A/N: I have tried to keep something of the flavor and structure of Mr. Dickens' original work, while reimagining for my own purposes ... :-) Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Stave 1

Grandfather Cartwright's Ghost

Grandfather Cartwright was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.* None of Ben Cartwright's three sons had been present at the unhappy event, nor had they seen a grave or headstone marking any final resting place. None of them had even met their grandfather while he still lived—though it must be said that for all except Adam that would have been impossible, as Joseph Cartwright had shuffled off this mortal coil when Ben's eldest was little more than a babe in arms. Still, the Cartwright brothers had no doubt that their father's sire was dead.

For one, Ben had told them so, and there was no reason to suspect that he was lying. The invention of such a falsehood would indeed have served very little purpose. Ben's relationship with his father had not been particularly warm, but it had been cordial and should the elder Joseph have still lived, Ben would have welcomed a chance for his father to meet his sons.

For another, the three boys had seen the old man's death certificate one lazy summer afternoon while poking around in a storage area they (and their backsides) would have done better to avoid. It was stored in an old trunk with a copy of the elder Cartwright's will, several previously unknown (to them) heirloom keepsakes, and a medium-sized portrait of their father's family in which Ben was no more than eight years of age. This was confirmation enough of Joseph Cartwright the Elder's demise—if such confirmation had been needed. Which it was not.

Grandfather Cartwright was dead. I don't wish to belabor the point, but this must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.*

For if he was not dead, it would not have come as quite the shock when each of the boys spotted him in the crowds around Virginia City on the morning of Christmas eve. Oh, they would have been surprised, certainly. Amazed. Confused (for nothing Ben had told them of the man made him out to be the type to take a surprise journey into the western wilds during the peak of winter). But at least such an event would have been possible, were he still … alive.

Which he was not.

How did they recognize him, you might ask? Recall, if you will, the portrait found some years back. Upon Marie Cartwright's urging, Ben had removed it from the trunk into their (his and Marie's) bedroom. He would not display it elsewhere, but in tribute to his late wife he had left it in its place during the years since her death. Having therefore viewed it with some frequency, the brothers had become familiar with certain of their late grandfather's more striking characteristics. A deeply cleft chin, for one—so much so that they might have thought it an accident of the artist if their father had not assured them otherwise. A sizeable wart to the side of the nose was another trait faithfully recorded by that honest painter, as well as other features which I will not detail here. Be assured, however, that Ben Cartwright's boys were familiar enough with their grandfather's appearance to note well who it was they glimpsed down an alley or across the way that day.

I don't know what would have happened had they been together when they saw him … but that is not what happened, and I will not digress into such speculation. The three brothers were, in fact, as far distant from each other as possible in a place the size of Virginia City. They had come to town for last minute supplies (of which the Ponderosa had no real need) because, quite frankly, their father was entirely finished with the lot of them and had practically thrown them out the front door into the buckboard. They had been sniping and arguing for days, and it seemed only logical to split up when they arrived in order to accomplish their errands as painlessly as possible. They would complete their tasks, have a drink (in separate saloons), and meet back at the buckboard to drive back home with plenty of daylight remaining.

Suffice it to say that none of the brothers had been expecting to see his dead grandfather strolling those familiar streets, and none felt any need to mention it to the others when they finally met up again. Adam was too annoyed and offended by the impossibility to give it any more thought than he felt it deserved. Hoss had all but persuaded himself he was seeing things, and Little Joe was convinced (rightly so, I'm afraid) that he would be accused by his eldest brother of over-imbibing and be forced to defend his sobriety (he'd had only three—well, maybe four) for the entire ride home. Therefore none of them brought up the odd occurrence. It was, however, a strangely silent and pensive group of young men who arrived in the Ponderosa yard just before suppertime.

That silence continued throughout the evening, much to Ben Cartwright's puzzlement and (sad to say) relief. A few testy exchanges marred the overall peace, but for the most part his boys seemed content to retreat to opposite corners and spend Christmas Eve not celebrating faith and family. Eventually, despite a very real trepidation regarding the consequences of such an attempt, Ben tried several times to draw them out. He joked, he cajoled, he scolded. He demanded. He opened his much worn Bible and read the Christmas story aloud, as he had every year since Adam was small—although never before to an audience fairly crackling with entirely soundless tension. That finished, he set the old book aside, wished his sons a weary good night, and padded up the stairs to his bed. His disappointment filled the room, yet even that did not serve to draw his boys from their self-imposed exiles.

It would have been easier, and would perhaps have made more sense, for the brothers to have sought their own beds as well. They were certainly drawing no satisfaction from each other's presence. However, some half-felt urging kept them in their places that Christmas Eve, and as the night reached its peak and the old grandfather clock stroked out midnight, a heavy knock sounded upon the door.

For the first time in hours, the Cartwright brothers exchanged glances.

They had not been expecting anyone. The Ponderosa was a good distance from town, and even if it were not, the hour of midnight is a late one to come calling. As it was, there was no telling what outlaw or indigent or errand boy might be standing upon their porch. It was therefore with understandable caution that the brothers approached the entrance. Adam picked up his gun belt from the credenza and drew his pistol forth before nodding to Joe, who had stationed himself with one hand upon the knob. Joe ducked his head close to the thick wood and called, "Who's there?"

They could not have been prepared for what next occurred. Instead of an answering voice, the figure of a man came through the door.

It was, in fact, the figure they had earlier seen in the streets of Virginia City—their Grandfather Cartwright—before them now in such a way that none could pretend to the others he did not see. And none of the brothers did pretend, although being thought ridiculous or slightly mad was no longer the first concern upon their minds. The impossibility of seeing their dead grandfather had been replaced in priority by the impossibility of a man walking directly through the heavy outer door.

"Who are you?"

Adam, as the eldest and the only one brandishing any sort of weapon, took charge. He did not miss the black look cast him by his youngest brother, who as the one at the door handle felt that it should really be he who addressed the intruder, but he had little time for the boy's petty (as he saw them) complaints. Their visitor cast a disinterested gaze upon all three.

"You know me."

"Yeah, but that ain't possible." Hoss, hovering somewhere between Adam and Little Joe, sent up the expected protest, although he was fully aware they had left behind the realm of the expected some time past. The figure of their dead grandfather seemed wholly unconcerned.

"Who can say what is possible on Christmas Eve? Who can say how many others have known similar experiences on this hallowed night, or when such first took place? But whether you believe or not, I am he who was Joseph Cartwright in life."

To that, there really seemed nothing more to say. For a moment the four stood in silent tableau, the brothers staring at their grandfather's ghost and the ghost gazing at nothing in particular. Finally, Little Joe asked the question he had been preparing from the start (it seemed strange to him that hyper-logical Adam had chosen to begin the exchange with a query whose answer was so obvious). "What are you doing here?"

"I bring a warning."

This seemed an ominous purpose, and the brothers again exchanged glances. Adam, having decided his pistol would do little good against a man already dead, replaced it on the credenza and motioned into the great room. "Will you … can you, even … have a seat?"

The question was awkward, but the ghost seemed not to notice. In fact, he preceded them across the floor and sat lightly upon his own son's chair. The boys noted that they could yet see the red leather through their grandfather's form, and it was with a sense of awe and foreboding that they followed him into the sitting area. As they approached they saw how Joseph Cartwright continually shifted in his chair, as if restless and uncomfortable. It was Hoss who first noted the reason.

"What's that you're wearin', sir?"

His brothers, too, noted the garment then, which lay under the ghost's shirt and trousers, peeking out from cuffs and collar and around shoes. It was an odd type of clothing, certainly, for it seemed woven of nettles and thorns, a tight fit against wrists and neck and ankles. It was, they supposed, that garment which made the spirit of their grandfather move so constantly, as if in attempt to escape the discomfort that such underclothing should certainly produce.

Grandfather Cartwright's eyes roved the room, stopping upon none of them but settling finally upon the flames still cracking cheerfully upon the hearth.

"This is the garment I spun for myself in life, piece by piece. Each offense taken unnecessarily, each grudge held was an additional thorn added to its weave. Each refusal to consider the well-being of others over my own further extended it. Each opportunity lost, in my own self-righteousness, to appreciate the motivations and feelings of my fellows tightened it upon me." Ben Cartwright's sons, upon hearing these difficult tidings, shuffled their feet and looked away, each thinking back upon his own behavior—toward his brothers, his father, certain others—of the past weeks. The ghost had not, however, finished. "The longer I wore it, the more sensitive I became, so that even the smallest slight affected me beyond all proportion. No longer did I have the choice of such things, for the constant rubbing of my own pride and selfish desire kept such irritations stirred within my breast, and it was no easy thing to look or think beyond them."

Hoss, moved easily to pity, asked, "Ain't there anything can be done about it?"

For the first time, the ghost of a smile flitted across the spirit's face, though it was gone in an instant. "What can be done shall be, and is being done as we speak. Long shall I walk upon the Earth wearing this garment, but not eternally. He Whose mercy covers us all has ordained it." The elder Joseph Cartwright turned his face toward them then, though still his eyes did not fasten upon any of the three. "My own sad tale is not, however, my purpose for coming to you tonight."

This time, even Little Joe was content to let Adam speak for the three. Ben Cartwright's eldest raised a sardonic brow toward his siblings, then braced his feet and faced the spirit. "Tell us."

Grandfather Cartwright rose, and they saw that his feet did not quite rest upon the floor. "Would you care to hear, my grandsons, the length and thickness of your own such garments?"

Perhaps no query could have so distressed the brothers as this, having heard in detail of the weaving of their grandfather's own thorny attire. The Cartwright sons were, on a whole, good and generous men. In the busy stress and overwork of the season, however—of the past several months, in truth—each had drawn into himself, to the exclusion of his fellows and their own particular struggles. Such a warning, issued by such an emissary, could not help but strike a painful chord in each listener's heart.

Little Joe cast a quick glance at Adam, his primary adversary of these past times, then fixed his eyes upon the floor and mumbled, "I guess we could be tryin' a little harder."

"Yeah," Hoss muttered, shamefaced, considering his own extra-familial tensions.

Adam did not speak, but offered a brief nod to each of his brothers.

The spirit drifted nearer. "A boon has been granted, to myself and to others who would seek to enhance your success in such efforts. On this night above all the veil that separates our poor world from the divine may be lifted for a time, and therefore a light may shine in recesses that would otherwise remain hidden from our sight."

Confused, the brothers glanced from one to another. Then Adam spoke again to the spirit of he who had been their grandfather. "What, uh … boon is this?"

"Three ghosts will visit you this night."

That news, as might be expected, was not particularly welcomed by the three, no matter the positive intention of such visitations. One ghostly caller had been quite enough—three more throughout the night surely amounted to something of an excess. Joseph Cartwright the Younger edged closer to Adam, who wondered with a vague sort of desperation how his little brother possibly expected his protection from the promised manner of guest. Hoss wrinkled his nose and then blurted what they were all, in one form or another, thinking.

"Do we have to?"

The ghost of their Grandfather Cartwright might not have even heard. "The first spirit will arrive upon the stroke of one." Green, blue, and amber eyes darted toward the face upon the clock near the entrance. The spirit's words did not gain in volume, but took on a resounding tone, as if echoing from within a large, hollow place. The brothers looked back to find that their grandfather's form had become dimmer, no longer boasting even its previous questionable solidity. "The second spirit will arrive upon the stroke of two, and the third spirit upon the stroke of three."

"Wait!" Adam stepped forward, thinking as he did so that the attempt was surely futile (and even ridiculous—Ben Cartwright's eldest, being the pragmatist he was, could not yet be completely convinced the experience was not all some insane, vivid dream). "Surely you can tell us something more. What kind of—"

"Wait for them."

The spirit's voice was a dissolving whisper, and the ghost himself faded from view. For a long moment the three brothers stood in stunned silence, staring upon the spot which he who had been their grandfather had so recently occupied.

Then the grandfather clock struck one, and the fire flared bright within its grate.

* Part of the line is taken directly from the original.