 Hello children, it's Santa with another episode of Spooky Santa. Well, I have some new scary stories to share with you, so be sure to talk to your mom or dad and make sure that you have permission to listen, and I do have some very scary ones today. I have a strange Christmas game. It's written by Mrs. J. H. Riddle. It's about a brother and a sister who spend Christmas in a haunted house, and they witness the ghostly re-enactment of a murder. We'll also have a spooky holiday tale called Clockwork Christmas by Richard Anchors. Plus, I have an extra special story that was emailed to me from two of my children on my good list. Yes, two children, sisters. They wrote a scary story together. It's called The Flames of Sligation by Amy and Carol and Branigan. So, are you ready? Bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with Spooky Santa for another holiday chiller. A Clockwork Christmas by Richard Anchors. Somewhere in a distant past of copper and brass, a small girl witnessed a miracle. This is her tale of a most unusual Christmas Eve. Georgiana did not like Christmas. No matter how much or how hard she wished for something, she never once received it. The fact that she always wished for the same thing, it didn't matter. At least not to her. In nine years of hoping and praying and writing letters to me, she never once received that elusive present. She tried not to let it bother her, but, well, as time slipped by, her smile became a frown and poor Georgiana forgot how to be happy. It was not because Georgiana's parents were poor or that she was on my naughty list. No. In fact, she was a very good girl, if goodness were measured by politeness and correct manners. It was just a simple case of, well, misunderstanding. But like all things in life that are left too faster, Georgiana came to resent that misunderstanding. She came to resent it very much. Georgiana had not told her parents what she wanted. To do so would have broken her wish. She was a very wise child in such ways, but, well, it did not mean that she didn't want to tell them. She really wanted to. She yearned to. How they could not know was both a frustration and a bitter disappointment to poor Georgiana. To her mind, it was an unwritten rule that one's parents should know their child's innermost secrets. One's parents should know when a child pleads for companionship to never be left alone as she was day after day after long day. The whole affair made her very miserable. She came to believe, therefore, that it was her parents who made her miserable. She did not wish to be so, and she vowed one day to not be by whatever means necessary. Yes, Georgiana would make them pay for turning a good girl into a bad one. When Christmas Eve arrived, Georgiana went to bed early. After kissing her mama and papa goodnight with her usual downcast face, she made a long walk up to her bedroom with her chin on her chest looking so sad. It hurt her parents to see her that way, especially at Christmas. But what could they do? She could be a very determined girl at times, so difficult to figure out. Georgiana knelt beside her bed to say her prayers, remembering, at the very last moment, to add an extra prayer for yours truly Father Christmas, just in case. Well, she then blew out the candle that flickered in her bedside lantern and crawled into bed. Within a few minutes, she had fallen sound asleep. Georgiana awoke to the sound of something scraping like the workings of the grandfather clock that her papa wound up without fail every Sunday morning, and at first she thought maybe it was snowflakes hitting the window. However, that was a silly thing to think, tell me snowflakes were silent like a white silk sheet cast over a bed. Perhaps maybe she had just imagined the sound. She strained her ears with all her might, but no sound was forthcoming. Relieved she was not going mad, Georgiana placed her head back on her pillow before shooting upright. The scraping had returned. Georgiana knew her parents would have forbidden it, but she got out of bed. With the stealth of a mouse, she slid into her slippers, threw her dressing gown upon her shoulders and crept out of the room. Not a sound escaped into the night. Even the creaky candlelit landing was silent. She crept on tiptoes up to the balcony and peaked over the balustrade. The Christmas tree rested where it should. Presence piled beneath it and a life-sized model of me, Santa Claus, stood before that, observing it in quiet tranquility. Georgiana almost fell over at that sight. They possessed no life-sized model of Father Christmas. It was the moment all children dream of and no less for Georgiana. When she witnessed Santa Claus in her own home, there was only one course of action. Her chance might never come again. Therefore, with the stealth and agility of a cat, Georgiana crept down the stairs and snuck right up to the vision in red. Hello, Georgiana tried to be polite so as not to startle or scare me away. Well, the figure shuddered and made a strange grinding noise. My name is Georgiana, she persisted. I'm very pleased to meet you, Father Christmas. She sounded a little louder this time and she held out a small, pale hand just like her papa had taught her. Well, Father Christmas moved in slow motion as though made of crystal and frightened of shattering. It was with the utmost care that the figure in the red suit turned around to Georgiana. His body twisting all the way around atop his legs, but his legs remained where they were. Georgiana gasped as the figure looked her up and down. Georgiana knew Father Christmas was a big, barrel-bellied man and with a great white beard and a jolly face, but the fellow before her was none of those things. It wasn't me at all. It was about the height that the little girl imagined I would be and, well, it did wear the correct attire, but this was no man. His face was comprised of jagged, metal parts, just as Georgiana had seen in her papa's watch when he stripped it down for cleaning. There were cogs and gears, brass and copper and eyes of ruby quartz. He had great big teeth of sharp metal and a tongue that continually licked them as if to keep them well oiled. Just when she thought the clockwork man to have gotten stuck, he spoke. Hello, hello, hello! A metallic voice boomed out. I think you mean ho, ho, ho! Georgiana corrected, not the least bit scared of this creature. Sorry, the thing replied. It's mechanical jaw opening and closing out of time with its voice. Why are you pretending to be Father Christmas? Georgiana interrogated him. She sat the creature with a stare of ice-cooled penetration. The clockwork man backed away, gears whirring at a small chiming emanating from within his chest. Father is unwell, it said. I am delivering Christmas this year with my mechanical brothers. The clockwork jaw did not finish moving until some seconds after the imposter had finished speaking. Brothers, she asked. Yes, I have 8,096 brothers, the clockwork Santa replied. Why so many, asked Georgiana, cocking her head to one side to take a better look at the odd-looking man. We are clockwork, whereas Father is magic. But I so hoped to see Father Christmas. I need to ask him something personal, Georgiana said. I know, replied the clockwork man, his red hat bobbling with his jerky movements, and that's why I'm here. I have made it for you. I'm sorry, but if it is a gift that is made, then it is not the gift I have dreamed of, Georgiana said. Her face went downcast and her eyes started to fill with tears. But it is, the man said in his funny, choppy metallic way. He spun back around on his legs, his feet never moving, and bent down to collect something from the sack that he had left on the floor. For you, Georgiana. The clockwork Father Christmas passed her a red box tied with a green silk bow that perfectly matched her eyes. Georgiana took the gift, which was very heavy, and said thank you. She could not hold it for long though, so she put it on the floor and untied the bow. When she removed the lid, tears overflowed from her eyes. It is what you wished for, asked the mechanical man. No, it's, but he, she replied, throwing her arms about the large clockwork man with a clunk. The action caught him so off guard, he almost toppled over. He's my dream come true, said Georgiana. Thank you, Father Christmas. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Well, the clockwork Father Christmas buzzed in word and then bowed at the waist, his legs staying in place. He collected his sack and then turned back to Georgiana. I hope to see you next year, Georgiana. Hello, hello, hello, he added. Oh, no, ho, ho, ho, she laughed, but with a puff of gray smoke and the stench of gear oil, he was gone. Georgiana was sad to see the metal man go. He was such a nice clockwork fellow. In addition, she saw that he had been thoughtful enough to leave her another small gift in his wake. There on the floor sat a small can of oil. Perfect, she said, as the little clockwork puppy in the box gave a mechanical hip. He clicked in word, buzzed and grated as his sharp metal tail wagged from side to side. Well, with a smile that would light up the night, Georgiana took the can and she stooped down to collect up her brass puppy. He gleamed in the candlelight, standing on his back legs to lick her face with his rough metal tongue. And then he nuzzled into her dressing gown. You really do have the sharpest little teeth I've ever seen, she commented. All the better for crunching on bones and things I expect. What do you say? Cruncher, because that's what I shall call you, Cruncher. Well, her new metallic robot puppy Cruncher looked up at her, his fiery red eyes eager to please his small jaw snapping up and down. Now I know you're probably hungry, but all we shouldn't be up. So we'll go to bed and find you some food come morning. At that, Georgiana giggled and led the puppy upstairs. She whispered as they snuck across her parent's doorway. Mama and Papa sleep there, she hissed. And I don't like Mama and Papa anymore. Georgiana's parents would never know who sent her such a wonderful present. Nor would they see how she played and played and played with a little brass dog with the razor sharp teeth. They wouldn't even get to tell her to clean the red liquid off of its hungry looking face and the stairs and the carpet. No, her parents would never again wonder what she desired most for Christmas. Cruncher saw to that. By the way, kids, just to let you know, I do not hire metallic Santa Claus man to take my place if I'm not feeling well. It's just a story. And if you do ask for a puppy, don't expect a metal one that might hurt your parents. I would never give a gift like that. Up next, I'll share that email that I received from one of my well two actually of my good children with their own scary story they wrote for me. We'll have that in just a moment. Welcome back to spooky Santa. Oh, it's me, Santa Claus. And I have a brand new story that was emailed to me from Amy and Carolyn Branigan. They live in London, England, and they got together. These sisters wrote a scary story for us. Here it is. It's called the flames of slugation. Zoe peered out the train window at the late afternoon sunshine, pouring over the huge granite gray shape of a big old house. Are we there yet? Mount her brother Andrew beside her. It's been ages and ages, grumbled his twin, Anthony, who was sitting beside Andrew with his arms folded and looking grumpy. Not far now, answered Zoe, feeling quite the little mother to her nine year old brothers, even though she was only 11 herself. Not taking her eyes off the huge house, which was so close now, she could see its grimy windows. She felt a nervous fluttering in her stomach. Andrew and Anthony stared out the train window. That can't be where we're going, can it? asked Andrew, looking in disgust at the building with its little turrets and rounded quarters. It was a cross between a house and a castle. No, I don't think so. Mom said slugation was quite a big house, but I don't think it was going to be as big as that, explained Zoe. She thought back to her day and that her parents had told them the three children were to have a special treat, to go and stay with Ms. McDougal at Slugation House. It had all sounded wonderful back then to leave their home and Newcastle to go to the Scottish house where her mother had stayed as a child, but it didn't sound as good when she heard that her parents would not be going with them. They had to visit Granny in London, who was not very well and mom said it'd be very boring for the children. But now, the dark, gloomy mansion had come into view around the corner of the railway track. She wasn't so sure now. She hoped that wasn't where they were going, yet there were no other buildings to be seen and an announcement over the carriage speaker said their stop was fast approaching. It was in just the right place and her mother described it at the foot of a mountain and a wood behind and the railway track just in front. Suddenly, Anthony cried out, look, look, there's somebody at the window watching us all pale and strange. But when the other two looked where he was pointing, there was nothing to be seen. Stop pulling our legs, said Zoe, angry, for she was already beginning to worry about how menacing Slugation House appeared. I'm not pulling your leg, I really did see something, argued Anthony. Do us a favor, Anton, shut up, yawned Andrew. The train was slowing down now and finally pulled with a clanking noise into a station. Old metal columns curled up toward a leaf strewn glass canopy, making the platform gloomy. Zoe said loudly over all the noise, this must be our station. Don't forget your suitcases and mind the gap when we get out. I don't want you falling under the train. Zoe liked bossing her brothers around, apparently. Well, she stepped gracefully down onto the platform and her brothers tumbled out behind her. Andrew pretended to get his leg stuck in the gap, but Zoe wasn't fooled. Stop messing about, she said grumpily. At first there seemed to be nobody there to meet them, but suddenly a shadowy figure loomed toward them. For a moment they couldn't see who it was and they jumped in fright. A dark outline seemed to support a face so pale as to be almost floating in space. Then a gentle Scottish voice said, Hello, you must be the Bramley children. I'm Mrs. McDougal, so pleased to meet you. Now let's get back to Sligation House before it gets too dark. Andrew whispered into his sister's ear. I thought you said it was miss. Zoe didn't want to offend the woman who stood in front of her. Anthony gaited at the curly gray haired little woman who was now leading the way out of the station toward a battered old cart in front of which stood a dappled gray pony plying at the ground with its hoof. Anthony hissed at Zoe. I'm sure that's the person I saw at the window, but when I saw her there she was ghostly white. Zoe ignored him with her nose in the air. Mrs. McDougal helped them into the cart, looking them up and down. Those are very thin odd looking clothes you've got on, she said. It's tweeds and woolens for the Highlands, you should know. The three children were surprised. Their mom had knitted them warm new coats in a latest waterproof fabric. Who would want to get soaked in heavy wool? Zoe looked out at Mrs. Dougal's thick black skirt, almost brushing her ankles and the scratchy looking cloak which hid the upper half of her body. After a short ride bumping over the rough pothold track, Mrs. McDougal pulled the pony and cart to a stop outside the huge dark bulk of Sligation House. Zoe's heart sank when she saw that it was indeed the place they had seen from the train. Mrs. McDougal led them up to a heavy oak door which she opened with a strong shove of her shoulder. It creaked loudly. I don't like this, said Andrew as they followed the woman inside. They found themselves in a high hallway where a staircase disappeared up and around the corners into the darkness of another story. Suddenly he grabbed Zoe and whispered, did you see that? See what? whispered Zoe impatiently. She was getting very annoyed now with her brothers. Andrew pointed at a big painting of a very important rich-looking man on the wall. He scowled at me and he waved his fists. Stop talking rubbish, muttered Zoe. That's impossible. After steaming bowls of Scotch broth soup in the cavernous and chilly dining room, the children were shown to their bedrooms. Anthony and Andrew were sharing one bedroom Zoe had her own. They'd been looking for lights to switch on but there were no light switches. No electricity here, Mrs. McDougal told them, handing them a lit candle each on a little dish. In the town, yes, but it'll be a long time before electricity gets to a place like this. She closed the curtains against the night and added, there's a box of matches for you in your rooms if you need a light in the night, but be very careful, we don't want to fire. Alone in her room, in a big old bed and under piles of blankets, Zoe lay awake for hours, unable to sleep. She couldn't face being in the dark and she watched the candle burn lower and lower. Then suddenly it went out, just as if somebody had blown it out. Oh, just a draft, Zoe told herself, not altogether reassured and burrowed deeper and deeper under the covers. Her eyes now shut tight. Soon exhausted, she fell asleep. Then the door burst open and footsteps thundered across the bare floorboards. Something was pulling the blankets from her face. It was still pitch black. She could see nothing and cried out in terror. Shut up, Zoe! came a familiar voice as she realized it was Anthony and judging by the deep breaths of somebody else nearby, Andrew was well. Why are you in here? You gave me such a fright, said Zoe angrily. There was a scratching sound and a light flickered from a match as Anthony lit the candle he was carrying. We've seen a ghost! cried Andrew. It was the man I saw in the portrait on the wall, walking along all gray and misty. It was horrible. I saw it too, squealed Anthony. He was coming to get us, I'm sure. There are no ghosts not here, not anywhere, said Zoe, angry but rather frightened as well as they sat in the small pool of light from the candle. Aren't there? croaked a voice from the shadows behind her. They all spun around to see the gray shape of a man in old fashioned clothes floating just inches above a chair. There was no need to say anything. The three children leapt up, the candle fell from Anthony's hands and they ran out of the room, falling over each other as they piled through the door, tiny screams trying to get out of their mouths which the fear had left dry as dust. A soft moonlight glowed through the windows as they crashed along the landing and sprinted down the stairs. At the bottom, they stopped dead as the figure of Mrs. McDougal, gray and shadowy, appeared in front of them. Where did she come from? hissed Zoe. But nobody had any answers. You cannot leave, she said sternly and then she threw her head back and gave a loud cackling laugh. Then the children heard a strange crackling noise from above and turned in horror to see an orange glow and thick clouds of smoke coming from what had been Zoe's room. Mixing with the black smoke was the strange gray glow of the ghostly man they had seen in there. Now there were more, a dozen figures, some gray, some pearly white, men and women, even small children, their strange forms wafting in and out of view. Without thinking, Zoe, Anthony and Andrew stormed forwards to push Mrs. McDougal out of the way. But instead, they found that they passed straight through her, feeling as if a bucket of ice cold water had been tipped over them. As they rushed toward the front door, flames seemed to engulf the entire house at the door disintegrated before their eyes. Yet as they rushed through the gap, they felt no heat, only another chill. They didn't stop running until they were right down at the station. Looking back to where Sligation House had been, they could see only the wood that had been behind it and, instead of a fire, they could see only the rosy glow of the slowly rising sun. Shocked and exhausted, they turned toward the station and gasped in amazement, gone with the old iron columns and the glass canopy and, instead, a brightly lit modern ticket hall stood before them. A lone ticket seller was just opening his booth. Come to collect your things then, he asked. And to their amazement, they saw that all of their suitcases were piled in a corner. Looking down, there were no longer in their pajamas, but in the clothes that they had worn for their journey. You're off to see Miss McDougal at new Sligation House, aren't you? He went on. Suddenly, all the children started speaking at once. They bent to a big house, there had been a fire there. The railway man cut them short. I know all of that. The old Sligation House burned down 50 years ago when some kid dropped a candle. At least that's the way the story goes. The children looked at him in a mixture of horror and amazement. 50 years ago, gasped Zoe. Oh, yes, said the man. I've had lots of children coming and telling stories about seeing the old house as if it was real and the housekeeper too. They all talk about Mrs. McDougal. She was grandmother of the Miss McDougal that you're going to see in the new house that they built down the road after the fire. She'll be along soon to pick you up. I can't think of how it was that you got here so early, though. The children looked at each other, reaching out and gently feeling hands and sleeves to reassure themselves that they were all still real. The man walked back toward his office. Loaded nonsense, of course, he said. Funny thing is, they all tell me the same story. And then he stopped in his tracks and he looked back at them sniffing suspiciously. And they all smell of smoke, just like you do. I would love to read a scary story that you write for me. You can send it to letters at spookysanta.com. Please, I would love to read it. Well, are you ready for our third and final story of this episode? This next story is called Strange Christmas Game. It's a ghost story written by Mrs. J. H. Riddell. It was written way back in 1868. It's about a brother and sister who spent Christmas in a haunted house and they witnessed the ghostly re-enactment of a murder. Are you ready? Here's the story. It was the middle of November when we arrived at Mardingdale and found the place anything but romantic or pleasant. The walks were wet and sodden. The trees were leafless. There were no flowers save a few late pink roses blooming in the garden. It had been a wet season and the place looked miserable. Claire would not ask Alice down to keep her company in the winter months, as she had intended. And for myself, the Cronchins were still absent in New Norfolk, where they meant to spend Christmas with old Mrs. Cronchins now recovered. Altogether, Mardingdale seemed dreary enough and the ghost stories we had laughed at while sunshine flooded the room became less unreal when we had nothing but blazing fires and wax candles to dispel the gloom. They became more real also when servant after servant left us to seek situations elsewhere. When noises grew frequent in the house, when we ourselves, Claire and I, with our own ears, heard the tramp, tramp, the banging and the shattering which had been described to us. My dear child, you doubtless are free from superstitious fancies, right? You poo poo the existence of ghosts and you only wish you could find a haunted house in which to spend a night, which is all very brave and praiseworthy, but wait till you are left in a dreary, desolate old country mansion filled with the most unaccountable sounds, without a servant, with none save an old caretaker and his wife, who, living at the extremest end of the building, heard nothing of the tramp, tramp, bang, bang going on at all hours of the night. At first I imagined the noises were produced by some evil-disposed persons, who wished for purposes of their own to keep the house uninhabited. But by degrees, Claire and I came to the conclusion that visitation must be supernatural and Mardingdale, by consequence, untenitable. Still being practical people, unlike our predecessors, not having money to live where and how we liked, we decided to watch and see whether we could trace any human influence in the matter. If not, it was agreed we were to pull down the right wing of the house and the principal staircase. For nights and nights we sat up till two or three o'clock in the morning. Claire engaged in needlework, I reading with a revolver lying on the table beside me, but nothing, neither sound nor appearance rewarded our vigil. This confirmed my first ideas that the sounds were not supernatural, but just to test the matter, I determined that on Christmas Eve, the anniversary of Mr. Jeremy Lester's disappearance, to keep watch myself in the red bed chamber, even to Claire I never mentioned my intention. At about ten, tired out with our previous vigils, we each retired to rest. Somewhat ostentatiously, perhaps I noisily shut the door of my room and, when I opened it half an hour afterwards, no mouse could have pursued its way along the corridor, with greater silence and caution than myself. Quite in the dark I sat in the red room. For over an hour I might as well have been in my grave or anything I could see in the apartment, but at the end of that time the moon rose and cast strange lights across the floor and upon the wall of the haunted chamber. Hitherto I kept my watch opposite the window. Now I changed my place to a corner near the door where I was shaded from observation by the heavy hangings of the bed and an antique wardrobe. Still, I sat on, but still no sound broke the silence. I was weary with many nights of watching and I was tired of my solitary vigil. I dropped at last into a slumber from which I awakened by hearing the door softly opening. John? said my sister almost in a whisper. John, are you here? Yes, Claire, I answered. But what are you doing up at this hour? Come downstairs, she replied. There in the oak parlor. I did not need any explanation as to whom she meant, but crept downstairs with her, warned by an uplifted hand of the necessity for silence and caution. By the door, by the open door of the oak parlor, she paused and we both looked in. There was the room we left in darkness overnight with a bright wood fire blazing on the earth, candles on the chimney piece, the small table pulled out from its accustomed corner and two men seated beside it, playing at cribbage. We could see the face of the younger player and it was that of a man about five and 20 of a man who had lived hard and wickedly, who had wasted his substance and his health, who had been wild in the flesh, Jeremy Lester. It would be difficult for me to say how I knew this, how in a moment I identified the features of the player with those of the man who'd been missing for 41 years, 41 years that very night. He was dressed in the costume of a bygone period. His hair was powdered and round his wrists, there were ruffles of lace. He looked like one who, having come from some great party, had sat down after his return home to play cards with an intimate friend. On his little finger, there sparkled a ring. In the front of his shirt, there gleamed a valuable diamond. There were diamond buckles in his shoes and according to the fashion of his time, he wore knee britches and silk stockings which showed off advantageously the shape of a remarkably good leg and ankle. He sat opposite the door but never once lifted his eyes to it. His attention seemed to concentrate on the cards. For a time, there was utter silence in the room, broken only by the momentous counting of the card game. In the doorway we stood, holding our breath, terrified and yet fascinated by the scene which was being acted out before us. The ashes dropped on the hearth softly and like the snow, we could hear the rustle of the cards as they were dealt out and fell upon the table. We listened to the count, 15-2, 15-4 and so forth. But there was no other word spoken till at length the player, whose face we could not see, exclaimed, I win, the game is mine. Then his opponent took up the cards, sorted them over negligently in his hand, put them close together and flung the entire pack in his guest's face, exclaiming, cheat, liar, take that. There was a bustle and confusion, a flinging over of chairs and fierce gesticulation and such a noise of passionate voices mingling that we could not hear a sentence which was uttered. All at once, however, Jeremy Lester strode out of the room in so great a hurry that he almost touched us where we stood. Out of the room and tramp, tramp up the staircase to the red room, whence he descended in a few minutes with a couple of rapiers under his arm. When he re-entered the room, he gave, as it seemed to us, the other man his choice of the weapons and then he flung open the window and after ceremoniously giving place for his opponent to pass out first, he walked forth into the night air. Claire and I followed. We went through the garden and down a narrow winding walk to a smooth piece of turf, sheltered from the north by a plantation of young fir trees. It was a bright moonlit night by this time and we could distinctly see Jeremy Lester measuring off the ground. When you say three, he said, at last to the man whose back was still towards us, they had drawn lots for the ground and the lot had fallen against Mr. Lester. He stood thus with the moonbeams falling upon him and a handsomer fellow I would never desire to behold. One began the other. Two, and before our kinsman had the slightest suspicion of his design, he was upon him and his rapier threw Jeremy Lester's breast. At the sight of that cowardly treachery, Claire screamed aloud. In a moment, the combatants had disappeared. The moon was obscured behind a cloud and we were standing in the shadow of the fir plantation, shivering with cold and terror. But we knew at last what had become of the late owner of Mardingdale, that he had fallen, not in a fair fight at all, but foully murdered by a false friend. When late on Christmas morning I awoke, it was to see a white world, to behold the ground and trees and shrubs all laden and covered with snow. There was snow everywhere, such snow as no person could remember having fallen for 41 years. It was on just a Christmas as this that Mr. Jeremy disappeared, remarked the old sexton to my sister who had insisted on dragging me through the snow to church, whereupon Claire fainted away and was carried into the vestry, where I made a full confession to the vicar of all we had beheld of previous night. At first, that were the individual rather inclined to treat the matter lightly. But when a fortnight after the snow melted away and the fir plantation came to be examined, he confessed, there might be more things in heaven and earth than his limited philosophy had dreamed of. In a little dear space just within the plantation, Jeremy Lester's body was finally found. We knew it by the ring and the diamond buckles and the sparkling breastpin, and Mr. Cronston, in his capacity as magistrate, came over to inspect the Israelites, and he was visibly perturbed at my narrative. Pray, Mr. Lester, did you in your dreams see the face of the gentleman your kinsman's opponent? No, I answered. He sat and stood with his back to us all the time. There is nothing more, of course, to be done in the matter, observed Mr. Cronston. Nothing, I replied, and there the affair would doubtless have terminated, but that a few days afterwards, when we were dining at Cronston Park, Claire all of a sudden dropped the glass of water she was carrying to her lips and exclaimed, look, John, there he is. And she rose from her seat, and with a face as white as the tablecloth, pointed to a portrait hanging on the wall. I saw him for an instant when he turned his head towards the door as Jeremy Lester left it, she exclaimed, that is he. Of what followed after this identification, I have only the vaguest recollection. Servants rushed hither and thither. Mrs. Cronston dropped off her chair into hysterics. The young ladies gathered around their mama. Mr. Cronston, trembling like one in a fit, attempted some kind of explanation, while Claire kept praying to be taken away, only to be taken away. I took her away, not merely from Cronston Park, but from Mardingdale. Before we left the latter place, however, I had an interview with Mr. Cronston, who said the portrait Claire had identified was that of his wife's father, the last person who saw Jeremy Lester alive. He's an old man now, finished Mr. Cronston, a man of over 80 who has confessed everything to me. You won't bring further sorrow and disgrace upon us by making this matter public, will you? I promised him I would keep silent, but the story did gradually ooze out and the Cronstons left the country. My sister never returned to Mardingdale. She married and is living in London. Though I assure her there are no strange noises in my house, she will still not visit Bedfordshire, where the little girl she wanted me so long ago to think of seriously is now my wife and the mother of my children. Well, did you like the stories I told today? If so, do me a favor and tell your friends and family members about Spooky Santa so that they can listen too. And remember, you can write your own scary story and email it to me at letters at SpookySanta.com. If you want to learn more about the stories that I've told or the authors who wrote them, you can find links in the episode's show notes. Spooky Santa is a registered trademark of Marlar House Productions. Copyright Marlar House Productions 2019. Now be a good little girl or boy and join me next time for more creepy tales from Spooky Santa.