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<br><br>I never approved the practice of turning a historical site into a tourist attraction, so when I was hired to oversee Stickley House, an 1881 Victorian mansion, I had visions of restoring it to the glory of its past.

So you can imagine how betrayed I felt when I learned dignified Stickley House was about to be marketed as the prime attraction on the city’s Christmas Light Tour.

<br><br> “You’re such a stuffed shirt,” Beth teased, “C’mon Paul—think of the families coming to see the house. It will be wonderful—it’ll revitalize us and enable us to bring history to a new generation.”

“You’re such a positive lady,” I spat back.

<br><br>Beth was impervious to cynicism. “I’ve been conducting tours here for five years and from the response, I’ll bet more people see the house over the next month than visited in the previous sixty.”

What she implied was the main reason people would visit the house was because of the legend of it being haunted by the ghost of Clarence Stickley.

And what was worse, he didn’t manifest as a somber chain rattling spirit but as a jolly snowman.

<br><br> “Ah yes, I know how I’ll be seen—as Paul Chambers—purveyor of fine spirits to the masses.”

Her violet eyes flashed. “Is this what it’s all about—you’re upset you’ll have to deal with crowds of people disturbing your dignified manse?”

“Partly,” I conceded, “It’s that and the influx of sticky-fingered children and boorish oafs with no real regard for history other than seeking some kind of paranormal thrill.”

“I think the legend of Clarence is cute.”

“Cute?” I exploded. “I don’t do cute—I hate cute!”

<br><br>She put on an elfish grin. “Nevertheless, no matter how endearing Clarence Stickley was in life, he seems just as charming and loveable as a wraith.”

I was pouting and I knew it. “Why can’t he be a dignified wraith and swirl his ectoplasm discreetly through the manse, rather than be Frosty the Snowman in our backyard?”

She just giggled at my discomfort and departed to lead her next tour, her laughter tinkling like icicles in my ears.

*This abominable snowman will be the death of me*, I muttered.



<br><br>It was fascinating in a ghastly way.

I began studying the peculiar history of the Stickley Estate. All the history books conceded that the phenomena first began in 1914, at the beginning of the First World War.

Visitors to the residence that year noticed a snowman in the backyard that bore an uncanny resemblance to the late owner of the house.

<br><br>The newspapers caught wind of the story and did a feature on the manse. The attendance that month was greater than the previous twelve.

Everyone supposed it was a publicity stunt, but it served to get people’s minds off the grim news of war and was greeted as a happy respite.

But the following year, the snowman appeared again and was dubbed ‘Clarence’ by some wag of a reporter. The name stuck and attendance figures for visits to the Stickley House again soared.

By the end of the war, Clarence was a fixture in the manse’s backyard over Christmas, dutifully melting away after the Feast of the Epiphany on January the sixth.

<br><br>It was odd though. It seemed nobody ever did much by way of serious investigation.

I wondered—could the ghostly specter simply be the work of pranksters or a covert publicity stunt invented by the former curators?

I was determined to find out. It was necessary to do something—anything to curtail the stampede of curious gawkers descending on the grounds come the first of December.



<br><br>Beth adamantly opposed the idea. “Why do you have to be so rational Paul?”

“Someone has to be sensible about these things. We have a responsibility to the community to preserve the beauty of Stickley House.”

“I think you have your own agenda,” she parried.

“Oh and what could that be?”

“Who knows? —To be the Christmas Grinch and rub the gilt off the gingerbread, I suppose.”

<br><br>I was offended. “I think you protest too much.”

“And what does that mean?” she asked haughtily.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t sneak out at night and build the snowman yourself—you seem so eager to perpetuate the myth.”

Her violet eyes flashed lightning. “I’ll gladly spend the night in that backyard with you to prove I have no part in any trickery.”

“Fine,” I agreed, “Tomorrow night’s November the 30th and the snowman’s always there on the first of December. We’ll see what we shall see.”

<br><br>She grumped off toward her office, “You *will* see!”

She shot the words back over her shoulder like a true Parthian warrior.

I felt warmth spread over me. I secretly loved Beth, but what chance did someone who acted and talked like a nerd have in attracting such a beautiful woman?

I sighed wistfully and then proceeded in making a list of items that would be needed for next night’s watch.

<br><br><center>© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>

<br><center>To be continued...</center>
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