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The Reclamation of Jacob Marley
by Naching T. Kassa

Jacob Marley stood at river’s edge, staring into the icy, rushing water. Since his death in 1836, he’d learned the meaning of the word patience.

Ebeneezer had been the first soul he’d saved. His old friend had repented and changed his ways. Countless others followed. He envied their salvation and the mistake he’d made so long ago.

The night his own ghost had visited had been bitterly cold. His uncle, twenty years dead, had tried to warn him of the fate which awaited. Of the chains he would one day bear. But he had been of stronger stuff than even Scrooge and refused his salvation. He received no visit from the ghosts of Past, Present and Future.

When he awoke from his death, he discovered the true meaning of hell. It was not a fiery inferno of pain and punishment. No, it was something far worse. Too late, he had learned what he had lost.

Like Scrooge, Marley had once loved. Her name had been Gwendolyn, a sweet girl but frail. He still remembered the morning of their wedding day, how he had paused on the steps of the Church of St. Anthony, and then fled. It was not gold which kept him away, but cowardice. Gwendolyn suffered from consumption, and he feared her death. He did not know what had become of her.

Not until his own death.

Like a magnet, his ghost had been drawn to her side. She lay upon her deathbed, an old woman, but just as beautiful as she’d been so long ago.

A young woman sat in a chair beside the bed. She held Gwendolyn’s hand in her own.

“My dear daughter. My Elizabeth,” the old woman said. “I cannot die with a secret.”

The woman leaned forward. “What is it, mother?”

Gwendolyn’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Alfred Micklewhite, though a dear man, was not your father.”

The girl stared at the old woman, eyes wide.

“Alfred allowed me to take his name before he went to sea,” Gwendolyn continued. “He knew I did not—could not—love him. But he loved me, and he supported the two of us until he died. Your true father…he died last week.”

“But…who?” the woman asked.

“His name was Jacob Marley.”

“Marley? Of Scrooge and Marley?”

“The same. I loved him long ago. I still do.”

Her daughter asked questions, how could she not, but Gwendolyn had begun to fade and would say no more. Marley hoped to hear those answers. He waited as the life ebbed from her body. When Gwendolyn rose from her mortal flesh, and his daughter wept below, Marley rushed forward.

He never reached her. Something rose between them, cleaving him from her, and she departed in a blinding flash of white light. He was thrust into the gloom of a dark street in London.

For seven years, he searched, first for Gwendolyn and then for his daughter. He never found either, but he did find his uncle. And Michael told him how he might atone, how he might find them again. He had gone to Scrooge after that. Now, he stood upon the riverbank, waiting for the arrival of the next soul he would save.

The woman arrived a few moments later. Had the world not aged beneath Marley’s watchful eye, he might have thought her strangely dressed. Clad in denim trousers and tennis shoes, earbuds tucked into her ears, she trudged down the path, her eyes upon the snowy trail. She would not notice him until it was too late.

Marley loosened the kerchief which held his jaw. He didn’t know her name, nor what she had done. The knowledge would come once he tasted her fear.

Usually, Marley would appear to his victim several times before making his appearance, but things had changed over the years. This new generation seemed oblivious to the world. They stared at their screens and little else. Marley, unlike the ghosts of later years, still possessed the ability to clutch a living being. He found appearing suddenly and grasping hold of his target garnered the most attention.

The woman drew nearer, stepping along the riverbank, approaching the spot where he stood. He prepared to leap out at her and would have if she hadn’t tripped. She screamed.

Marley reached out and grasped hold of her arm before she could tumble into the water. He pulled her back.

“Oh! Thank you, good sir!” the woman gasped. She clutched hold of his arm. If she had seen his terrifying visage, she gave no sign.

“Think nothing of it,” Marley replied. He didn’t know what else to say.

“You deserve a reward for your kindness,” the woman replied.

Marley frowned. The woman spoke rather strangely for one of this age. Her speech seemed much like his own, a trifle archaic.

“No, there is no need to reward me,” he said. “I am not here on my own behalf.”

“Then…you are in the habit of saving others?”

“I am accustomed to saving souls. I must admit, this is the first time I’ve saved a life in such a way.”

“And I must admit, I wondered if you’d do it.”

“You saw me?”

“No. You were quite invisible.”

“Then how did…”

“I know? I have come for the sake of your salvation, Jacob Marley.”

His eyes grew wide. “My salvation?”

The woman smiled. Her face changed before his eyes, becoming that of the one he still loved best.

“It’s time to go home, Jacob. Home for good and all.”

Marley glanced down and saw that his bony, ghostly fingers had gained flesh. Gwendolyn took him by his newly formed hand, and in the next instant, he stood in an apartment overlooking Hyde Park. A little boy lay sleeping at the foot of a Christmas tree.

“Who is he?” Jacob asked.

“He is ours,” Gwendolyn said. “A child of a child of a child. Our only remaining footprint on this earth.”

“Oh, Gwendolyn,” Marley said. “I am sorry. Bitterly sorry. I could have…should have shared that life with you.”

“You still can,” she replied.

The world swirled about him and, quite suddenly, he found himself outside the church of St. Anthony, once again a young man. A chill nipped his cheeks.

When he pulled the door open, he received a wooden sliver for his trouble. He stared at the small drop of blood and then glanced up the aisle, where Gwendolyn waited. He had never seen her on their wedding day. Her smile was radiant.

Jacob Marley did not hesitate. He rushed inside, and the church door slammed behind him.

Fiction © Copyright Naching T. Kassa
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

 

More from Naching T. Kassa:

Sherlock Holmes and The Arcana of Madness: A Horror Mystery

Discover the untold mysteries of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson in Sherlock Holmes and the Arcana of Madness, a trilogy that unveils three captivating cases intertwined with the mystical allure of tarot cards, designed by the renowned, yet infamous artist, Richard Dadd.

A collection of manuscripts, meticulously penned by John H. Watson M.D., is unearthed in 2019 amidst the restoration of Broadmoor Hospital, found inexplicably in the grave of Richard Dadd. The manuscripts’ concealed journey and their remaining unpublished raise a myriad of questions, enveloping them in a veil of mystery.

Available on Amazon!