Halloween isn't the only time for ghosts and ghost stories. In

Host: The fireplace burned low in the great Victorian drawing room, its flames licking lazily at the logs, casting amber halos that danced across the carved mahogany walls. Outside, snow drifted in steady, hypnotic spirals against the frost-covered windows. A grandfather clock marked the passage of midnight with a deep, resonant chime — the sound of time stretching into the unknown.

On the velvet armchairs near the fire sat Jack and Jeeny, surrounded by shadows that flickered and shifted with every movement of the flame. Between them stood a decanter of port, two crystal glasses, and an untouched plate of mince pies. The world outside was silent — the kind of silence that makes every creak in the floorboard sound like a secret.

Jeeny: (reading from a book, her voice soft and rhythmic) “Michael Dirda once said, ‘Halloween isn’t the only time for ghosts and ghost stories. In Victorian Britain, spooky winter’s tales were part of the Christmas season, often told after dinner, over port or coffee.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “A fine tradition — terror served with dessert.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s absurd. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Winter is the ghost’s true season — the cold stills the world, and everything that lingers in memory comes closer.”

Jack: “You mean nostalgia disguised as haunting.”

Jeeny: “No. I mean the past refusing to stay buried.”

Host: The fire crackled, releasing a sudden shower of sparks that faded into the air like dying spirits. The warmth pressed against the cold draft that leaked through the window frame, and for a moment, the room felt both alive and ancient.

Jack: “It’s funny how the Victorians saw no contradiction between Christmas cheer and the chill of the supernatural. It’s as if joy wasn’t complete without a touch of fear.”

Jeeny: “Because they understood balance. The same way they lit candles against the dark — they told ghost stories to remind themselves that light meant something.”

Jack: “So fear made faith stronger.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A ghost story at Christmas isn’t about death — it’s about persistence. It says: even after the end, something continues.”

Host: A log split in the fire, sending a warm burst of orange into the room. The light flickered across Jeeny’s face, softening her expression into one of quiet mystery.

Jack: “You’re talking about Dickens, of course — A Christmas Carol. The most famous ghost story of them all. But that’s not horror. That’s redemption dressed in chains.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why it’s perfect. The Victorians didn’t tell ghost stories just to scare; they told them to remember. The ghosts weren’t monsters — they were mirrors.”

Jack: “Mirrors of guilt, regret, longing.”

Jeeny: “And hope. Always hope.”

Host: The wind rose outside, howling faintly through the chimney, making the flames bend and sway like they were listening. Somewhere in the old house, a door creaked softly — the subtle breath of a memory returning.

Jack: “You know, maybe we’ve lost something by separating horror from holiness. We act like fear has no place at the table of wonder.”

Jeeny: “But the Victorians knew that awe and fear are siblings. They belong together. Both remind us how small we are.”

Jack: “You think that’s why the old tales still hold us — because they connect the sacred and the spectral?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because ghosts, like faith, demand belief in what can’t be seen.”

Host: The firelight dimmed momentarily as a cloud passed over the moon outside. Shadows deepened in the corners — thick, velvet darkness pooling like ink. The air shifted, carrying with it the faint smell of smoke and old books.

Jack: “So what would you say, Jeeny, if I told you I believe in ghosts?”

Jeeny: (without surprise) “I’d ask — what kind?”

Jack: “The kind that don’t walk through walls. The kind that live in the mind — old choices, lost faces, things we said but can’t take back.”

Jeeny: “Ah. The invisible hauntings.”

Jack: “The worst kind.”

Jeeny: “The most human kind.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windowpane. The candle flame nearest to them trembled, flickered — then went out, leaving a faint thread of smoke curling upward into the dark.

Jeeny: “See? Even the light knows when to listen.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You’re starting to sound like a ghost yourself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what we all become, in conversation — ghosts of thought moving through one another.”

Host: The clock ticked again, steady and slow, as if measuring not time but tension. Jeeny leaned back, her eyes on the fire.

Jeeny: “In Victorian houses like this, people told ghost stories to bring families closer. It wasn’t about fear — it was about sharing imagination. Facing mortality together so they could celebrate life.”

Jack: “A kind of ritual, then.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every story was a séance — a summoning of memory.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Christmas itself is — a collective haunting. Every year, we call the past to our table. We toast to those who are gone and pretend we’re not speaking to them.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful, Jack. And true. The season is full of ghosts — the ghosts of who we were, who we could’ve been, who we still love.”

Host: The fire burned lower now, the coals glowing deep red — like the last heartbeat of the evening. The snow outside thickened, pressing its cold face against the glass.

Jack: “So maybe Michael Dirda was right — Christmas was never just about angels and gifts. It’s about ghosts too — about the strange, trembling line between memory and presence.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The Victorians understood that. They didn’t fear the dead — they honored them through story. They gave them a place at the table.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what keeps the dead gentle.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When we forget them, they turn cold. But when we remember — even through a ghost story — they warm the room.”

Host: A final spark rose from the hearth, catching briefly in the air before vanishing into the dimness above. Jeeny poured the last of the port, the dark red liquid glowing like molten garnet.

Jeeny: “So, tell me, Jack — do you have a ghost story to share tonight?”

Jack: (pausing, eyes distant) “Only one. About a man who stopped believing in magic, until one winter night, in the glow of firelight, he realized the ghost he feared most was himself.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Then that’s the perfect Christmas story.”

Host: The snow continued to fall — endless, gentle, forgiving. The clock struck one. The air shimmered with a sense of quiet completion.

And in that hush, Michael Dirda’s words came alive — not as nostalgia, but as revelation:

That ghosts are not intruders, but companions of memory.
That winter tales are not stories of fear, but of remembrance.
And that every flame flickering against the dark
is the proof that love,
once kindled,
is never truly gone.

Host: The fireplace sighed its last breath, the coals dimming to ember.
Jeeny leaned her head against the chair, her voice a whisper.

Jeeny: “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

Jack: (gazing into the fading light) “Merry haunting, Jeeny.”

Host: Outside, the snow swallowed the sound of the world,
and inside — only warmth, memory,
and the faintest echo of the old Victorian promise:
that every winter night deserves a ghost,
and every ghost deserves to be remembered.