Chapter 1

The snow fell on the great estate like sleepy white feathers, invading the silent countryside in a carpet of cotton. Servants secretly ceased their duties and took a few moments to stand by the window, taking in the spectacle. There was truly nothing like a white Christmas Eve.

Robert Crawley, Lord of Grantham, did not seem to notice any of this, however. He sat in the library at his desk, completing a letter to the Ambassador of France. In the doorway stood his valet, Mr John Bates, who despite his hardiness, could not help but shake violently with the cold.

"What on Earth's the matter with you, man?" demanded Robert, peering over his reading glasses.

"Nothing, my lord. I just had a slight chill." Bates knew better than to complain to his stingy employer about the temperature of the place. At this stage in winter, the dining hall suited an Eskimo more than an Englishman. It was no wonder guests no longer came to stay.

It wasn't as if the Earl was stuck for cash, either – some suspected he had millions in the bank. He simply didn't like to share.

"Mr Bates, if you wish to spend the winter sweating like a pig in a pair of swimming trunks, then I suggest you seek employment elsewhere."

"Of course, my lord." Bates didn't choose to mention the fact that Robert was currently wearing two large padded coats.

The butler, Mr Carson, appeared beside the shivering valet in the doorway. "You have a visitor, my lord - your cousin, Mister Matthew Crawley."

Robert leaned back in his chair, bringing his tired hands to his face in exasperation. "Send him in, I suppose."

His energetic younger cousin sprung into the room, a Christmas wreath in his arms and a smile stretched from ear to ear. "Merry Christmas, Cousin Robert!"

Robert waved a hand at him dismissively as he looked back down at his papers. "Bah! Humbug!"

Matthew didn't let his older cousin's comment extinguish his joy. "Don't be such so gloomy!" he exclaimed merrily. "Where's your Christmas spirit?"

"I'll be as gloomy as I like, thank you very much! Besides – what reason do you have to be merry? You're poor enough."

"What reason do you have to be cranky? You're rich enough! And there's more to life than wealth, cousin. Christmas should be a time of charity, of love, of forgiveness!"

Robert continued to write, hoping that ignoring the problem would make it disappear. He wasn't that lucky.

Matthew plopped downed into the chair across from Robert, giving him no choice but to engage in some sort of conversation.

"I was hoping you could make it to our annual Christmas party? I know it didn't suit you last year, or the year before that, but it would mean a lot to me, Robert, it truly would."

It took him less than a breath to summon up a response. "I'm awfully busy, I'm afraid. You'd be surprised to know that the whole world doesn't come to a standstill on the 25th of December."

They sat in silence for a few moments, Matthew looking down at the wreath in hands. At last he stood up and sighed. "Maybe next year, then?"

Robert grumbled something and reordered his pages.

"Here, Carson," said Matthew, handing the holly wreath to the nearby butler.

"Thank you, Mister Crawley. This will have pride of place on the front door –"

"– And whose front door would that be, Carson?" interrupted Robert, raising one eyebrow, "Not mine, I do hope?"

Mister Carson blushed slightly, attempting to keep collected and tall. For a man who sat around all day, the Earl truly possessed great powers of intimidation.

"Apologizes, my lord. I'll find somewhere more…suitable. Mister Crawley, do you require the chauffer?"

Matthew winked to the butler and fully threw a scarf around his neck. "That won't be necessary, thank you – there's nothing like a walk in the snow on Christmas Eve. Goodbye Robert! God bless!"

With that he stepped out into the snowy blizzard, singing Christmas carols away to himself.

Once again the great house was left in stormy silence and Robert got back to his work.

Not long after, however, Carson appeared in the doorway again. "More visitors, my lord."

"Yet another reason to hate this wretched holiday – all these unwarranted visitors! Bring them in."

Two portly gentlemen strode into the library, books and papers in their hands. Both had removed their hats.

"Have I pleasure of addressing Lord Grantham or Mister Patrick Crawley? I believe they are both in residence here?" The taller of the two spoke with a cheerful, upbeat tone.

"Patrick Crawley was my nephew. He has been dead for ten years." He said the words without a hint of remorse.

"Lord Grantham, then. Sir, did you know that there are millions of men, women and children who are starving tonight, in Britain alone?"

Robert fought the urge to slam his forehead down onto the table. "Are there no prisons in this country?"

"There are, sir."

"Thank God for that."

"With the greatest of respect, Lord Grantham, Christmas can be an extremely hard time for the poor and lonely. That's why a few of us have volunteered our time to fundraise for this great cause. Even simple things like meat and drink, and some sort of warmth can go a long way."

Robert sat up in his chair, blatantly ignoring the pair. "Bates, who on Earth let these maniacs past the front gate?"

The chubbier gentleman appeared oblivious to Robert's words. "How much shall we put you down for?" His companion opened up the heavy accounts book, and wrote the date on a fresh page.

"Nothing."

"You wish to remain anonymous?"

Robert turned to his valet with a look of distaste. "This is exactly what I was saying, Bates. All this Yuletide fuss severely reduces brain size."

Bates took that as his cue to firmly escort the two do-gooders off the premises.

oOoOo

Darkness fell fast over the estate, illuminating the fresh fallen, virgin snow.

Bates was busy laying out Lord Grantham's night clothes, eager to finish up his duties early.

"Somewhere you have to be?" prodded Robert, noticing the valet's unusually rushed behavior.

"No, m'lord. Apologies."

"And I suppose you'll be wanting the day off tomorrow."

"If that's convenient, my lord."

"It's far from convenient, but I don't have much choice, do I? This day truly is a nuisance."

"It is just once a year, my lord."

Robert tutted, shaking his head. "That's a poor excuse to pick an old man's pocket every 25th of December! Anyway, make sure you're here an hour early the day after. And stay an hour later too."

Upon being dismissed, Bates all but sprinted to his little cottage just outside Downton village. The family would be delighted to find him home early for once.

Robert, meanwhile, dined alone with a sensible meal and a glass of red wine, topped off with a sliver of cake to mark the sorry occasion. He read in the library for an hour or two and then headed up to bed with heavy eyelids. It was these tired eyes that he would later blame for tricking his imagination.

Up the grand staircase and down a long, red-carpeted corridor, Robert at last reached his bedroom. He reached forward for the door knob, but stopped suddenly in shock as he felt the freezing air radiating from it.

"What the –"

He held his candle up for a closer inspection, and almost dropped it in fright. Before his eyes, he watched the very ordinary handle transform and morph into a long, thin, gaping face. The figure looked in pain, as though it were screaming its last breath. Robert had to put a hand to his mouth to keep from crying out and alerting a nearby servant. He turned and looked down the corridor, half suspecting someone had played a trick on him. But who would? The servants were too frightened of him and it wasn't as though he had any actual friends.

Once he had calmed himself and willed the blood to run back to his face, the haunted door knob had returned to its ordinary state. Just a plain, brass door knob.

Climbing into his bed clothes and under the starched sheets, he managed to put the whole experience down to exhaustion. Of course it was. But he knew that face from somewhere…

Robert heard the sound as he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. At first he thought it was the wind outside, moaning low and constant. But it grew in volume and weight, until the sound of dragging heavy chains could be plainly heard outside in the corridor. Robert refused to believe in ghosts, but found himself locking the bedroom door nonetheless. It grew closer.

He cowered in his bed, the blankets pulled up to his chin like a useless shield. In the darkness he waited.

The noise ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and he dared to pop his head out around the bed covers.

Without warning, the great oak door was blasted off its hinges, and trails and trails of rusty, heavy chain flew into the room. Piles formed around his bed and they continued to load in until he feared he would be suffocated among them.

"ROBERT!"

He looked up to see a semitransparent, deathly figure come roaring through the archway where his door once stood. The spirit flew through the room until it grinded to a stop, its disfigured nose inches from Roberts'. The chains finally ceased.

"Robert…" it breathed again, quieter this time but by no means less spookily. "Robert…do you know who I am?"

The trembling Earl shook his head defiantly. No. He refused to believe this figure was the man he resembled. A man who once slept just down the hall.

"Don't lie to me, Robert…" the apparition grinned menacingly, as though he could read the living man's thoughts. To emphasize his point, he sent bone-harrowing screams down Robert's spine.

"Patrick Crawley!" Robert panted holding his head in both hands, "Mercy, I beg of you!"

"I've come to bid you a warning Robert…"

"A warning? What of?"

"Of the way you live your life, foolish mortal! When I was a living man, when I was your heir and dearest friend, we made others' lives a hell on Earth. In death I've been cursed to carry these chains to repent for my sins!"

Robert looked around at the seemingly never-ending chain. It snaked in and around every corner, tangling Robert's possessions in a metallic web. Glass was smashed, and he noticed some of his prized snuff boxes scattered carelessly around the room.

"They why come to me, demon? Why torture me?"

"You must heed my advice and change your ways! Tonight you will be visited by three spirits, each carrying their own message. That is the only way to shed your chains, Robert, the only way…"

The spirit slowly vapourised away, taking its chains with it.

"Patrick! Wait!"

Once again, Robert was alone, left cowering on the bed. He found that despite his situation, he found himself slowly sinking down into the covers, and consciousness fizzled away like a fleeting ghost.