg of mutton, some cold boiled potatoes. No pies, no cider. Plenty of vinegar, though, suits him. That man is vinegar personified. Old Applejoy took A deep breath. He said he came here to apologize for earlier, but he also well, time was running out. He came with a request. She was going to find him eventually, he realized, and as such he didn't want the occasion to pass without celebration. He said he needed her to follow him to the cellar. She would see. Before she could protest, he told her to dress warmly and meet him downstairs. He sunk into the floor, head popping back up through. He said, also wear soft slippers that don't make no the brass lantern cast its light all around the room. Okay, go over there and grab the key to the glass cabinet and unlock it. Old Applejoy pointed. We're in my uncle's office and that's his cabinet. I can't do that, Bertha whispered back. Young lady, this is my office, and that is my cabinet that I never surrendered to your mealy apple of an uncle. It is unseated cabinet. With my own hands, I screwed the hook for that key onto the wall. You are within your rights to open it at my command. So she did. She used the key to open the cabinet to get more keys. Come, come, we must hurry, the ghost said, then paused. Well, that's not strictly speaking, true. They had all night, and he had literally forever. As they walked, he asked and Bertha said she wasn't afraid of the dark, dank subterranean regions of the house that Old Applejoy had overseen the creation of himself, the cellar that held his greatest treasure. As they walked and talked, he smiled. He wished that she had been alive when he was. They would have had so much fun together. Are we not having fun now? She asked, smiled, and unlocked the cellar door. As they walked on the uneven, rough hewn stone floor, he pointed to the casks off to his right choice spirits, those rum from Jamaica, brandy from France, and port from Madeira. The ghost clapped when they came to the little room at the end of the hall. Hurrying to the end, he pointed out the jars of mincemeat. On the wall at the end of the room sat on a small pedestal, a wooden box. Inside that box is an airtight tin. Inside the tin is a great plum cake. I placed it in the tin myself. Plum cake like that port out there gets better with age, and it's airtight, so basically no need to worry about spoilage. Same with the mincemeat jars. I've been watching over them so they aren't completely rotten and moldy by now as they would be otherwise. Don't worry about it, she said. Okay. She appreciated him showing her all this, but did he want her to have Christmas dinner with him or something, he said. Kind of. He wanted her to bring them up. If her uncle had his way, he would become a cold shade long before his time. He never celebrated anything. But. But she could change that. She could change everything. And it started with a Christmas party. Bertha didn't know Tom could come. Old Applejoy smiled. Narrowing her eyes, Bertha asked how he knew Tom. I don't. But I knew his father when he was a baby. Thomas of the Bircham family of the Meadows. It's a good family. I approve. The ghost smiled. You also say his name a lot in your sleep. Bertha smelled too. But you see, they had a problem. Her uncle, the ghost said he had tried to get through to the man but couldn't. What could she do? He smiled. Everything, dear. Everything like you gave me hope. You can give him hope, too. Bertha could feel her heart beat in her chest the following morning at breakfast. You need to clean yourself up after breakfast before your lessons, Mrs. Dipperton sneered. Bertha had finished up with the ghost, closed everything, and come back to her room just an hour before Mrs. Dipperton came to announce breakfast. Bertha ignored Mrs. Dipperton and turned to her uncle. I talked to him, bertha said. John didn't look up from his paper. Oh? Who? Lord Applejoy. I talked to him. He smiled. He was Lord Applejoy? No, the original, bertha said. He's been trying to speak with you for years, but you ignore him. John looked up briefly, then to the side. I know about the plum cake, bertha said. He showed me. Her uncle finally met her eyes. How did she know about the plum cake? Sealed in tin so it was still good and not rotten. He wants me to tell you something. He wants you to wake up, he said. As someone who has lived and died, you don't want to make it to the end and find you frittered away your time with small distractions. He wants you to know that his name and his grandson were meant for more than to languish and die in this house. He's disappointed, but it's not too late. Open up your life, open up your house, and open up your heart. John put down his paper and looked at the young woman. I don't traffic in superstition, and I don't believe in ghost stories, he said. But there was some truth to her words. He supposed he had gotten a little cloistered. It was easier than she might think. You say no to one thing, then another, then you start avoiding people. Soon it becomes overwhelming to do much of anything. But the idea, not the Fact. But the idea that his ancestor, the great forebearer Lord Applejoy, could be disappointed in him, it did make him re evaluate things. How, though? How could he change? What could he do? Bertha took her uncle's hand. Old Lord Applejoy actually had an idea for that, too. Bertha had expected opposition, at least from Mrs. Dipperton, but it turned out she was only a perfect extension of John Applejoy's coldness. She was still unyielding, but she was unyielding with the caterers and the delivery men and the decorators and anyone who would stand in the way of them throwing the best Christmas party the Applejoy estate had ever seen. For the first time in nearly a quarter of a century, they pulled the leaves to the grand table from storage. After breakfast that morning, John Applejoy skipped to his office to gather up all of his old correspondences, and come noon, messengers burst from the house like doves. Deliveries rushed in from the surrounding country as rumors abounded that this Christmas something had awoken in stodgy, sanctimonious John Applejoy, and that he was throwing a Christmas party to rival even old Lord Tom Applejoy. Mrs. Dipperton, commanding a legion of servants, seemed brimming with life and purpose. And Uncle John wouldn't stop smiling, clasping the hands of friends who, though they might have gone gray, had not forgotten him. His heart was full. The dinner was fantastic and everyone congratulated John, who said he couldn't have done it without Mrs. Dipperton and his niece Bertha, and, well, let's just say a reminder from a very old friend. Now that dinner was done, it was time to dance. Bertha, as lady of the house, would have the first dance. Everyone, Uncle John included, smiled when Tom Burcham, her beloved, whose side she hadn't left all night, came up and asked for her hand. But with a smile, she said, no, thank you. She would dance this first dance, but let's just say she would dance this first dance by herself. She turned to the man standing next to her, the one no one else could see, who had ghost tears welling up in his ghost eyes. And old Lord Applejoy took her hand. She thanked him. She thanked him for all of this, for helping her uncle, for this new life. When her parents passed, she thought her world had ended. But he changed all that. Old Lord Applejoy laughed. It wasn't him at all. He had been here for years. It was her. Her life and enthusiasm, her bravery and perseverance. She drew him from the attic. She convinced her uncle. She changed everything. She should never underestimate what one person could do, and she should never underestimate herself. A few moments later, the whole room watched as that strange, beautiful, eccentric young woman wiped her tears, bowed to no one in particular, and accepted the next dance from Thom Burcham. Today's stories were adaptations of the Old Portrait by Hume Nisbett, A Ghost's Summons by Ada Busson, and Old Applejoy's Ghost by Frank Stockton. Today's episode was both a Christmas special and a way to say that Fictional will in fact return in 2025. It's been a long break, I realize, and thank you to everyone who stayed, subscribed and wrote in with your support. We really appreciate that. I'm just finishing up the last multiparter for the next season and I want to be able to have everything ready before releasing, so I'm going to say look for Fictional in early spring, but that's not firm if you want to stay updated. I'll be posting on Twitter and Mastodon when the new episodes are out and we made a fictional channel in the Myths and Legends Discord Server to talk about the show. Links to all those in the show notes Fictional is by Jason and Carissa Weiser. Our theme song is by the amazing Breakmaster Cylinder. Thank you so much for listening and we'll see you soon. Happy Holidays.