The Second Ghost

She nervously looked around, then took a sharp breath, for she wished to challenge this ghost and not be taken by surprise. Finding the room was her's but then again not hers. For it no longer had walls but was roughed out in with two by four studs, a sawhorse stood in the middle of the floor, and the smell of freshly cut wood permeated the room.

Finally, she gathered her wits about her, got up gingerly from the bed looking for her slippers for sawdust littered the floor, as well. Since there were no longer walls separating her room from the living room, she spotted a light from under the studio door. Cautiously, making her way to the door, her hand reaching out to turn the knob, a voice called her by name.

"Come on in, Parker," the voice was familiar to her ear," Come in!"

Entering she saw the spirit's eyes, clear and kind, she turned away, afraid.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the spirit, "Look at me, Parker, for you know me."

"Thomas," she whispered, her eyes wide, for all the signs had been present, so there was no reason for her to be surprised.

"Come, there is much to see," he extended his hand. She touched the tips of his fingers and he lead her directly to her colleague's home, right to the front door they stood. Inside there were two figures gathered around the tree, one a small balding man and the other a petite ash-brown haired girl of around twelve. The girl was busy opening gift after gift, laughing and joking with her father. Parker watched the scene and turned her head away.

"What's wrong, Parker?" Thomas said, sadness lacing his voice.

"Nothing," she mumbled, though her eyes were misted with tears. That was the way a father should be with his daughter, she thought, yet could not give it voice.

"Is Miss Parker coming, Daddy?" the little girl asked.

"I'm afraid that I never got the chance to ask her, sweetness," Broots replied, watching the crushed expression in his daughter's face," but I'll take the gift you got for her to work with me, tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, but its the ice skating party at the pond. You promised," the little girl cried," Do you really have to go to work?"

"It was either work today, and miss spending time with my favorite lady or go tomorrow. I'm sorry, really. I'll make it up to you, I promise," Broots leaned over and kissed her on the forehead before he tickled her, causing gales of laughter to erupt and fill the room.

Without so much as a by your leave, Thomas had wisked them away and soon they were standing in a small bleak town, the street dusted in a lite coat of snow. A door opened, revealing two figures, one tall, the other shorter, yet she knew them, well. The Major and the boy. She watched as the two made their way to the small church across the way.

"Dad, do you think that Jarod's thinking about us?" the boy asked a smile on his face, watching the snowflakes that had begun to fall again, fascinated.

"Of course he is, just as we are thinking about him," the Major replied," Come on or we'll be late. I promised Father Murphy that we'd help with serving the homeless dinner. So shake a leg, young man."

"Coming," the boy ran to catch up, but not before he shouted, " Merry Christmas, Jarod."

Suddenly the bells in the steeple began to chime the half hour, and they were no longer in the small town but in the warm, lighted living room that housed her other colleague. That whom had been more of a father to her than her own. The same man that she rebuffed earlier that very afternoon. He stood laughing and enjoying the company of his son and his son's mother as well as Broots and Debbie.

"Syd, did you get a hold of Miss Parker?" Broots asked.

"I called, but there was no answer," the elderly gentleman replied.

"Do you think that she went looking for Jarod?" the other whispered, softly.

"I called the Centre, the switchboard said that she came in around ten, this morning and was still there," he shook his head, " ever since her mother died, she withdraws into herself, at holiday time. She was always so merry, perhaps I could have done more to help her but Mr. Parker. . . "

Sydney's sentence was interrupted by the shrill of his cell phone, reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew the device, placing the receiver next to his ear.

"This is Sydney."

"Merry Christmas, Sydney," the voice was that of Jarod's and it brought a small smile to the man, who answered," Tell me, Syd, why is she at the Centre, instead of with the only family that cares about her. Why?"

"I tried," the man replied.

"Not hard enough, Syd, not hard enough." The click of the phone and the return of the dial tone signalled the end of the call.

Releasing the breath that she held, Parker looked at Thomas and noticed that he had aged, his hair had greyed and his eyes were losing their twinkle.

"Is it time?" she asked, noticing that they had left the warmth and jovial company for the cold outdoors.

"Almost, time is short and the clock chimes the three quarters mark," he replied, sorrowfully, as he turned to face her. His hands were dripping blood, the crisp new snow no longer white but red.

"Thomas?" Miss Parker stared, appalled. Taking a step backwards, trying to look away, yet needing to know why.

"Don't turn away. It's the Centre's," said Thomas, looking down upon them, " I am those that went before me and those that went after me, Parker. It has to end. Who's going to end it? Him, them or you! "

The clock struck three. Parker looked to where Thomas had stood, but found him gone, instead there stood a phantom, shrouded in mist and fog. Remembering Brigette's warning, she realized that this was the last ghost to visit. Its cloak was black. Its form well hidden, except for one hand. An outstretched hand that pointed the way.

Part 4