The Ghosts of Christmas Debt
Snow drifts past frosted panes.
Arthur slumps in tattered upholstery,
the dim glow
casting shapes that shift like guilt
across walls where last year’s decorations
still hang in shame.
A string of crooked lights
flickers above him—
mismatched, dim,
his sense of festivity
as faded as the chair itself.
Outside, distant sleigh bells
jingle his name
and the apparitions come:
formed from financial ruin,
draped in torn gift wrap,
their tags reading:
To Arthur. From Your Future Self.
Hollow eyes.
Expectations, sharp as teeth.
Look who finally showed up!
cackles the first—
a garish sweater on nothing,
a grin like a wound.
Remember me? The BOGO blender?
Two for the price of one—
and both gathering dust
while your bank account crumbles
like last season’s wrapping paper.
You thought you were clever, didn’t you?
I thought I was being smart!
Arthur shoots back, hand through disheveled hair.
I saved money. Who doesn’t love a deal?
Two blenders neither of you needed,
the ghost counters, voice rising to a shriek.
You said you’d give one away!
Instead they sit there, monuments to your vanity,
and your balanceshrinks like a bruise.
Arthur swallows. The words settle in his gut
like a lump of coal.
Another specter drifts forward,
garlands wound through her like broken dreams.
Ah, my dear friend, she sighs,
the credit card boutique.
That shimmering necklace for your sister—
you were so proud, weren’t you?
She loved it!
A thousand-dollar mistake,
she purrs.
And now interest accrues
while she wears it to parties,
never thinking of you
counting coins in the dark.
Arthur’s cheeks flush.
Memories flood back—
the late-night scroll through feeds
where lavish gifts masqueraded as love.
I just wanted her to be happy,
he murmurs, barely audible.
What about your happiness?
a third ghost demands,
tinsel wrapped around him like a noose.
What about your sanity?
Those bills arrived like shackles.
How did it feel, tearing them open?
Your heart racing like a trapped bird.
I was trying to create memories,
he stammers. Family gatherings. Laughter.
The ghosts exchange a look—
they’ve heard this before.
Memories don’t come from spending,
the first one scoffs.
They come from moments shared,
not from price tags and regret.
What do you want me to do?
Arthur asks, bitter and small.
Just ignore Christmas?
Not at all,
the second one says, almost gentle now.
Family time over presents.
Laughter over expense reports.
Love over labels.
Maybe even homemade cookies
instead of overpriced trinkets.
A chill moves through the room—
not cold, but heavy,
like snow accumulating on a roof.
Arthur sits with it.
Lets it sink in.
For the first time, he doesn’t argue.
The ghosts glance at each other.
Something shifts in their forms—
edges softening, substance thinning.
They begin to recede.
Good luck, they whisper,
not cruel anymore—
just tired, maybe,
or perhaps just old.
Their laughter fades.
The tinsel dissolves.
Arthur sits in the quiet
that once terrified him
but now feels less like absence
and more like possibility.
He rises.
Not to check his accounts,
not to draft apologies,
but to unearth old recipes
from cookbooks coated in dust.
The ghosts retreat into memory.
Arthur steps into something new:
no wrapped boxes between them,
just flour on their hands
and silence that means something.
Joy without the invoice.
Christmas, finally free.