So merry Christmas, even a little early. Have fun reading this story.

Chapter 1: Father's Ghost

Drew blankly snatched the ribbon from Nurse Joy's hands.

"Let's give Drew one more applause," Mr. Contesta said quickly to break the silence that had emerged but even though the public applauded, Drew turned on his heel: why would he need to stay? It was just another ribbon.

He had sixty of those at home: all he wanted was entry to the grand festival, no matter what way.

He passed the other coordinators on his way out. He knew what they thought of him: Cold, rude, arrogant. And to be honest he could care less. If they were more successful than him, they could talk.

He exited the contest hall and stepped in the snow. Moodily, he glared up at the gently falling snow, and pulled just his collar higher up. He hated snow, he hated the cold and most of all, he glared some more at the nearby caroling people: he hated Christmas.

That is how we start our story; not with the words: "Marley was dead to begin with." There is no-one dead in this story, especially no Marley. At least not that I know of. Drew didn't sign any death certificate because no-one was dead.

What?

What did you think this was? A Christmas carol?

No, Drew was no Scrooge, he did not lust after money though it was always welcome. No, Drew searched after a something more flighty: fame.

But I am running ahead on my story. Drew is a young, quite a handsome fellow if I do say so myself: years have done him well and at 24 years of age he stood tall with his head proud.

And why shouldn't he? He was a coordinator, a successful one, and his fans like him. From a distance, for he is rather unpleasant I am afraid: a sneer on his face and his eyes harder than the emeralds they resemble.

No, this is no Christmas carol, so Drew was not trudging through the snow to get to a stone-cold office in which a dirt-poor clergy was working is cold ass off to provide for his family and a sick Tiny Tim. We know that story, and I am not Dickens, and this is not it.

As similar as Drew and Scrooge may be in demeanor, Drew was unlike Scrooge, very fond of his comfort and thus he had rented a good room in a hotel with a good restaurant.

See, I told you this is not Dickens' story! Drew is not even at home. I'll admit to it being Christmas eve though. But back to the story.

Drew entered the hotel and made way to the restaurant. He frowned upon realizing that there too was a group caroling on stage and silently, he asked himself what a man had to do to get his peace, but he took a seat in the restaurant despite his annoyance.

"S-sir?" a waiter asked, wringing his hands while approaching Drew.

Drew looked at him coldly, "Can I order?" he asked, but there was no question in his voice. He expected to be obeyed.

The waiter looked uncomfortable, "Well, sir, you see it's Christmas eve and…"

"What has that to do with me?" Drew interrupted. "I want to order food because I pay for it."

The waiter looked more nervous than ever, "We were hoping we could go home to spend Christmas with our families, sir. Wouldn't you do so, sir?" he asked, desperation in his voice. It would not be strange if the staff had drawn straws and this poor man had the shortest one to tell their customer that they wanted him gone to put in crudely. He was apparently polite enough to not point guests to the door but Drew had no message to that.

"I do not want your sob-story, nor am I interested in whether you want to go home. I want to eat and that's that," and with that he pointed to something on the menu which the teary waiter noted down and left. Drew stared moodily at the gold and red around the hotel-restaurant and felt his mood worsen even more. People frolicking around while they could spend their time much more effective.

"Now, Drew. Are you sure this is the night for such a face?" a voice interrupted his thoughts.

Shifting his gaze he saw a familiar redhead sitting at the other side of the table. "Is there something wrong with my face?" he asked.

The woman smiled at him, "That is no way to greet an old friend, Drew," she said.

Drew huffed, "What do you want, Soledad?" he replied.

Soledad hummed and calmly looked around the empty restaurant, "Aren't you alone on Christmas like this?" she asked.

Drew raised a brow at her: he was too old to be mothered by her. He didn't need anyone caring for him. "Christmas is like any other day. I don't feel lonely then, I don't feel lonely now."

Soledad shook her head, "You can't seriously mean that? You celebrate Christmas with friends and family. With presents and songs and…"

"And a lot of frolicking around," Drew spoke harshly. "While I can spend that time much better training."

Soledad gaped at him, "That's no way to spend Christmas, even for you,"

"It's my way of spending it!" Drew said, now getting annoyed. He didn't need to hear all this. He didn't need all this whining.

Soledad seemed stunned, "That's not how it should be!" she interjected.

"Well, then you can leave me well enough alone!

Soledad stood up sadly. "I don't remember you grouchy like this," she said.

Drew huffed, "I don't remember you homely like this, since you married that freak you have lost your touch."

Slowly, Soledad shook her head, "An you lost your heart. What happened to you?"

Drew smirked self-depreciatingly, "I grew up,"

Frowning again, Soledad didn't reply. Then, "Still, the invitation to eat Christmas dinner at ours stands," and with that she left.

Drew frowned and glared at the waiter who put his food in front of him. Why would he do that? He had no need for others around him; Christmas was no exception. And with that thought he stated his dinner which he thought had taken long enough.

After a dinner that had tasted remarkably well with a taste of suffering of the staff, Drew retreated to his rented room. He did not take a particular joy in causing suffering but he did think that he had deserved at least some respect. It wasn't his fault they weren't giving that to him.

On his way to his room, he was met with glowing faces, people wishing him a merry Christmas while going back to their own rooms. The soft light in the hotel-hall gave them a kind look but Drew could not find it in him to repeat the gesture and ignored them.

He ignored the tipsy man singing wholeheartedly Christmas songs, but Drew did not enjoy his curving melody of Mistletoe and Wine; something he clearly had a bit too much of. He ignored the kids that almost ran over him, who were clearly exited despite that they weren't home for the holidays, and instead would get presents under a makeshift tree. No, Drew was glad to let it all pass him by, as they passed him by.

Such a flighty thing; Christmas. Pretentious preaching for peace on earth while Drew knew that was a lie, and that as soon as the 26th passed, humankind would just start again.

He fumbled with his card-key to get into his room. It had been a long testing day. What did he care for charity to give a benefit for? All he cared about was winning the contestribbon.

The card didn't work and Drew huffed frustrated. He stared at the picture placed on the card as was usual to do so for the hotel to avoid unwanted visitors, and for a moment he swore he saw darker eyes staring back at him from underneath heavy brows placed in a face squarer than his was.

He blinked and then it was only his own face staring back at him "Must be tired," he muttered to himself. Things usually got hazy this late. He swiped his card again and this time the device beeped green and the door unlocked. He wrote it off as a system malfunction and gave himself entrance to his room.

For the first time in the day, Drew sighed relieved. Sometimes, being around people was a bit trying and this had been such a day. "Christmas cheer?" he muttered to himself pulling off his shoes and prepared for bed, "More like Christmas waste. So many people partying around while nothing gets done."

Drew did not like wasting time, as Scrooge had not liked wasting money.

A loud bang brought him back from his ponderings, but he did not see anything near him and muttered to himself: "If those children keep making such a ruckus I will call downstairs."

He made himself a tea before the night and gratefully sank in the comfy chair in the room. He would sit for a bit and then head off for bed. He stared at the paining on the wall, a lovely lady with a gown but instead of fine-chiseled features, a crooked nose was in the face.

Drew almost dropped his cup and stared at his father face the second time that day; a father who was dead and gladly so for years. He would know: he was the one who buried him.

He sank back in the chair having tensed at the illusion of his father's face. He was probably just tired and seeing things. There was no way…

BANG!

Another loud back and Drew wanted to stand up to phone down a complaint about rowdy kids when he heard more sounds: sounds that children would have no business making. Heavy chains getting dragged over the floor and hallway outside and in the furthest he heard the bell near the lobby ring out, one, two, three, eleven times.

He checked his own clock quickly and saw it was indeed eleven o'clock. Drew pressed himself back in the chair, repeating to himself that it was just his imagination and that he was just tired; something like this couldn't be real.

But without ever halting and that was quite a feat since the door didn't open, it came in.

Drew thought his heart would stop beating. His father looked as he did in life. A stern face with a wide jaw, dressed in an immaculate suite. It wasn't to be taken lightly however that he was quite see-through and heavy chains that were wrapped around his arms and his waist to the ground explained what the sound earlier had been. To Drew they looked heavy as his father was lightly stooping forward, something he had not done in life.

The spirit, for that was what it was, gave an eerie feeling, for even there was no draft in the hotel, the hairs and coat of the being moved as if swayed by a gently breeze. Drew rubbed his eyes, but the image did not disappear.

"Who are you?" Drew asked, his voice small in fear.

The spirit looked with non-seeing eyes, "Ask me who I was," it answered.

"Then, who were you?" Drew barely snarled. There were not many things that frightened him, but images that spoke and went through walls were not high on his list with comforting things.

The spirit still not looked at him, and Drew was unsure whether it had control over where his eyes rolled, "In life, I was your father."

Drew swallowed and then convinced himself of reality once more. He huffed and turned in his seat, determined to ignore the being.

"And now he gets cross with me. Don't look away boy!" A voice came from the shade.

Drew resisted the urge to look around: "If I ignore you, it'll go away." He heard, he thought he heard cracking of the dresser as the ghost leaned against it, but ghosts were not real so the sound couldn't be real either. Drew was starting to get unnerved.

"You don't believe in me?" the spirit asked.

Drew shook his head, and peaked at the still unmoving spirit. My god, he was even conversing! " No, you're just something my mind created in its tiredness." But Drew was no longer so sure of his conviction. The spirit had a fixed stare, intense to the marrow and the while being was unnatural. Even if he ignored the spirit's pale color and translucent status, there was till the thing that even though the spirit had not moved, it had the illusion of always moving and unrest.

"Bullshit, if you ask me," Drew muttered as if an afterthought.

This had displeased the spirit as was apparent. It let out a benevolent cry and started grinding its teeth. This would not have been horrible had it not sounded as if rocks were going through the grate. As if that were not enough it unbuttoned its shirt and literally stripped layers from his flesh and moaned.

Drew pressed himself back in the chair in fright, "Enough! What do you want of me?!"

The spirit stopped moaning, "You insolent boy! Are you willing to listen now?!" he cried. Drew furiously nodded, not willing to upset his father's ghost even more. "Why are you still here, why haven't you passed!"

The ghost shook his head, "Those who not see in life, must see in death. I have wronged many. That which I did not see in life, I must suffer by seeing every single human I can not help any longer in death." It moaned again. "Oh my poor soul."

Drew shook his head, "But you taught me everything I know. Those not willing to rise with you must stay behind!" he argued.

"And what have I to show for it!" the spectre cried, "I was wrong! Life had been my show, but it was never about me. I was wrong! And now I must bear that, every life that I crushed."

Drew shivered as he stared at the chain, the long chain the end far out of the door, "Is that what the chain is for?" he asked almost nervously.

Drew's father looked back at the iron chain. "In a way," he said and wrung his hands. The chain seemed to disappear out of existence. "But I feel the weight of it every single moment, the knowledge and the guilt! Oh woe is me!" He looked at Drew: "Do you fear this?" he asked.

Drew didn't know how to answer; how could he not fear such a strange happening, but he shook his head slowly. The spirit scoffed, "You should," he said. "For your chain is already becoming longer and heavier. Each act of cruelty adding a new link."

"Dad!" Drew called, "Have you no comfort for me, nothing at all. You come to me and tell me things I do not understand. Is there any comfort you can speak off?!"

The spirit sighed, "I have none to give, Drew. I must go, I cannot stay. My suffering is not over." The ghost pushed himself of the dresser, a feat that Drew had no intention of thinking trough, and made his way to the window strangely enough.

"Wait!" Drew called, "Where do you have go?! You have been dead for years!"

The ghost looked at him sadly, "And I will be forever. Do you know how much suffering there is in the world, Drew. I will have to travel, I cannot rest, until I have seen it all and then some more."

"But you were the greatest coordinator I have known! I have always looked up to you!"

"Contests!" Drew's father's ghost cried. "I wish I had known more than that in my life. Life that was the contest, my family my stage. And during Christmas…" the voice died in a soft lament. Drew hardly recognized his father's voice, as burdened as it was. "Listen! I have not much time!" the ghost said softly. "I have seen you, been beside you…"

At this, Drew shivered, he did not like the idea of his father checking in over his shoulder. "…And I want to give you a chance, to not become like me. There will be three spirits Drew."

Drew shivered again at the dark promise in the voice's ghost. And he shook his head, Dew didn't want any more ghosts or spirits or images coming to him.

The spirit looked at him sternly: "Without them you'll end up with a fate worse than mine. The first will come at one tomorrow. The second the night after that also at the first hour and third will come the following night." His father shook his head sadly, "If you don't care, no-one will come for you, Drew. Remember that." And with that he made way to Drew's window.

Drew having gotten feeling back in his legs hurried to the window to follow him. The spectre had zipped up his layers and was now floating towards the window and it opened at a motion of his hand.

Immediately the sounds of a mournful lament came upon Drew and he hurried to stare out of the window to see his father disappear in a mass of ghosts, all with their own kinds of chains. The more Drew watched, the more he saw prideful faces twisted in grief, lo longer able to help those trudging against the now heavy snowfall.

"Remember, Drew! Three ghosts!" his father's voice came from the mist the spirits went up in. Apprehensively, Drew closed his window, unsure whether this had really happened.

Then suddenly tired again, he returned to bed, determined to forget his meeting with the unreal.

And that's the first chapter. I will follow Dickens but it is a contestshipping, so there will be a point I will change from the original story.(The romance will be later on)

Review?