A Christmas Carol:
The Last of the Spirits
As the spirit approached, Oliver was filled with a sensation he had never felt:
Dread.
There was no way to describe this figure by any other label than what it likely was…
The embodiment of death.
He felt his jaw set in place as the ghost stopped in front of him, looming over him with a presence that commanded both his attention and his respect. Without knowing why, Oliver felt himself kneel before it, his fist clenching as he willed it not to shake.
Trying to gain some composure, the detective looked up, intent on trying to see the face behind the hood but the figure kept it's head bent. The only thing of its form that he could see was the hand that raised from within the dark robes. Pale and bone thin it glowed ominously by the light of the moon.
Silence followed the appearance of this specter, and the silence continued onward thereafter, as it did not move to speak.
"...Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?" Oliver felt himself ask when it became clear that information would not be forthcoming.
He received no verbal answer. The figure merely pointed downward with its hand.
"I believe I am right in assuming that you are to show me the things that have not happened yet, but that will come to pass?" He continued, trying to get a grasp on the foreign emotions inside of him. All that he was given in return was a small motion that could be likened to the incline of its head.
He knew that this meant the specter wanted him to follow it, but as much as Oliver tried he could not will himself to move. Every attempt caused his legs to shake, and as foolish as it made him feel he could not will them to stop. The ghost saw this, and waited on him to recover, but try as he might he could not get his body to comply.
No time before had he ever experience a fear to this extent… a fascinating horror at the thought of the ghostly eyes peering at him from within the blackened hood.
Some part of him knew deep down that whatever this specter was to show him… it would not be pleasant. It would be the worse of the three… and he did not want to face it.
He did not want to face this future.
"Ghost… of yet to come," Oliver struggled to say, as he did his best to keep his voice level. "It seems that I…" this next word was even harder, "fear… your presence most out of all the spirits who have stood before me." His pride was wounded at this admission but he continued, "And though, I know that you appear before me with good intentions… is there no way, should I swear to you here this very moment to be a better man, that we could forego what it is that you have come to show me?"
As he could have predicted, the detective's question was met with nothing but the specter's hand moving to point before them.
"...Then lead on," he gave in, shoulders falling as he let out a defeated sigh. It took him a moment more to stand, but once Oliver did, the specter moved away in the similar fashion he had come.
With many reservations, the poor young man followed the spirit to his future, walking in the length of its shadow. Unlike those before him, it did not seem like this phantom would be one for conversation… and so their journey lasted in an eerie quiet.
Never did the Noll think that he would miss the presence of the previous spirits… but for once in his life, he had found a silence that made him uneasy. He wanted to speak, but he found no words. His mind too occupied to form anything coherent.
Perhaps to his luck (if only to end this visit as swiftly as possible), it did not seem as if they had moved very far before their surroundings shifted and he realized that they had entered a pub. Dim and musky, it was not the kind of place that he would have ever frequented, and so as to why it would have any relation to him was something he could not find the answer to.
Until that is, he saw the familiar face of Detective Constable Hirota. Around the man was a small group of his fellow officers, drinking with the unrestricted freedoms that came with being off duty. All seemed to be in even spirits except for Hirota himself, who barely touched his glass of whiskey.
"It's not like you to mope, Seigi!" One of the officers next to the solemn man grinned, patting his shoulder. "...Is it the case?"
Within earshot, another chimed up, "Out of all of us, I thought you would be happiest to have that pompous brat out of our hair!"
Hirota shot the man a look. "He was a…—"
"—Right bastard," the second officer continued, clearly drunk. "Always telling someone how to do their damned job."
"Telling you," the first corrected, "and he was usually right in doing so."
The peeved officer huffed. "That's what made him more annoying!"
"—Let us not speak ill of the dead," Hirota chastised, eyes falling back to his glass.
Expression confused, the more level-headed of the officers pressed the issue, "Was he not someone you were investigating for murder at one time? And then fraud another?"
"—Stabbed in his own bed. Divine justice has been carried out," the other office cut in once again cheersing himself, as no one would celebrate with him.
Hirota ignored him and answered the first. "That was then…"
"And now?"
He sighed. "I know not what to think… but that maybe the murders be connected."
"Good lord," the man grimaced.
"He never stopped looking into the first- maybe he found something… just too late."
"Poor bastard."
Hirota downed his glass with another sigh.
By the end of the conversation, Noll had an inkling as to who this 'poor bastard' was… but dared not speak his musings.
"How far into my future is this?" he wondered aloud but was unsurprised to be met with more silence.
Instead, the scene changed before them and Hirota's image became that of his father, Martin Davis. He, too, drank from a glass… though it was scotch and he was alone within the privacy of his own study.
His appearance was disheveled. The bottle on the desk void of its contents, the last of it sitting in the glass between his father's hands. Martin was usually a social drinker, not going past the point of being a bit tipsy… but now he seemed far more gone than that.
Stumbling slightly, the respected researcher downed the rest of his glass and got up from his seat. As he exited his study, Oliver and the ghost followed closely behind.
They stopped when Martin entered the sitting room where a ghost of a woman sat curled over a picture frame. She didn't have to lift her head for Oliver to realize it was his mother.
Never once had the woman looked her age, but Oliver was shocked to see that she appeared older than she should have. Her face was thin, with dark circles under her eyes, of which stayed locked onto the picture frame. She sat like a statue, lost to the world around her. Her unusually pale skin contrasted starkly with her black attire… the clothes looking foreign on her compared to the bold colors she usually wore.
"Lucella…" Martin called, voice hoarse by the burn of alcohol. "It's nearly time."
The woman made no move to reply, and if she had blinked at all, Noll had missed it. He didn't have to move closer to know what the picture was. He recognized the frame. His brother had made it for her birthday when they were still children, and she had insisted on getting their picture taken to fill it.
Oliver tried to ignore the clenching of his heart at the memory.
Crossing the room, Martin sighed and gently pulled the frame from Luella's grasp. "Will you still not speak to me?"
The blond woman stayed quiet, gaze trained on the space between her fingers that had previously held the picture. Her husband placed his own hand on top of hers, but she pulled away refusing to look at him.
"...You only move when it's to get further away from me, it seems…" he frowned, backing away to give Luella her space.
The silence that followed was only broken by someone else entering the room. Yasuhara stood by the door, his usual jovial smile dampened by the situation. "Aunt, Uncle, the carriage is ready."
Martin made his exit first, leaving it Yasuhara's responsibility to coax Lucella up from her seat. Unlike with the older man, she did not pull away when her nephew touched her. And after a few soft-spoken words that even Noll couldn't make out, he was able to get her to stand.
"I… have never seen them like this…" Oliver remarked, a hint of worry in his voice. Even after Gene's death, Martin and Lucella had stood as a united front. Their bond had only grown stronger, and they had always leaned on each other for support. To see them divided-shells of their former selves—it shook him to his core.
For all his indifference he had never denied the love he had for his mother and father. But it pained him then in that moment to realize that, despite these feelings, he had never said it to their faces. Such a cruel son he had been—and yet still they mourned him so. It was obvious at this point, that in this future he had died… but what surprised him was that he did not care to know the details. Nor did the death itself make him quake.
It was the aftermath of it… and the realization of all the things that he should have done but never cared to. The spirits had shown him so much… and for the first time since Gene's death, Oliver allowed himself to feel true regret. He had been far too blinded for too long.
That was what Gene had tried to tell him, was it not? Both in life and in death.
His thoughts were interrupted by the specter who began to follow Yasuhara and his mother out of the room. Again, their surroundings changed.
Eventually, they stood in front of a grave with eight other people. Unsurprisingly, the gravestone said his name, a leaf covering the date of his death. There was no epitaph because they knew he would not have wanted one… However, he couldn't help but feel it looked empty without something written there.—Unsatisfying.
John stood next to the freshly dug hole, a closed casket already inside. The service was already in session, the reverend leading it with a solemn but kind voice. He faced seven other people in attendance, and Oliver was not surprised at the low number. All the people there were who he could have expected: his mother and father, Yasuhara, Mai, Masako, Takeshi, and Hope. What he hadn't expected was the amount of tears.
As soon as John opened the floor up for those who wanted to speak of the deceased, everyone broke down one by one. Both of his parents were too lost in mourning to take the stand, but Yasuhara was happy to be the first.
He made a few of those before him laugh, even through their tears. Recanting stories of the Noll, Gene, and himself in their youth. Many times, both Yasuhara and Eugene plotted with each other against Oliver.—And it never failed that he would always outsmart the pair. His words were uplifting, even as a few tears of his own slipped down his usual good-natured face. The detective's chest tightened at the sight. Aside from their childhood days, there were only two other times that Oliver had seen Yashara cry… and that was Gene's funeral, and that of his mother, Madoka. To think he'd waste those tears on the likes of him...
Masako was the next to go, surprising him somewhat slightly. Oliver had been of the mindset that Masako's opinion of him had long since soured… And yet, as the pregnant woman looked back at all the people gathered, there was a deep grief in her eyes. Her words were blunt and a bit harsh, as what most would expect from the likes of the woman… but her tone grew soft as she went on, her expression fond. She, once upon a time, had developed feelings for him. Ones that he did not return and the manner in which he had expressed his disinterest had been anything but kind to her. He had scorned her… and yet years later there she was speaking on his behalf. At his side, his hand tightened into a fist. It did not feel right. He felt he had done nothing to warrant it.
Next to speak was Seigi, an unexpected participant. Noll was unsure of when the man had made his appearance, but there he was. He stood in uniform, and though he hesitated at first, with an encouraging smile from John he stepped forward. He was the most composed of the group, but his face was flush from drinking and there was a slight uncertainty in his voice, almost as if he wasn't sure that he should be standing among them. He spoke mostly of Oliver's abilities as a detective. The type of things that one might highlight on a job interview or when giving out an award… but as Seigi went on his words became more personal.—More human. He finished by giving the detective more respect than even Oliver felt he deserved.
He was beginning to feel sick.
It amazed him. To think that he had taken all these people for granted—and yet still they stood by his grave and mourned his demise.
And then the one he regretting shutting out the most came forward… and Oliver couldn't help but stare. He had avoided looking at her for most of the proceedings, afraid to see her reaction.—And he had been right to do so. It hurt him to look at her.
Years of pretending to be okay gave her the appearance of stability… but now that Oliver was truly looking, he could see beneath her facade just as easily as when they were younger. Pale and thin, she was just as sickly as when he had seen her in her kitchen. Her eyes were puffy and red, from crying… but he supposed he shouldn't have expected anything less.
Soon, everyone's eyes were on her, and while she had never been good at public speaking, the fact that they were all people she knew kept her nerves in check. Taking a breath, the woman opened her mouth… and immediately her voice cracked with raw emotion.
"Oliver Davis…, Naru, was stubborn, rude, and above all the biggest narcissist I ever met…" Mai smiled, a few in the group mimicking her action, "but even with all his faults… he had a kinder side to him that only a lucky few would ever see." The brunette's eyes fell to the casket, watering instantly. "It's the reason I fell in love with him." The words quivered on her lips, her right hand clenching in front of her chest. "The reason I love him," she corrected, unable to stop the tears that fell freely down her cheeks. "—And I hope he knew that. I-I hope he knew how much we all love him…"
It became harder for her to get the words out, her eyes squeezing shut. She swayed. "I'm sorry… everyone... I had more I wanted to say… but…" Unable to stand anymore, Mai's legs gave out from under her and she fell to her knees. It was obvious then to everyone that it wasn't just grief affecting her, she was breathing too heavily. Instantly, Yasuhara and Seigi were at her side, the former catching her just before she fell back.
"She's burning up!" the detective inspector shouted, and stripped of his coat to fold under her head to lay her down.
Masako gasped, a hand going to her mouth as she kept Tenshi and Grace away from the commotion. "She needs a doctor!"
John announced that he would run for one, while the others tried in vain to keep Mai's eyes open.
Oliver watched, expression blank at first. This was not a future he believed to be possible. This was not real… it couldn't be…
And yet, before long, he found himself walking forward. His blue eyes full of worry for his assistant. His…
"Mai," he called in a pained whisper, kneeling beside her. He knew she wouldn't be able to hear him, but his actions were involuntary.
If only he were there. "Mai…" he called her name again, hand reaching out, but going straight through her. She was struggling, eyelids fluttering.
If only he hadn't been so dense. He felt a sting in his eyes. "Mai!"
A heartbeat and their eyes locked, and there was something that seemed to spark in her brown irises.—Recognition? "Naru…" She whispered, nearly inaudible but he heard it. And then the spark was gone.
Stupid Scientist.
"She's not breathing."
Oliver choked on the air around him. The voices near him fading into nothing as he stared at her limp body. Something wet touched his face, and it took him longer than it should have to realize that they were tears. He wiped them away and clenched his teeth. "Damn it!" he growled, "Goddamnit!"
He pounded his fist into the ground, and everyone around him turned to dust.
An illusion.
A fire burning in his eyes, he got up, whirling on the specter who he knew had not moved from its spot. Livid, he approached, an electric buzz coursing through him. Whatever fear he'd felt, burning away as his cold stare pinning itself on the hooded figure. He was tired of this. Tired of being toyed with. He understood, he realized his mistakes. What more did they want?
"Tell me, spirit. Is this the future that will be? Or might be?"
No answer.
He bristled.
"Why show me this if I am past all hope?"
Again, no answer.
"Tell me that I may sponge away the writing on this stone!" He pointed to the grave, but they both knew that it was not the reason he was upset. He eyes narrowed, the truth slipping from his tongue, "Tell me that she is not beyond saving."
Still, the specter gave nothing, and whatever shred of his composure he had turned to ash. "ANSWER ME!" he ordered, grabbing the spirit's robes in both his fists. He was tired of these games… He now knew his errors… but would he be allowed to fix them?
In his anger, he shook the ghost, the fabric of the robe pulling taunt in such a way that the hood on top of its head fell to reveal its face.
Oliver stopped, his grip relaxing as he stared into the stony visage of the phantom, his limbs involuntarily shaking at the irony. The face of death was man.
Black hair fell to one side of the pale face staring back at him, expressionless and unreadable. One grey eye to the right… and the other, and perhaps the most disturbing feature, was pale blue. It was that eye that made Oliver shake. It looked not at him, but through him.—It broke him down to his very core.
He felt bare under its scrutiny, and all at once he felt everything.
"Come now Cousin. Don't be so angry."
"I don't think I've ever seen you so surprised, Noll."
"How could you ask that?"
"No one should be alone on Christmas."
"I will always love him."
Breathless, he took a step back, and then another… but no matter how far he went the specter seemed to keep the same distance between them. He was helpless. Powerless. A feeling that he had hoped to never feel. His face was wet again… more tears falling from his eyes… but he let them this time.
Another step back and Noll felt the edge of his final resting place. He stopped, and looked back, only to see that the casket was now open… and empty. His eyes widened.
Was this how it would end?
Turning back, he was just in time to catch sight of the specter extending its arm and it pushed him with more force that he anticipated. Unceremoniously, he fell backward, landing inside the casket below.
With a pained gasp, Oliver looked up, his eyes catching a glint of something silver. The ghost raised its arms, and the outline of the object became clear.
It was a scythe.
For a fleeting moment, he thought…
This is the end.
But, as the specter swung his weapon, he remembered himself, and everything in him screamed:
NO.
His hand reached up and caught the blade, blood running down his hand as he glared up at the pale face defiantly. It smirked.
Before he could question the expression, a flash of lightning lit the sky behind it, shrouding it in shadow and was followed with a crash of thunder.
Oliver blinked at the blinding light, and when he opened her eyes. He found that he was not in a grave but in bed, the person over him was not the specter but a woman, and the scythe in his hand was now a knife.
A/N: Hope you're having as much fun reading this as I did writing it! It's uuuuber late, so there's a chance there is some typos despite me triple checking it. Lol. (I couldn't sleep and I've been sitting on this for a while, and it's finally done so I'm just gonna throw it out now, pfft. Besides, I'm unfortunately prone to typos.). I loooooved writing this chapter and I couldn't wait to show you all, so you get Christmas in September. I hope it was worth the wait!
Next chapter is the epilogue… which would mean this will be the first multi-chaptered fic I've completed… ever. Haha. Look at me go! Maybe I'll get it completed by this Christmas? Wouldn't that be a miracle?
