Charles Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol as an indictment of nineteenth century industrialization and economic social classes. The following is a modern take on the tale exploring a different issue.

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently, approached. When it came near him, Scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.

It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.

“Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Gun Rights Yet To Come?” said Scrooge.

The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand.

“You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us,” Scrooge pursued. “Is that so, Spirit?”

The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received.

Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. The Spirit paused a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover.

But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It filled him with a vague uncertain horror to know that behind the dusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black.

“Ghost of the Future!” he exclaimed, “I fear you more than any specter I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?”

It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them.

“Lead on!” said Scrooge. “Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!”

The Phantom moved away as it had come towards him. Scrooge followed in the shadow of its dress, which bore him up, he thought, and carried him along.

Soon they were back in the city, though this time at mid-day. The Spirit stopped before one small group of men speaking on the sidewalk. Seeing that the Spirit’s hand was stretch to point to them, Scrooge moved closer to listen.

“No,” said one of the men, “I don’t know much about it. I only know he’s dead.”

“When did he die?” inquired another.

“Last night, I believe.”

“How did he die?”

“Home invasion gone awry is what they reported in the news.”

“What has he done with his money?” asked a red-faced gentleman with a pendulous excrescence on the end of his nose.

“I haven’t heard,” said the man with the large chin, yawning again. “Left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn’t left it to me. That’s all I know.”

This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.

“It’s likely to be a very cheap funeral,” said the same speaker; “for upon my life I don’t know of anybody to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer?”

“I don’t mind going if a lunch is provided,” observed the gentleman with the excrescence on his nose. “But I must be fed, if I do.”

Another laugh.

The phantom glided on and Scrooge followed. He thought it strange that the Spirit would put such importance on a trivial conversation but assured himself that everything the Spirits did they did with purpose and was confident the meaning would be revealed.

They passed the offices of Scrooge’s newspaper and Scrooge glanced into the window. He was usually at work at this hour, yet saw the face of another in his stead. It gave him little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his newborn resolutions carried out in this.

Scrooge followed the Spirit into an even worse section of town than where Bob Cratchit lived. Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offences of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter reeked with crime, with filth, and misery. What purpose they could have in such a place of ill repute Scrooge could scarcely imagine.

Into a small shack they passed and inside found three dirty looking scoundrels sitting by an old charcoal stove.

“Let me see what you got,” said one of the men. At his words, another man opened up his bag and spilled the contents upon the floor. Scrooge strained to see what was there, but the third man had his back to him and was obstructing his view. The phantom was before Scrooge wedged into the tight room and Scrooge dared not brush past him.

“A good haul,” said the first.

“Even better than the last time,” agreed the man who had displayed his plunder.

The first began to chronicle the contents. A watch, some silverware, a brooch of no great value, a silver picture frame, and other assorted items. Each of these the first man appraised aloud and set aside.

“These should all sell nicely,” he presently said. “Any worry of the ‘original owner’ looking for them?”

“Not unless his ghost is the seeker!” came the reply and they all laughed.

“Friends or relatives?”

“Not likely, he had no friends and I don’t think his family cared for him much.”

Another laugh.

“Spirit!” said Scrooge, shuddering from head to foot. “I see, I see. The case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life tends that way, now. Merciful Heaven, what is this!”

He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bed, a bare bed on which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay a something covered up, which, though it was silent, announced itself in awful language.

The room was very dark, too dark to be observed with any accuracy, though Scrooge glanced round it in obedience to a secret impulse, anxious to know what kind of room it was. A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight upon the bed; and on it unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this man.

Scrooge glanced towards the Phantom. Its steady hand was pointed to the head. The cover was so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon Scrooge’s part, would have disclosed the face. He thought of it, felt how easy it would be to do, and longed to do it; but had no more power to withdraw the veil than to dismiss the specter at his side.

“Spirit!” he said, “this is a fearful place. In leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson, trust me. Let us go!”

Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head.

“I understand you,” Scrooge returned, “and I would do it, if I could. But I have not the power, Spirit. I have not the power.”

Again it seemed to look upon him and this time relented. Again the scene changed and Scrooge found himself back in Bob Cratchit’s house. Only this time it was quiet, very quiet.

“ ‘And He took a child, and set him in the midst of them.’ ”

Where had Scrooge heard those words? He had not dreamed them. The boy must have read them out, as he and the Spirit crossed the threshold. Why did he not go on?

“It is nearly time,” said Mrs. Cratchit, “for your father to come home.”

“Past it, rather,” said the oldest Cratchit boy. “But I think he has walked a little slower than he used to these few last evenings, mother.”

They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once:

“I have known him walk with—I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed.”

“And so have I,” cried Peter. “Often.”

“And so have I,” exclaimed another. So had all.

“But he was very light to carry,” she resumed, “and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble: no trouble. And there is your father at the door!”

Bob came into the room, and though tried to put on a cheery air for the children there was a great sadness about him.

“Specter,” said Scrooge. “What has happened to Tiny Tim?”

The Ghost said nothing, but pointed to a newspaper at the opposite end of the table and Scrooge recognized it as his own paper. He bent over the table and began to read. According to the article, Bob Cratchit had been coming home from the daycare with Tiny Tim when they were mugged by an unknown assailant. Bob Cratchit had turned over all his money as was demanded, but the meager take did not satisfy the robber. He had stricken Bob with the club he was carrying several times and while trying to flee Bob had fallen. Tim struck his head in the tumble and died soon after.

“Specter,” said Scrooge, “something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how. Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead?”

The Spirit did not answer but moved on and Scrooge followed.

“Spirit tell me,” said Scrooge. “If Cratchit had been armed, would he have been able to defend himself against the mugger and save Tiny Tim?” Still no answer.

The Ghost lead him to the house of his nephew where he found Fred’s wife sitting with a friend he did not know.

“How is Fred holding up?” the woman asked.

“As well as can be expected,” came the reply. “His lawyer thinks he can get Fred out of prison, but it won’t be easy. The law clearly states that all guns must be turned in or accounted for if no longer owned. Fred had six guns for which he had no explanation as to what became of them.”

“You’d think they’d be more understanding.”

“I had hoped, but they’re making examples of anyone who was a member of the grassroots gun rights group Fred belonged to.”

The Spirit turned to leave and again Scrooge followed, this time to a churchyard and on to the graves. The Spirit stopped before one and pointed. Scrooge advanced trembling, then stopped.

“Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,” said Scrooge, “answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?”

Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood.

“Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead,” said Scrooge. “But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me!”

The Spirit was immovable as ever.

Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, EBENEZER SCROOGE.

“Am I that man who lay upon the bed?” he cried, upon his knees. “Am I the one who was killed, like Marley before me, by a violent home invader?”

The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again.

“No, Spirit! Oh no, no!”

The finger still was there.

“Spirit!” he cried, tight clutching at its robe, “hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope!”

For the first time the hand appeared to shake.

“Good Spirit,” he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before it: “Your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life!”

The Specter’s hand trembled slightly.

“I will change! I will honor the rights of all men and women, the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. All of the Bill of Rights shall be sacred to me and I will defend every free man’s right to keep and bear arms! Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!”

Scrooge reached out to grab the Spirit’s hand, yet it crumbled in his grasp. Scrooge looked up as the spirit shrank, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost.

Part 1: Marley's Ghost
Part 2: The First Spirit
Part 3: The Second Spirit
To be continued in part five tomorrow!