One Last Christmas

Some stories start as memories and refuse to stay that way. William and I took our mothers to Scotland for Christmas before we left America behind, staying at a genuine castle on the banks of the River Calder. We did not book the haunted suite.

But I kept wondering about the person who would, and why, and what Agnes Clark might have to say to someone determined to say goodbye to the whole thing. What started as a holiday became a question I couldn't stop asking: what do we actually lose when we let go of a tradition? And what have we been avoiding by holding on to it?

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The arrival at the castle was long awaited. Who wouldn’t eagerly anticipate an opportunity to celebrate the festive season at an honest to goodness Scottish castle? Elegantly rising from the banks of the River Calder in High Blantyre, the weathered stone edifice would normally shine in the sun, but instead it was slick with sleet when the American’s taxi crunched its way up the drive.

Restored as a luxury hotel, Crossbasket Castle carried a storied history, now the perfect setting for his final Christmas. Warm golden light poured from the ground floor rooms as guests arrived for their three-night luxury all-inclusive holiday package. Lights twinkled among the fir garlands, the cold breeze somehow unable to penetrate the amber bubble emanating from the building.

The American made the choice deliberately: one last hurrah with the holiday before accepting that he no longer believed in it. Growing up, it was the high point of the childhood year where presents were the ultimate goal. His family also celebrated the Catholic way with endlessly long candlelight vigils and mass at midnight. But now that his grandmother and father were gone, no one bothered with those parts of the celebration anymore.

Traditions have a way of changing like that.

The American never really had a deep faith, choosing to observe the bare minimum of traditions just to keep the peace. Some years later, he admitted to himself that he was, if anything, a Taoist. Still, he had fond memories of seeing his grandmother play the piano, the joy of her artistry echoing off the polished wood of the old church.

Who doesn’t love the lights and feeling of cheer as the darkness creeps in? he thought, wondering what it would be like to go through with his plan of leaving the holiday behind. For years he had grown weary of the commercial excess, the forced tacit approval of a religious identity he no longer held. That’s why he decided to gorge himself one last time on festivity and then cast it aside forever.

Unlike that of Mary and Joseph, the American’s reception at the castle was elegant. Opening the heavy wooden door in the stone portico, he was embraced by garlands, candlelight, porcelain ornaments, and the smell of wood smoke. With a healthy dose of Highland cheer, he was relieved of his luggage and whisked into the parlor for tea and scones. The charming local staff educated him on the leaves in each of their brews, the tender care put into making the light as air scones and clotted cream.

As he took his first bite, he noticed the grey clouds had blown away. Sipping the fragrant brew, he watched with delight as the winter sun made the wet grass dance with its scattered rays. Sitting back into the plush settee, the American had to admit he didn’t hate feeling like the lord of the manor for the day.

On the other hand, he knew that this kind of wealth and privilege was reaped off the back of slavery and colonialism. It sickened him that it still existed, knowing there were starving children even in the same county where he now found himself. Why do we choose to celebrate excess when there are those in need? Wouldn’t that little boy born in Bethlehem want that, isn’t that allegedly why he was born?

The American was glad for the interruption from the housekeeper, who let him know his room was ready so he could freshen up before the Christmas Eve feast. Since he was splurging, he’d booked the Lindsay Tower Suite, a room in the oldest part of the castle. Ascending the broad stair, he marveled at the portraits of the families that once called Crossbasket their home. He wondered if one of them wasn’t Agnes Clark, the woman whose spirit guests claimed still lingered in the same suite he was about to occupy.

Allegedly locked away in the tower after a quarrel with her husband, she never left. Her body was found in the empty room, the legend said she died of a broken heart. On the internet, he’d seen the grainy photographs that suggested a woman’s reflection in the tower window, but the American didn’t actually believe in that kind of nonsense. It’s just another way to increase the allure of the place…and he’d fallen for the trick.

The suite was well worth the price, lavishly furnished and comfortable enough to briefly make him wish to spend an eternity in its elegant ease. He briefly considered a nap, but there was only an hour before the evening’s five course dinner in the great hall. Saving his first dive between the soft sheets and downy coverlets for afterwards, he showered and dressed in his finery.

The tables were set elegantly, the half dozen parties staying for the weekend enjoying the candlelit ambiance and endless rich food and drink. Most were couples, a few families; he was the only one at a table alone. The staff seemed wary after they asked if he were celebrating anything special and he replied that this was his last Christmas. He realized the staff now probably thought he was dying of something terrible, or planning to end his life. After all, who would choose to stop celebrating Christmas of all things? It’s everywhere; it’s part of the lifeblood of Western society.

But that’s exactly why the American had decided to forgo it.

The headlines were full of the glorification of hatred and bigotry in the name of the Christian faith. Disgusted by the hypocrisy that contradicted everything he’d been taught during those Catholic masses, purposely opting out seemed the only way to register his disgust at the assumption that everyone is obligated to celebrate a Christian holiday.

After three incredible courses, he took a tumbler of whiskey up to the suite, where the housekeeping staff had lit a fire and turned down the sheets, leaving a chocolate on the pillow. Finishing his drink, he climbed into the linens and turned off the lamp, “Good riddance, Christmas.”

With the breath he expelled, the air in the room shifted. A chill pressed against his skin, though the sheets were warm only seconds before. He heard movement, fabric sweeping along stone, before he saw her. A woman in an old style nightdress, her face pale and sorrowful. He had dismissed the legend, but here she was, spectral and undeniable, her eyes fixed on his.

“You mock the season,” the ghost of Agnes whispered, her voice like wind rattling against winter-frosted glass. “Yet, you do not understand its stillness.”

The American tried to speak, but his throat tightened. The ghost gestured toward the window. Instead of rain, snow was falling, soft and relentless, blanketing the grounds in silence. “This is not commerce,” she said. “This is not some ceremony of the faithful. It is the turning of the year, the pause between what has been and what will be.”

In the swirl of flakes, he is swept away by visions of his childhood. The cold nights, the warm faces around the fire. The tree glowing with warm lights, the sound of laughter and familiar music in the background. But then he saw the crowded malls, the plastic Santas, the obligatory office parties that made him eager to abandon the pretense of celebrating the holiday.

He jumped when he felt Agnes’s cold hand on his arm. “Do not confuse the noise with the essence,” she said. “It is the reflection and stillness before something new begins that matters. Even without the ornaments and presents, you must stop to gather your thoughts as the year dies. You only get a precious few of them, after all.”

Another vision surrounded them: himself, alone in a future without pause, the calendar grinding forward with no feast, no rejoicing. He shivered, his eyes meeting the ghost’s, now glowing in the darkness. “You may abandon the rituals,” she said. “You may reject the commercialism. But do not abandon the pause. The stillness of winter is a gift. It is the moment when the world exhales, when you may reckon with yourself.”

The ghostly figure faded, leaving only the hush of falling snow and the crackling of the dying fire. The American sank into the bedding, realizing that what he abhorred wasn’t the holiday, but the noise that had grown around it. Beneath that cacophony lay something older, something essentially human, connecting across the millennia: the need to mark the end of one year and the beginning of another, to gather in silence and remember.

When dawn broke, the castle was wrapped in white like the most idyllic Norman Rockwell Christmas morning. Descending for a small breakfast, the staff greeted him with cheer, but he no longer felt contempt at the notion. He did not join in carols or prayers as others might. Instead, he walked the grounds slowly, letting the cold air sharpen his mind and the crunch of the snow echo in the quiet landscape.

He thought of his parents, of friends long gone, of the years ahead. He realized he could let go of Christmas without letting go of the stillness it carried. In that sense, he didn’t feel like he was losing anything. Instead, he was receiving the gift he had always longed for: a sense of contentment and peace.

The elegance of the Christmas Day feast was unparalleled; he marveled at every mouthful of decadent food. He ate and drank with relish, newly enjoying the sense of celebration that comes with making it to the end of another year. His remarks from the night before was forgotten, the staff enjoying the occasion alongside the guests. Though united for a reason he didn’t fully agree with, the American had to admit there was special about the mood the day inspires among those who celebrate.

Unwilling to let the night end early, he retired to the cozy wood-paneled library to sample some of the castle’s best spirits. The halls were quiet and his head was swimming when he at last returned to the tower. Expecting the warmth of a waiting fire and a chocolate on the pillow, his fingers leapt back at the icy touch of the doorknob. The room was dark, his breath misted in the air. He made to leave the room, intent on finding the head of household, but the door closed itself as the specter of Agnes Clark appeared in front of him once again.

“This tower remembers,” she said. “It holds the confinement, despair, and silence of everyone it has ever harbored. It remembers the weight of years without change.”

He shivered. “Why show me this? I’ve already understood your message.”

“You have understood the pause,” she said. “But not the reckoning. The stillness is not only for reflection. It is for truth. For facing what you would rather forget.”

The room dissolved once more. He saw himself in the city, years earlier, chasing promotions, drowning in deadlines. He saw the faces of colleagues he had betrayed, friendships he had neglected, moments of kindness he had dismissed. He saw himself sneering at joy, mocking tradition, hiding behind cynicism.

The ghost’s voice was sharp now. “You abandoned Christmas because you feared its truth. You feared to measure your life against the turning of the year.”

He tried to protest, but the visions pressed harder. He saw the warmth of his grandmother’s smile, a memory that dulled with each passing year. He felt the arms of his father’s embrace, the last time seeming so long ago. His cheeks felt wet as he saw himself now all alone, clinging to his disdain as if it were a strength.

“You cannot escape the reckoning,” Agnes hissed. “It comes whether you celebrate or not. The year ends, the silence falls, and you must face yourself.”

He collapsed into the chair, oblivious as the darkness vanished and the room’s golden light returned. The fire chased away the chill as the revelations poured over him. He realized that abandoning the holiday had been an excuse, a way to avoid the truth. The holiday was not the problem; he was.

When dawn broke again, the castle was silent. He walked the grounds once more, the snow deeper now, the river frozen. He thought of the ghost, of her sorrow, of her truth. He realized he could not abandon the reckoning. He could only embrace it. Expecting she would find it, he wrote the ghost a letter and burned it in the fire before he left the suite for the last time.

Lady Agnes, This was indeed my last Christmas, but not my last reckoning. Each year I will pause. Each year I will gather my thoughts. Each year I will face myself. The holiday may be gone, but the truth remains.

With a final sweet of the room, the American zipped up his bag and closed the ornate antique door. The sense of joy lingered in the castle’s common areas, though the true stillness that follows the madness of the holiday celebration was already beginning to pull at everyone he saw. The housekeeper wished him happiness in the new year and the porter took his case, placing it into the back of the waiting taxi.

Outside the snow was falling, still, soft, and relentless and blanketing everything in its silence. The American looked up at Lindsay Tower one last time, expecting to see nothing but the centuries old stone walls. In the window, Agnes stood with a knowing smile, his letter in her spectral hands. With the past decidedly behind him and the future utterly uncertain, the American had at last found a sense of contentment.