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The Christmas Ghost
Of Wells Street School
Chuck Walker
Copyright 2011 Chuck Walker
Smashwords edition
ISBN 978-0-9812009-5-8
Chapter One
Christopher wandered the steps of Wells Street School. He was lost in despair as he looked up at the building with his sad eyes and soulful heart.
The school closed forever. It stood alone – a bleak and empty shell. The echoes of laughing children were a distant memory. The deserted halls were lifeless. The voices of teachers’ calling for silence were never going to ring out again in the vacant classrooms. Wells Street Public School was shut. It did not deserve the honour of being the first victim of uncaring administrators in their march for economic efficiency – to heck with the community, and its history – and to heck with the happiness of thousands of children who experienced the school as a haven of carefree and innocent childhood.
Administrators, school trustees, and the compassionless bureaucrats, conscienceless and without feeling slammed the doors shut to the future joy and well-being of countless children.
The shame rested with those policy engineers and their need for control and the arrogant belief they knew what was best. Policy was their excuse to let the few shatter the lives of generations to come.
The windows of the school drooped as if ready to weep. The red brick bled its sufferings, and paled in the summer sun. The winter chill encased its heart with frost and disbelief. If an edifice of such history and joy could miss the thundering footfalls of excited children, Wells Street School was such a place.
The building waited and yearned for its own Christmas miracle. It waited in the darkened silence of disregard and forgetfulness and yearned for a reawakening. The building stood as a defiant reminder of the dreams and desires of a lost generation of laughing childhood.
Across the street, the Town Park stood as a hushed sentinel to the school's demise. It watched, in muted helplessness, from across the narrow roadway as the ghosts of once happy children gathered to shed tears of disappointment, their memories meaningless. There was no justifiable reason for the closure, only corruption, self-interest, and compassionless bureaucratic blindness to heritage and community were to blame for the unnecessary end of an era for a great school. The bureaucrats cared little for what they considered outmoded notions of community and neighbourliness. They made their decision based on policy, on guidelines that considered financial status as the most important criteria and lied to everyone, saying it was best for the welfare of the children.
Christopher sat on the steps of Wells Street Public School head in hands praying for a miracle. He loved the school, it was a place of safety. Whenever he needed to calm down because of his mother's drinking, he ran to the school and it provided him with a sense of security. No matter if the doors were locked or not, the school was always there, always welcoming, and always relieving his sorrow.
Christopher was weeping softly and wiping away tears with his mittens. The winter snow had not yet begun and he was tired of waiting for the first dusting of whiteness. He hoped the gentle flakes would begin tonight. It was Christmas Eve, after all. He believed happiness would find him when the snow fell and covered the bleak and depressing world in a blanket of purity. He wished the snow would come soon.
He didn’t really want to go back to his house just yet but he knew he should leave the steps of the school soon and make his way back to the warmth of his living room. But he wasn't ready, not yet at any rate. He knew his mother was drunk again but he didn't want to go home until he was sure she was passed out. He hated it when he was forced to endure her mushy kisses and the continual repetitions of ‘I am sorry’, as she stumbled to bed and eventually passed out.
Tonight would be the same – so he stayed on the steps shivering, ignoring the chill. He was not afraid of the cold nor was he afraid of dying. What he was afraid of was life, and the deep-seated belief that things would never get better. Nothing would ever change – especially after his father was declared dead, his body never found – the Army Captain told him his father was captured and killed in the desert. The Captain was really sorry.
At the memorial, strangers told Christopher how brave his father was. They told him how he saved the other soldiers in his company but Christopher didn’t care; he missed his father and wanted him back. Two years had passed however, the pain still burned inside him. The years had only added to his mother’s pain, her drinking was getting worse and Christopher was hardly able to bear it.
Then the next shock hit him. His last haven of peace was taken away. The school, the only place he found relief was rendered asunder by the very freedom his father died to protect. It wasn’t fair. Faceless men had taken away the only security he knew in his troubled life.
Would the pain never stop? He wondered.
Christopher huddled down on the steps and remembered the stories his dad told him about the school and the park. His father’s happiest time were during his youth, playing in the park at recess, throwing hoops in the school gym, and acting in plays on the stage in the auditorium. His father’s childhood happened all within the walls of Wells Street School, in the classrooms and the auditorium, the gym, lunchroom, hallways and stairwells, not to mention outside the school throwing hockey and baseball cards against the stone walls to see who could get the closest. His dad’s childhood, like his own included the Town Park, across from the school, its crossing guard gates welcoming generations of children with open arms while protecting them from the cars that wanted to drive in front of the school.
Christopher remembered his dad taking him to the park and showing him how to throw a baseball just as his own dad had taught him, in the very same spot close to the Armoury. It was his father that told him about pie-tag which all the kids played as soon as the first snows of winter covered the park in its white splendour.
Christopher lived in the same house where his father had grown up. His grandfather bought the house and the family lived there for nearly seventy years, three generations of Christopher’s family.
The house didn’t matter to him very much at the moment. All he could think about was his life crumbling away because of War and school Bureaucrats. His father killed in Afghanistan and the school closed.
Christopher’s depression deepened as the night grew darker and the time to return home neared.
He was lost in sadness and ignored the cold and everything else around him. He was sinking into a bottomless gloom.
“Hello,” a raspy voice behind him startled him.
Christopher turned quickly with a gasp and a jump to see who had spoken.
“Sorry didn’t mean to scare you.”
Christopher was staring at a boy about the same age as him standing in the doorway of the school. Striking red hair and a bright toothy smile stared back at him.
“How did you get behind me?” Christopher demanded.
“It wasn’t very hard considering all that smoke you’re making with your thinking.”
The red headed kid smiled again.
“You scared me,” Christopher barked.
“Sorry about that kid.”
Christopher fumed. He didn’t know what to make of the strange kid.
“Hi, my name is Snuffy.” He ignored Christopher’s anger.
“Snuffy, what kind of name is that?”
“It’s a nickname actually but I like it, so I use it.” Snuffy stuck his hand out for Christopher to shake.
Hesitantly Christopher reached out to take Snuffy’s hand but was stunned and astounded when his hand passed right through Snuffy’s hand like it was made of smoke.
Christopher stepped back, shocked at the tingling sensation that lingered on his palm.
“Oh, sorry about that, I forgot, you can’t touch me. I’m a ghost.”
“What?” Christopher tried to grasp what was happening but he was at a loss.
“Get out of here, a ghost, you’re kidding me. There’s no such thing as ghosts… someone’s playing a trick on me, what’s the big idea?” He stuttered.
“Hey,” Snuffy interjected, “it’s Christmas Eve anything can happen. Don’t you know it’s the time when miracles happen?” Snuffy said calmly. “All kinds of wonderful things happen on Christmas Eve. It’s some kind of cosmic rule or something, been around for centuries, don’t you know”
"You're not serious and if you're a real ghost then prove it to me." Christopher said, not believing his eyes. He did have an active imagination according to his mother.
Snuffy walked in front of Christopher and proceeded to fade away in a soft blue twinkling light. Christopher’s eyes opened wide and he stood stunned, he couldn't believe what he just saw and was about to say something but before he could, Snuffy reappeared.
"See I told you." Snuffy smiled. "I'm a ghost, a real ghost. I can disappear and reappear all night long and it won't change the fact that I'm a ghost."
Christopher stared at Snuffy, his head a whirl of conflicting thoughts and feelings. His world was a confusing mass of contradictions and a ghost didn’t help matters. He didn't really know what to make of what he saw and was beginning to believe he was losing his mind.
"I'm going nutty."
"No, you're not going nutty, or at least not just yet. You may manage to go nutty later on in your life but not right now. Just take a few moments to adjust to the idea that there are such things like ghosts in the world. I mean there are stranger things in life. It will make the reason for my visit easier if you just believe. The sooner you accept the idea of ghosts the sooner we can get on with the business we need to deal with.
"What business do I have with you?" Christopher asked. Despite his scepticism he was a little bit curious, well actually quite a bit curious.
"You'll see but first we need to talk about your being out here in the cold so late."
Christopher ignored the question and leered at Snuffy wondering what a ghost could possibly want with him. His life wasn't that interesting and he wasn’t all that abnormal. He was no different than the other kids in the neighbourhood. So why, or for that matter what, did this Snuffy want with him. What was there to talk about? Christopher's life was going along nicely without a ghost taking interest in him.
"But you see Christopher your life is not going that well." Snuffy said reading his mind.
"You know what I was thinking?"
"I'm a ghost remember, I know what you're thinking and what you're feeling. I know that you feel abandoned by your father because he didn't come back from Afghanistan. I know you feel responsible, and you feel the need to look after your mother. I know you feel safe coming to the school to try and forget your problems. I'm here to show you some other stuff."
The air was cold and still and no breeze disturbed the night. It was a cold winter evening – the sky tinged a pale blue and patches of warm yellow light bathed the sidewalks and porches. The warm glow came from the windows of the houses around the park. The scene was a mixture of blue and yellow with patches of deep indigo in the shadows. The world was peaceful, the silence disturbed slightly by the distant sounds of closing doors as fathers arrived home for Christmas.
Snuffy broke the silence.
"I went to this school when I was a kid, I used to have to walk all the way over from the other side of Yonge Street to attend grade eight. In those days it was a long walk for my short little legs." Snuffy waited to see if Christopher laughed. He didn’t.
"You went to school here. I don't remember ever seeing you."
"This was quite a few years ago. It was all the way back in 1963 when I walked the halls and played in the park.”
“That was a long time ago.” Christopher said.
“I remember playing baseball out on the diamond in the summer heat and playing basketball in the gym when it was too cold or rainy to go outside. I remember the old gymnasium down stairs below the auditorium. It wasn't very big but that didn't matter, it had basketball hoops at both ends and we played on the days we had to stay inside. I can remember playing pie tag when the first snow fell. Do the kids today still play pie tag? Don’t bother answering, it doesn’t matter, that’s not why I’m here."
“Why are you here?” Christopher asked, fearing the answer.
“You, of course, I’m here for you.”
“But I don’t need haunting.” Christopher protested.
“Oh I’m not going to haunt you for very long. We’ll finish our business before the night is out I promise. And if you’re worried about your mother, don’t bother, she’s already passed out.”
“Already,” Christopher wiped a tear from his eye and sniffled.
Standing in the alcove of the main entrance Christopher noticed the little space darken with the night as if in anticipation.
“We should start.” Snuffy smiled and pointed at the front door of the school. It was suddenly bathed in light. Christmas bulbs strung around the edge of the doorframe glowed red, blue and green. The doors swung open and inside the sounds of laughter erupted from the children piling into the auditorium struck Christopher with unexpected joy.
It appeared like magic.
Chapter Two
“Follow me,” Snuffy said. “Wells Street School has always been a great school even in my day.”
Snuffy pushed the door to the auditorium open and inside rows and rows of children and adults sat on plywood chairs lined up in front of the stage. The yellow wood polished from countless years of use made the chairs look warm and familiar.
On the stage, the Christmas pageant was taking place. A makeshift cradle was surrounded by kids dressed in robes who were reciting the Nativity scene. Every Christmas the school put on a play.
“Hey, that’s you.” Christopher said. He pointed at one of the blanket clad Sheppard’s on the small stage.
“Good eye, that’s me all right. Boy was I a skinny kid.” Snuffy said with a little hint of pride.
“Why did you bring me here?” Christopher still didn’t understand what was going on.
“Is there anyone else you recognize?” Snuffy asked.
Christopher scanned the crowd and was about to say no when he saw a little boy sitting in the back row trying desperately to go unnoticed.
“That’s my Granddad, I remember him from my fathers picture album.”
“Good eye indeed.” Snuffy grinned widely. “I knew your Granddad, he was one of the shy kids, didn’t join in very much. I knew he wanted to be in the play but he just couldn’t bring himself to be brave enough to ask. He was always afraid of rejection.”
“I didn’t know that,” Christopher’s eye brows furrowed.
The play ended and the crowd showed their appreciation with loud applause. Christopher’s Granddad looked alone; he clapped with the rest of the audience but Christopher could see the longing in his granddad’s eyes. His granddad looked like he wanted to be in the play with the rest of the kids.