A Christmas Carol – A Modern Retelling
Ebenezer Scrooge was the sort of man who tracked his life in numbers, profit margins, stock prices, interest rates. As director of Scrooge & Marley Investments, he lived by a single rule: everything had a value, except Christmas.
His penthouse, left to him by his former partner Jacob Marley, overlooking the Thames gleamed like an operating theatre, spotless, silent, soulless.
He had felt proud to have had the apartment block's concierge staff drive away some carol singers from the patio area before the doors.
No tinsel, no tree, no warmth. He dismissed festive cheer as a distraction. “Sentiment doesn’t pay the bills,” he would mutter, sipping black coffee from a cup that probably cost more than most people’s weekly food shop.
His only employee, Bob Cratchit, worked remotely from a cramped flat in Croydon, juggling spreadsheets and a family of four. Cratchit made it a point to always invite carol singers into his home and give them whatever money he could afford.
His youngest son, Tim, had a mobility condition that needed expensive treatment that wasn't available on the NHS. "A postcode lottery" they called it. Scrooge knew of this situation and ignored it. “He’s lucky to have a job,” he’d tell himself.
But on one Christmas Eve, as the London skyline flickered beneath a misty moon, something strange happened. Scrooge was working late, glaring at a spreadsheet, when his Wi-Fi cut out. Then his smart speaker crackled to life with a voice that wasn’t Alexa’s. Strange. It sounded like Jacob Marley.
“Ebenezer Scrooge,” it intoned. “You will be haunted by three spirits.”
He froze. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, but before he could stand, the lights dimmed and the room dissolved around him.
The Ghost of Christmas Past
He remembered that ache, the shame of being the boy who couldn’t afford a gift.
The ghost beside him, a being made of shifting light, spoke softly. “You built your life on never feeling that way again. But in building your walls, you lost more than you gained.”
Scene after scene flickered: the university girlfriend he’d pushed away for overtime, the family gatherings he’d skipped for work, the years that blurred together in pursuit of more.
When the vision faded, the silence of his penthouse felt colder than ever.
The Ghost of Christmas Present
Next came a booming laugh and the scent of cinnamon. A large man in a garish Christmas jumper appeared, holding a takeaway latte. “Come along, Scrooge let’s see what joy looks like!”
They appeared in the Cratchit family’s tiny living room. Bob was carving a small chicken as if it were a turkey, while his family laughed, shared jokes, and wore paper crowns from bargain crackers.
Tim held up a digital card he’d made on his tablet. “I made one for Mr Scrooge too,” he said brightly.
His father smiled wearily. “That’s kind, lad. But I don’t think he’s the card-opening type.”
The ghost looked at Scrooge. “They have so little — yet so much. What have you done with all your plenty?”
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come
The third spirit was silent, cloaked in black, its face hidden behind a blank mask. Every screen in Scrooge’s home lit up, showing headline after headline:
SCROOGE & MARLEY INVESTMENTS COLLAPSES IN SCANDAL.
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LOCAL CHILD TIM CRATCHIT DIES AFTER TREATMENT FUND SHORTFALL.
Scrooge fell to his knees. “No! Tell me these are shadows that can be changed!”
The spirit pointed to one final image: Scrooge’s reflection, old, grey, utterly alone.
A New Morning
Scrooge woke with a start. Sunlight streamed across the room. Christmas morning.
He reached for his phone and, without hesitating, called Bob.
“Merry Christmas, my friend! Take the week off, with full pay. In fact, I'll treble your pay! And tell young Tim I’d like to invest in his designs. That boy has real talent.”
Bob was speechless.
A few hours later, Scrooge turned up on the Cratchits’ doorstep with bags of food, toys, and a shiny new laptop. The children gasped. Bob nearly dropped his roast potatoes.
From that day forward, Ebenezer Scrooge was a changed man. He still read the markets, but he also read bedtime stories to the Cratchit children.
He became known not just for his business acumen, but for his unexpected kindness.
And every Christmas thereafter, when laughter filled the Cratchit home, Tim would look up from his laptop and grin.
“God bless us, everyone,” he’d say, “even the ones who took a bit longer to reboot.”
