Christmas Parcel: Sequel to Charles Dickens' Classic "A Christmas Carol": Alydia Rackham's Retellings

By Alydia Rackham

What if, without knowing it, you began to follow the same dark path as Ebenezer Scrooge…?

Ebenezer Scrooge is dead. Timothy Cratchit has grown into a young man who is terrified of poverty--willing to forfeit Christmas to chase the opportunity for monetary profit. And Scrooge, living or not, is determined not to allow Tim to follow in his footsteps...by whatever ghostly means necessary.

"Christmas Parcel" is written by a great lover of Charles Dickens, true to the spirit of that cherished author while delivering something completely unexpected. If you enjoy the nostalgic richness of a Victorian Christmas, the thrills and chills of a good haunting, and a cozy read you can curl up with by the fire, you will love this tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alydia Rackham
• Release date: Apr 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215886885

Alydia Rackham

Alydia Rackham is a daughter of Jesus Christ. She has written more than thirty original novels of many genres, including fantasy, time-travel, steampunk, modern romance, historical fiction, science fiction, and allegory. She is also a singer, actress, avid traveler, artist, and animal lover. 

Book preview

Chapter One. The End of It

EBENEZER SCROOGE WAS dead.

The time was bound to come, of course. For we are all mortal—though we like to forget it—and even the brightest and merriest of us must eventually extinguish. The most we can hope for is that we have given sufficient light to those around us, when they otherwise might have been surrounded by gloom. That much could be said about old Mr. Scrooge—which is remarkable indeed, when one considers that little more than half a decade before, this same Mr. Scrooge had been widely-regarded as one of the coldest, unpleasantest, tight-fisted scoundrels that ever walked the streets of London. The truth of his miraculous change—how he had suddenly transformed into one of the best and kindest—was known to very few. What can be told is that countless men, women and children attended his funeral, and every last one of them, though most sorry to acknowledge his absence, thought it quite fitting that they should bid him farewell today of all days. They also felt certain that the good old gentleman himself would not have chosen any other day—unless, perhaps, it could be the Day following.

Snow fell silently between the gnarled trees and upon the graveyard, dampening the footsteps of the mourners as one by one they drifted away from the burial site toward the nearest gate. Looming fog waited around the edges of the breathless gathering, blurring the flames of the hand-held lamps so they looked like smudges of gold upon misted glass. Low fingers of vapor also crept between the tombs and sepulchres like hunched, wary gatekeepers, crawling over muddy boots and shrouding the dates and blessings carved upon the ice-dusted, crowded stones.

But the chill and pall did not invade upon one particular marker. No, this marker was new—carved cleanly mere days before. A little lamp had been staked on either side of this headstone, burning merrily, sending glimmering light across the bough of holly draped over the stone’s solemn shoulders. And there upon the rock, written in a stately script that, in this illumination, seemed to be winking, it said:

EBENEZER SCROOGE

As Good a Friend

As Good a Master

As Good a Man

As this old Town Ever Knew

He knew how to keep Christmas well.

1779-1849

Timothy Cratchit, at twelve years old, stood beside his father, dully gazing at the writing, and the holly, and the lamps. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he did not wipe them away.

Far off, church bells rang out, calling the people of London to a Christmas Eve service. Tim sniffed and lifted his head, his brow knitting.

Christmas? Without Mr. Scrooge? Without the party at his vast house—the party that lit the streets, it was so bright within—the party with a long table covered with turkeys and mince pies and sweets; the party with the parlour filled with guests, and games of blind-man’s-bluff and Christmas crackers? The party during which, every year without fail, the old man himself would bend toward Tim, eyes twinkling, beckon to him with a bony finger and say, Tim, my lad—come and sit by the fire with me, and I’ll tell you a Christmas tale that I’m certain your brothers and sisters would never believe. But you shall believe me, shan’t you, dear boy? And Tim had sat by the roaring hearth with the vibrant old gentleman every year, listening raptly to the impossible story—and yes, he had believed it with all his heart. And upon those Christmas Eves, magic had seemed to drape across the lofty ceilings, and sparkle around the lamps like fairy wings, and dance amongst the laughter and the singing. And the old Mr. Scrooge had been the weaver and the master of it all.

But today, the magic had gone out of everything. Like a candle in a gust of wind.

I suppose we had better be going, my dears, Bob Cratchit said, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief before stuffing it into his pocket, drawing himself up and smiling bravely at his wife. She gave a warm look back to him, and put her arm around Peter. The rest of her brood—though quite grown up—still looked to her for comfort, and therefore pressed in around her.

Yes, we should, she nodded. Everyone will be arriving at the great house soon.

Father, Tim peered up at Bob, watching his face. "Are we really going to have the party without him?"

We must! came a voice from behind Tim—and Tim turned to see the tall figure, ruddy face and brilliant eyes of Mr. Scrooge’s nephew, Fred.

We can’t fail now, can we? Fred tipped his top-hat, planted his walking stick and gave Tim a serious look. Above all, he would wish us to carry on. He spent all year planning it, you know!

Right enough, sir, Bob nodded firmly at Fred. We mustn’t let him down.

Fred then smiled at Bob Cratchit—and Tim saw bright sadness in his glance, mingled with affection and assurance. It made Tim’s heart heavy.

Shall we? Fred beckoned, offering his arm to his pretty wife, who was wiping tears of her own and leading a little boy by the hand. She took Fred’s arm, and together the Cratchits and Scrooge’s remaining family trailed back through the winding paths, out of the cemetery and onto the snow-covered street.

Quite a few people came, Bob remarked, taking Tim’s gloved hand in his own.

Yes, the cemetery seemed full of more living folk than dead, Martha agreed, looping her arm through her tall husband’s.

Everyone will miss him, Belinda murmured.

It will be quite a change, for all of us, Bob remarked.

Yes, Fred’s wife agreed. We’ve come to rely on him so much!

He helped us all a great deal, Fred acknowledged. And in the last few months, do you know my love—he gave away all of his fortune.

A dart of terror shot through Tim’s chest. He stared up at Fred.

All of it? he gasped. Then what—What will you and Father do?

We shall be industrious! Fred declared, reaching out to pat Tim briskly on the cap. "Though he gave his fortune away, Uncle Scrooge willed