Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox. A Christmas Carol belongs to Charles Dickens. Neither belongs to me.
Her face was the same, the very same- heart shaped, pale as porcelain but rosy-cheeked and dotted in charming freckles, pert little nose, large seafoam eyes fringed with thick curling lashes. She was dressed in the same manner she did in life, her cardigan buttoned over her dress and her long thick hair tied back with a thin ribbon. Her body was nearly transparent, and as she moved he could see the room behind her, but her plain little white gold band still flashed upon her left hand.
Though Mr. Hummel could clearly see the specter of his long-dead wife, and knew that the voice and the manner was the same, he was a practical man, and fought against his senses.
"What do you want from me?" he asked calmly, as if he was merely inquiring why a client had entered his garage.
Mollie scowled. "Everything," she snapped.
Mr. Hummel shifted his weight. "Who…uh, who are you?" he asked.
"Ask me who I was," she said, crossing her arms.
"Well, who were you, then?"
She gestured broadly. "Your wife," she said. "Unless you've forgotten me, like you've forgotten about everything else in your miserable little life."
Mr. Hummel swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "Never," he said. "Never forgotten." He stared at her hungrily, a thousand useless wishes from the past years since her death rushing back to him. "Can you…can you sit down?"
She shrugged. "I can," she said. "But I won't. I didn't come all the way back here just to sit down and have a chat." He continued to stare at her, mouth slightly agape in astonishment, and with a sigh she sat down at the seat in front of her vanity like she did a thousand times during their marriage. "There. Happy?" She crossed one leg over the other. "You don't believe in me, do you?"
"I don't think so," Mr. Hummel stammered. "I've never believed in ghosts?"
Mollie's eyebrows lowered. "Why do you doubt your senses?" she asked.
"You could be anything," Mr. Hummel accused. "You could be just a bad dream from that greasy diner food, or the beer I had when I came home. Hell, maybe I'm having another heart attack and you're here to escort me to the great beyond or something."
Mollie smiled, sad and wicked all at the same time. "Oh, you had better hope you're not dying," she said. "This isn't the time for jokes, Burt. This is serious."
"Oh, it's serious that I'm having a dream about my dead wife haunting me?" Mr. Hummel jeered. "It's more cruel than serious, if you ask me."
He didn't see Mollie rise, but at once she was looming above him, beautiful and terrible all at once. "You deserve cruelty!" she shouted. "It's more than you deserve!"
Mr. Hummel fell back, his worn-out heart skipping a beat. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.
"First things first, Burt, do you believe in me?" Mollie demanded.
"I do," Burt said hastily, and she backed away a little. "I have to. But…but why did you come back? And why now, of all the times you could have come back?"
"Because I know what waits for you," Mollie said in a low voice. "I have watched you these eighteen years, waiting for you to see the error of your ways. But you will not. You refuse to change."
"Change what?" Mr. Hummel said. "You wanna change something? How about you not dying on me?" He swallowed hard, hiding within the safe boundaries of anger. "You ruined my life when you died!"
"You have ruined your own life," Mollie said. "With every choice, with every hard word, with every awful action, you have forged the chains that drag you downward. And because you won't let me go, I can't go."
She held up her hands, and suddenly Mr. Hummel saw. He saw long lengths of heavy chains, some links rusted and some shiny and new, wrapped round his arms and legs, bringing him to the ground with his weight, and he saw where the chain stretched from his own fetters to reach his own wife's slender wrists.
"You wear the chains you forged in life," she said. "You made it link by link and yard by yard, tying yourself down from your own free will with every terrible choice you've made, and by your will I wear it too."
Mr. Hummel's mouth had gone dry. "Mollie," he rasped. "Tell me it's gonna work out. It'll work out, right?"
"I have no comfort to give," she said. "I'm dead, Burt. I'm dead and I'm gone and there's nothing I can do." She glanced back over her shoulder. "I have more important things to worry about now. I've been trapped on this earth, but at least I've been doing something good."
"You never spoke to me before this," Mr. Hummel said. "I never knew…Mollie, every time I called for you-"
"Someone always needed me more than you," Mollie said.
"Who?" Mr. Hummel demanded. "I needed you, Mollie. Who could possibly need you more than me?"
The color drained fully from Mollie's face; even her hair and clothing seemed to pale in her anger. "Our son!" she cried, and Mr. Hummel took a step back. "Our child matters, Burt, he's always mattered, but you've been so fixated on your own grief and your own thoughts that you've turned into yourself and shut everyone away, including the child that needed you."
Mr. Hummel was struck speechless.
The spirit glanced back over her shoulder again, as if someone was calling for her, and turned back. "My time is short," she said. "Listen to me."
"I will," Mr. Hummel stammered. "Just…please, don't be so hard on me."
"You will be haunted by three spirits," Mollie said. "This is the only hope I have to offer you."
"I…I think I'd rather not," Mr. Hummel said.
She ignored him. "Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls one," she said.
"Couldn't I get 'em all at once, and get 'em over with?" he suggested.
"The second shall come when the bells tolls two, the last when the bell tolls three," she said. "You won't see me anymore…but let us both hope that you remember what has happened tonight."
The bell in the hall began to chime again, deceptively merry, and Mollie began to fade, like water droplets on a hot day. Mr. Hummel put out a desperate hand to touch her, to grasp hold of her soft pale hand one last time, but she was dead still, and his hand passed through her.
She looked down at his hand, her face drawn in sorrowful lines, and she vanished from his sight.
Author's Notes:
Ooh, Mollie is pissed.
I hope you guys are enjoying this! It's really interesting to write outside my own style. I think the next chapter veers a bunch into my usual writing style, but yeah.
Next we see the Ghost of Christmas Past. And it's not going to be a happy time.