A Conversation With Charles Dickens

The chill moved through the air in my bedroom and settled at the foot of the bed. I had forgotten to close the window. I’d been restless before crawling in bed and now I was cold. I ignored it for a few minutes then rolled over and got out of bed to close the window. The dog was on the foot of the bed sleeping. The cold air didn’t bother her. I threw the covers back angrily and sat up to make the ten step walk to the window.

The old house was built in 1866. It wasn’t that big, or grand. It had been added onto, updated and repaired several times, but it was in solid condition. I purchased it from a builder who felt he could never recoup his money and still had thousands of dollars in electrical repairs ahead of him. Since I was an electrician by trade, we struck a deal. I bought the house for too much money and updated the electrical myself. Now, the only current issues were that the wood floors were cold and the old divided light windows were hard as heck to open and close.

I walked across the cold floor to the south facing window and brushed the curtains out of the way. The window was closed. Huh. Drafty old house. I closed the curtains and turned back to my bed. I stopped, stunned. Startled. What was I seeing? It appeared an old man was sitting at the foot of the bed, right next to my dog. The dog was calm, though. In fact, still asleep.

“Where did you come from?” It was all I could think to say as I nervously grabbed a fireplace poker from the fireplace tools near the window.

No answer. He sat slumped over like he was dejected, sad. His long grey hair flowed out from under an old time sleeping cap.

“Where did you come from, how did you get here?”, I demanded, this time.

He turned slightly and partially faced me. “Sit down”, he whispered.

He was dressed in a sleep gown out of the 1860’s. He had a grey scraggly beard. He looked familiar.

“Do I know you?”

“You do not”, he said matter of factly.

“Please sit and keep me company. Only for a moment.”

I didn’t want to sit and keep him company. But there was something familiar about him. And I couldn’t help but feel he was harmless. In the back of my mind however, I kept wondering how and why was he here? I walked out of the bedroom to the top of the stairs where the front door is clearly visible. It was closed. The outside porch light glowed through the small stain glass window at its top. I was curious now and calmer. The adrenaline rush was tapering off. So, I sat down in the rocking chair near the foot of my bed.

The temperature in the room had fallen a few more degrees as I could feel a thin, cool breeze coming through the open bedroom doorway, pooling at my feet. There was a quilt on the back of the rocking chair so I grabbed it. I kept the fireplace poker in my lap. My small cattle dog was still sleeping soundly which seemed all too weird. It was like she didn’t sense what was happening at all. I still can’t explain it.

“Again, can’t you tell me your name? For some reason, you look vaguely familiar.”

“I’ve been long gone, but some people know of me. Once upon a time. I became famous for writing stories of problems of the day. Stories of greed, stories of poverty, stories of suffering, a famous story of redemption. My name is Charles Dickens.”

As taken back by this strange revelation as I was, for some reason I felt more at ease with this other worldly confrontation. And again, for reasons I still can’t explain, I accepted what he had told me.

“Charles Dickens. Yes, your story of Christmas, A Christmas Carol, with Scrooge and the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future and Bob Cratchit is one of the most well known Christmas stories in history. Numerous plays and movies have been made of the story.”

He raised his head slightly and looked at me with watery blue eyes.

“So, why are you here? Of all the places, why here, why now? I’m not like your Scrooge character. Our family loves Christmas. We celebrate Christmas.”

“This has nothing to do with Christmas, young man, he said wearily.” For some reason, he now appeared semi-transparent but I clearly could see the expression on his face and he looked tired.

“You are of no consequence. I simply know this place from the last time I visited America in the year 1868. That year I read publicly, the story, A Christmas Carol. Americans have always enjoyed that story. But, while here, I did not stop and say hello to the friend of mine who built this house, even though I had time to do so. I sent a courier with a note that I was departing for London and would see him again in the summer. Which would have been the summer of 1869. I never returned to America. I should have seen my wonderful friend one more time.”

“I have only traveled this time to see his home. The house he designed and built for his family. The home he invited me to see. The home I never came back to visit. And to meet those who live here now. Which must be, you.”

“It is me. I don’t know a great deal about its history. I can tell you, the old house is currently going through some updates, but that it hasn’t been changed much from its original construction. It’s very well built, especially for the period. It has a good foundation. Better than most homes from that era. It has been shored up a bit, but it’s pretty much original. You know sir, no one will believe me when I tell them of your visit and our conversation.”

“They won’t believe you. I am here on a personal accord. You may write of your experience, but you are quite right. No one will believe a ghost story about the author of the most famous ghost all time visiting you on this night. Nor should they. A tale is a story, it isn’t meant to be believed.”

“I see what you mean. Maybe I’ll keep it to myself.” I remarked.

I continued, “Can I ask you a question about your stories?”

He replied, “First, I will take your word regarding the temperature. It is Winter. I’m quite sure it’s cool if not purely cold. Is the house heated by fired coal?”

“No sir”, I explained. “It was originally heated by coal and steam many years ago. Now, the house is warmed by a furnace which uses natural gas. The furnace burns the natural gas and at a certain temperature, a fan, which uses electricity, comes on and forces warm, heated air through a system of duct works to each room in the house.”

He looked perplexed and then smiled, “Really? It seems complicated. But surely it’s a much more effective method of heating a home than firing coal or keeping fires burning in a fireplace. My, what all I have missed. Now, what is your question before I must go?”

He looked more translucent than a moment ago as if he were fading away. “Because of it’s masterful storytelling and it’s popularity over the decades, would it be safe to assume, A Christmas Carol is your favorite story?”

He smiled very slightly and patted my dog on the head. The dog stayed asleep, didn’t flinch.

“No, it isn’t!” He smiled. “My favorite story and always has been is, Oliver Twist. The suffering of the poor, of the orphans, of the children in London during that time was painful to me. There were no laws, no rules regulating the use of children in the workplace. The filth in manufacturing, in the factories, in the mines of the day was cruel. Especially to children, to orphans who were deemed by the ruling class of London to be expendable. It was a deplorable situation.”

“I believed I had enough of a following then, through my stories, through the newspapers, that I could possibly effect some kind of change for the poor souls. And the story did, somewhat. Some labor laws were passed protecting children before Oliver Twist was printed. Many more were passed after that. I believe Oliver Twist helped bring to the public eye, the reality that orphans and children were suffering under a cruel and abusive system. Once the story was written into theatre, more sympathy for the downtrodden followed. Orphanages were cleaned up. Child labor was regulated and workplace conditions improved in the factories. Which is why, despite it not being as popular, Oliver Twist is my favorite work.”

I sat there staring at him. Somehow, he didn’t look quite as weary. He was smiling. I could see completely through him now. He patted my dog on the head but his hand passed through her. He looked at me and nodded. “Cheers”, he whispered and faded away entirely.

“Cheers”, I responded. But it was too late. He had vanished.

“Remarkable.” I reached over and patted my dog. She opened her eyes and curled into a tighter ball. I took the quilt off my shoulders and spread it over her. The room was noticeably warmer since the ghost of, presumably Charles Dickens, faded away.

It seemed like ten minutes, but I woke up three hours later. I dressed and walked to the kitchen. I grabbed a notepad and paper, took a sip of hot coffee and began writing a story about my encounter with an entertaining ghost.