Speaker:
Hello, Merry Christmas.
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This is Ghia with the creative,
spiritual journey podcast.
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I'm here with a bonus episode,
which is not our usual content.
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So if you are new here, Please check
out one of our other episodes to
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see what our podcast is all about.
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It has been my goal for quite some
time now to write a short Christmas
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story every year and to send it
out to my friends and family.
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Because all of you are now my friends.
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I thought I would share one with you.
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Turns out.
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It was a Victorian tradition to
read ghost stories at Christmas.
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Think of Charles Dickens and his
famous ghost story, a Christmas Carol.
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Thus the inspiration for this short story.
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Mary D.
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Bye Ghia Cooley.
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There are a fair, many
stories told about ghosts.
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But this one being told by the
ghost is out of the ordinary shore.
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I was home bacon for the family
th,:
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When fire gutted our flat.
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Killing me straight out.
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The place was Washington
Heights, Manhattan, New York,
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fourth floor of a tenement.
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I'd been born and raised in the slums
of the lower east side, being the best.
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My parents, as Irish
immigrants could afford.
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The new flat had been a grand
stepping up and all because me,
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man and boys had found good work.
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They were at it when the fire took me.
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Oh, sure.
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That's the way of it.
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Our treasure was gone.
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Finding myself in spirit forum was queer.
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Strange.
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I could have left the flat and
gone anywhere, but supposedly
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family would return after repairs.
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I hung around the place waiting.
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There was a thing I wanted done, and I
thought I could persuade me man, to do it.
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By the time I realized
he would never return.
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I couldn't bring myself
to leave the place.
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Lots of tenants came and went,
but I wasn't about haunting them.
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Not exactly meaning I never materialized
in the middle of the night with
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sunken eyes or the like, The fire
caused deep sorrow shore, but I'd
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never spit it out on other folks.
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I have been known to toss plastic flowers
on the floor, not liking them at all.
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And I might have caused the faucet to run.
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If the dishes needed Washington.
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I like my flat tidy.
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But that's it mostly.
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Still may flat got a
reputation as being haunted.
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It had been empty for months.
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No one wanting a haunted flat But
early October, Kate and her little
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Emily moved in willing to take the
flat for considerable discount.
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I liked them right off with
their good old Irish names.
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Sure.
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Emily was mostly at
school during the days.
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And Kate recently put off her man was
working from home as a journalist.
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It was only a week before Kate stormed
the building manager's office, demanding
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to know the name of who died in the flat.
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If we're going to live together,
I want to know who it is.
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The manager searched the records
and named me as Mary Doyle.
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Is that you, Mary D Kate asked the next
time she found herself with goosebumps.
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I was pleased to be called by my name.
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And I sent a warm breeze
to sooth her census.
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It worked for, she calmed mightily.
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In my opinion, both mother and daughter
spent too much time staring at all
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manner of computers, pads, and phones.
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Uh, body's got to move.
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But truth be told I did take a
Gander over their shoulders now.
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And again.
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It caused Kate and Emily, all kinds of
shivers, but they put up with it shore.
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A grand thing, because when I
found Kate frequenting, a site
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called ancestry, I was intrigued.
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She was searching out
people from the old country.
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I might have helped her
find a few things here.
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And again, You know, just a
point in the right direction.
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I could always tell when she was catching
my drift because her nose would Twitch
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and she would say, Is that you, Mary D.
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When Kate came across the name of manana.
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She shrieked at the chill.
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I sat down her spine.
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It was an accident.
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Sure.
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Could you blame me?
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K tonight.
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We're from the same Irish tree.
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It was brilliant.
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Kate even found me name and likeness.
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That's when I got thinking, Kate
could help me with what I've been
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needing, done all these years.
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But how to get her to do it.
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Sending little hints while she
was on the computer was one thing.
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But getting her out of her chair
was another, I tried pushing, of
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course my hand went right through.
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Then I worked on the water
pipes, creating an eerie sound.
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Not now, Mary D I'm busy was all I got.
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It took a donkey's years of scratching
at the floorboards before she
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finally ordered a box of mouse traps.
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Not what I was going for.
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Sure.
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But it got the job done.
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When Kate began looking around the
floorboards for a place to put the
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traps, she found the hole where Milaca
had fallen all those years before.
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It took some doing to get it out.
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But once in hand, Kate excitedly
called Emily to come see
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together, they opened the lock.
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It.
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May likeness was inside along
with two, we locks of hair.
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One read like me mans the other
brown, because it was mine Across from
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the likeness I had written Shanna,
rd,:
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Emily stared at the name
who's that she asked.
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No idea.
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Kate said, let's see what we can find out.
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Kate was wasting no
time ordering DNA kits.
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Again, not what I was expecting.
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DNA, be a new to myself.
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But as I learned from reading over her
shoulder, it would more than do the job.
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I thought I might go, barmy
waiting for the test results.
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I paced the flat Roman from room to room.
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Kate and Emily quite used
to me now often commented.
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Mary D must be here.
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My spidey senses are tingling.
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It was Christmas Eve when
Kate called from her computer.
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Emily come quick.
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The test results are here.
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Emily.
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And I were both at her shoulder
as she opened the message.
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Mom.
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The hair was from a mother and daughter.
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Emily said looking up at Kate who frowned.
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The records don't show that Mary had a
girl, Kate said as she clicked through
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the ancestry site, but she did mom.
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The hair proves it.
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Kate had tears in her eyes.
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It's true, Emily.
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It's true.
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The little thing must have died
in the fire with her mother.
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On the family page, Kate typed
Shannon, Catherine Doyle, November
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3rd to December 24th, 1912.
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I swirled about Kate and Emily
doing my best to fill them with the
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overwhelming love and appreciation.
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I felt.
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My girl's life had been recorded.
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What a gift.
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And with that done.
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I knew I could finally leave the flat.
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Upon departing.
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Kate's nose twitched.
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As I gifted her with the old Irish saying.
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Until we meet again, may God hold
you in the hollow of his hand.
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And then I added as a whisper.
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Farewell and happy Christmas.
