By Sarah Gray
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The beautiful Queen Griselda had invited Disgut herself . . actually she had sent one of her hags, but it was near the same as a personal invitation, wasn’t it? Obviously, her highness had singled him out as worthy. After all these years, she had finally recognized his great worth to her, and he was certain he would be rewarded at the feast, if not by coin then by a better position. But, again, I digress. I return to the tale and what was taking place in the cold tank of Scrooge’s office. Though Disgut was eager to have the day off, he still let Cratchit be the one to step up to the hearth and press his toes to the coals with Scrooge.
Then nipped like pups at play. She was the first to draw blood, he the first to howl with pleasure. “Tell me all,” she cried. “Have we the cellars, my precious? ” You see, Wahltraud and Griselda were not wine purveyors, Prussian brewers, or even ordinary English citizens. Unbeknownst to Scrooge and most of London, they were not even human. Wahltraud was the undisputed King of Vampires, Griselda his crowned queen, and Scrooge her pet project which had kept her busy the last half-century. But how could Scrooge have known?
When they had passed on, he turned in through the iron gates and did not have to walk far to find the earthen mound he was so intent upon inspecting. When he found it, at last, he could not look upon the spot among such a heap of graves, but he conjured up a strong and vivid memory of the man himself, and how he looked when last he saw him draw breath. For a reason unknown to Scrooge, instead of picturing Jacob Marley, he recalled the figure of some goblin-creature he had once seen chalked upon a door, as a child.