DAD'S CHRISTMAS PRESENCE

by Emily C. Skaftun

It's a story as old as time: a father's desire to create a special Christmas memory leads to a tragic chimney accident. Yes, we thought it was strange that Dad missed the frenzy of gift-unwrapping. Yes, we noticed the smoke from our cozy fire backing up into the room as though the flue were closed (but it wasn't). Yes, we thought we heard a sort of muffled screaming. But then we'd always suspected the old house was haunted.

It wasn't. Not then.

I guess it took Dad long enough to die that he got sort of bitter about it. Jimmy and I were just kids, engrossed in the gimme-gimmes, which I think should have given us a pass. Mom… honestly she's just not that bright. I mean, neither was Dad. Obviously.

Ghost-Dad started haunting us as soon as the decorations came down, which was right before his funeral. Mom swore we would never celebrate Christmas again. We shoved the lights and ornaments into boxes in the attic, dragged the tree into the backyard, dressed in our family portrait clothes, and then there he was, all hovery and see-through and still dressed as Santa. Jimmy ran right for him, tackling for a hug, but sailed through the apparition and bonked his head on a doorknob instead. He wailed and wailed and we were late for the funeral, and Mom made me hold the ice pack over Jimmy's giant goose egg.

Ghost-Dad was a real jerk. He would pull the rug under our feet at the top of the stairs. He'd make the light switches shock us. He was the reason our garbage disposal never worked: one time it "jammed," and when Mom reached in to clear it, it started up again. She only lost the tip of her ring finger, but we never trusted the sink monster again.

Jimmy had it worst. Ghost-Dad could make him fall for the trap almost every time. He'd go in for a hug and come out bruised or bleeding.