Short Story: The Guest

The Guest

It was a cold winter's night and while I was rummaging around in my living room looking for matches to light a fire in my small fireplace there was a knock. 'Must be squirrels again', I thought. The cold was driving them into small holes in the foundation of my cottage in the hills. But there it was again, a firm knock against my wooden front door, and then two more knocks after that. Who could it be so late on such a bitter night? I left the matches on the mantle, I had found them in the drawer of the side table, and ran over to the door, unbolted it with a bang, that large rusty lock needed a hard turn to loosen it and saw a hooded figure waiting and stamping her feet on the coblestone step. She lifted her head and snow showered down from her hood and covered her brown leather boots. Her coat was long and deep red, made from a soft worn cordoroy and the edges were trimmed with green embroidered vines. "Well," she said, "Are you going to invite me in or just stand there letting the cold in?" I was too shocked to say anything as she marched herself in through the doorway and right over to the fireplace. "This just won't do", she remarked and began buiding a fire. "Hand me the matches please." With a quick strike of a match she bent over to rest the flame onto the pine needle kindling and the fire instantly began to crackle. "There!" Before I could even ask her name she plopped down into my only easy chair and rested her head full of short white curls back and closed her eyes. Her round face was gentlelike with wrinkles and rosy cheeks. I thought she might fall asleep she looked so cozy and at home in the cushions. "My does something smell nice", she said. I just remembered and hurried into the kitchen to turn down the burner and ladled out steaming wassail into two mugs and brought them to the living room. I handed one to my guest and kept the other one and sat down by the fire. My hands were warm from the hot mug. "Excuse me," I said. "Can I ask who you are and what you are doing out on such a bitter night and why you were knocking on my door?" She smiled there as she rested with her eyes closed and then before I knew it she was snoring softly. I reached over and took the empty mug from her hands and watched her closely. She looked familiar but not entirely recognizable. Was she my neighbor's grandmother lost out in the snow? Their farm was a mile over the south hill and I couldn't imagine anyone wandering so far. I let her sleep and sipped on my wassail, how did she manage to drink hers so fast? The fire snapped and spat a few sparks, the room was dim except for the bright dancing flames. My mind wanndered to soft music playing Silent Night, candles held by steady hands in a dark church. Suddenly the scene changed and children were lauging and skating on a frozen patch of ice in a lonely cornfield at night. Then my mind raced to a dining room table beautifully laid, white china bowls filled with scalding oyster stew waiting for an eager family. The spicey and sweet aroma of the wassail filled my cottage and once again my mind wandered to a kitchen alive with loud Hellos and Merry Christmas and Come on In! Yes, it was just as it was before, so vivid in my mind's eye. Then suddenly, the old woman jumped to her feet, pulled her sagging hood over her head, clapped her hands, opened the door (how she did it so effortlessly I'll never know) walked into the  blowing snow and disappeared. I never found out who she was and never saw her again. But, if you ever hear a knock on a cold winter's night it just might be The Ghost of Christmas Eve.

Photo art: grunderquendel