The knock on the door was half-hearted, like someone had forgotten why they were knocking halfway through.

Ed opened it.

A cloud of skunk-smelling smoke rolled into the trailer, followed by a figure in a tie-dye hoodie, board shorts, and flip-flops. The Ghost of Christmas Present looked like he’d gotten lost on the way to a beach bonfire and somehow ended up in Virginia in December.

“Duuuude,” the ghost said, his voice the vocal equivalent of a warm bath. “Is this… wait, who are you?”

“Ed Ruje. This is my trailer.”

“Right, right. Ed. I’m supposed to show you some stuff. Present-day things. Got the whole list right here…” The ghost patted his pockets, frowning. “Okay, I had a list. Definitely had a list. Also had my vape pen. Where’s my vape pen?”

“I don’t have your vape pen.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I swear I just…” The ghost trailed off, staring at Ed’s ceiling. “Whoa. When did you paint that?”

“I didn’t paint it.”

“Oh. Makes sense.” The ghost suddenly snapped back to focus. “Right! The tour! We gotta go on a tour. I built this totally sick hovercraft. Well, I mean, I found a riding mower and some leaf blowers, and I was like, ‘what if these could fly?’ and apparently they can. Sort of. Sometimes. Come on!”

Before Ed could protest, the ghost grabbed his arm and pulled him outside.

In the snow-covered parking area behind Ed’s trailer sat the most absurd contraption Ed had ever seen. A riding lawn mower formed the base, with four industrial leaf blowers duct-taped to the corners, all pointing downward. Christmas lights wrapped around the whole thing, plugged into a car battery. A torn beach umbrella served as a canopy.

“This will never fly,” Ed said.

“That’s what I thought! But check it out—” The ghost climbed onto the mower and gestured for Ed to climb on behind him. “You just gotta believe, man. And also maybe don’t think too hard about physics.”

“I’m not getting on that.”

“Dude, you don’t have a choice. I’m a ghost. This is happening.” The ghost turned a key, and the leaf blowers roared to life. The contraption shuddered, vibrated, and then—impossibly—lifted three feet off the ground. “See? Told you! Now get on before we leave without you!”

Against all logic and self-preservation, Ed climbed on.

They lurched forward, wobbling, the leaf blowers screaming. The ghost steered with the mower’s wheel, navigating between trailers at a height that made tree branches a constant threat.

“So where are we going?” Ed shouted over the noise.

“What?”

“WHERE ARE WE GOING?”

“Oh, right! Uh…” The ghost looked confused. “I forget. But I’m sure it’ll come to me. Let’s just cruise for a bit. Feel the vibes.”

They wobbled past trailer after trailer, the ghost occasionally forgetting to steer and nearly crashing into propane tanks, clotheslines, and one very startled resident emptying his trash.

“Dude, have you seen my vape pen?” the ghost called to the resident.

They wobbled onward.

Behind the dumpsters, movement caught Ed’s eye. Small figures darted between the garbage bins, quick and feral. Children—three of them, ranging from maybe six to ten years old. Dirty, dressed in layers of mismatched clothing, moving with the skittish energy of wild animals.

“Those kids,” Ed said. “Who are they?”

The ghost looked down, his perpetual smile fading. “Oh. Yeah. Those are…” He struggled to remember. “Ignorance and Want. No, wait. That’s not their names. Neglect and… Poverty? Whatever, man. Point is, they live in the park. Sort of. Nobody’s really claimed them, you know? They eat from the garbage, sleep in the old storage shed behind the community center. Everyone knows they’re there, but everyone just kinda… doesn’t deal with it.”

“Why are they here?”

“‘Cause people like you don’t see them, bro. They’re invisible until they’re not, and by then it’s too late.” The ghost’s voice turned serious for a moment. “They’re everyone’s problem. Especially yours. You run this place. These kids are eating garbage in YOUR garbage cans.”

One of the children looked up at the hovering contraption, eyes wide. For a moment, Ed saw himself reflected in those eyes—cold, distant, willfully blind.

Then the ghost jerked the wheel. “Oh! I remember where we’re going! Rocky’s place! Dude’s having Christmas Eve dinner. Let’s check it out!”

They wobbled through the air, barely clearing a power line, and descended toward a well-maintained double-wide on the north side of the park. Warm light glowed through the windows. The ghost brought the hovercraft down with a thump that nearly threw Ed off.

“Okay, so here’s the thing,” the ghost said, hopping off the mower. “We’re ghosts. Well, I am. You’re ghost adjacent. Point is, they can’t see us. We’re just here to observe. Don’t try to talk to them or anything. It gets weird.”

They walked through the front door—literally through it, which made Ed’s stomach lurch—and into Rocky’s home.

It was small but warm, decorated with obvious care. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, covered in handmade ornaments. Photos covered the walls—family pictures, kids’ drawings, a large framed photo of Denise. The table was set for six.

Rocky stood in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove while his wife Maria set out plates. Their three children—two boys and a girl, ranging from about five to twelve—were engaged in some complicated game involving toy cars and an elaborate ramp system built from books.

“Kids, wash your hands!” Maria called. “Dinner in five minutes.”

“Do we have to set a place for Uncle Ed?” the oldest boy asked.

Rocky and Maria exchanged a look.

“Yes,” Rocky said firmly. “We set a place. Just like every year.”

“But he never comes.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s family. We set a place.”

The boy shrugged and returned to his cars. The family gathered around the table, Rocky carrying a steaming pot of pozole, Maria bringing tortillas and a bowl of rice. It wasn’t fancy, but it was abundant, made with love.

They held hands around the table. Rocky cleared his throat.

“We’re grateful for family, for food, for this time together. We’re grateful for health and happiness. And we’re…” He paused, glancing at the empty chair. “We’re grateful for those who can’t be with us, like Grandma Denise. We miss her. And we’re hopeful that someday Uncle Ed will join us, because this table is always open to him.”

“Even though he’s mean?” the youngest asked.

“He’s not mean, mijo. He’s hurting. There’s a difference.”

They began to eat, the conversation flowing easily—talk of school, of work at the hardware store, of plans for Christmas morning. Rocky’s daughter mentioned seeing Timmy Davis at the park playground, saying he couldn’t run much anymore but still liked to swing.

“That poor family,” Maria said quietly. “Bobby works so hard, and they still can barely afford Timmy’s treatments.”

“There’s a collection going around,” Rocky said. “Sandra and Helen are organizing it. I put in what I could.”

“That’s good. That boy deserves a chance.”

The oldest boy raised his glass of juice. “Can we toast?”

“Sure, mijo. What are we toasting?”

“To Grandma Denise. And to Uncle Ed. Even if he’s kind of a jerk.”

Rocky laughed. “Language. But yeah. To Mom. And to Ed. May he figure his life out before it’s too late.”

They clinked glasses. Ed watched from his incorporeal position near the door, feeling something uncomfortably like shame.

The ghost had wandered into the kitchen and was opening drawers. “Seriously, has anyone seen my vape pen? I could’ve sworn I put it… wait, is that a quesadilla maker?”

Ed ignored him, watching Rocky’s family laugh, eat, and exist in each other’s presence. This is what he’d given up. This warmth, this connection. For what? For a balanced ledger? For the cold satisfaction of charging late fees?

“Come on, dude,” the ghost said, suddenly beside him. “Next stop. I remember now. We gotta see the potluck.”

“The what?”

“The Christmas Eve potluck. Community center. It’s happening right now. Let’s roll.”

They left Rocky’s warm home and climbed back onto the absurd hovercraft. The leaf blowers roared to life, and they wobbled through the night air toward the community center.

The building was ablaze with light. Every window glowed. Music spilled out into the cold air—a chaotic mix of Christmas carols from a vintage record player that kept skipping.

They descended, crashed gently into a snow bank, and walked through the wall.

Ed had forgotten what the community center looked like when it was full of life. Every folding table was covered with food—the most bizarre array of dishes Ed had ever seen. Residents packed the room, talking, laughing, some dancing to the skipping music. Children ran around with the specific chaos of sugar-fueled excitement.

“Behold,” the ghost said with a sweeping gesture, “the Christmas Eve potluck. Where everyone brings their absolute weirdest food and pretends to enjoy eating it.”

Helen presided over her creation—a massive wreath made of spaghetti, with meatballs arranged as ornaments. It was already falling apart, sauce dripping onto the table.

“Helen, this is a masterpiece,” someone lied politely.

Bubba stood guard over his candied pickle pie, cutting slices for anyone brave enough to try. “It’s sweet and tangy,” he explained proudly. “Got the recipe from a fever dream.”

Margie’s tuna jello mold sat in the center of one table, jiggling ominously. As Ed watched, someone bumped the table. The mold wobbled, wobbled more, then toppled off its plate with a wet splat that sent chunks of tuna-suspended gelatin across the floor.

“JELLO DOWN!” someone shouted.

Children descended on the mess like it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened. Adults rushed for paper towels. Margie laughed so hard she had to sit down.

“Every year,” she wheezed. “Every single year that damn thing falls over.”

Junior, the teenage tinkerer, had created deep-fried candy canes. They looked like crystallized chaos on a plate. To everyone’s surprise, they were a hit. People kept coming back for more, creating a line.

“Dude, these are amazing,” someone said, crunching loudly.

“Right?” Junior beamed. “I wasn’t sure about deep-frying something that’s basically pure sugar, but physics worked out.”

Kevin, the park prankster, had brought his hot dog fruitcake. It sat untouched, a monument to bad decisions and questionable judgment. Even the ghost gave it a wide berth.

“That’s not food,” the ghost said. “That’s a cry for help.”

Tammy’s sardine gingerbread men stood in formation on a plate, their fishy aroma competing with the ginger and spices. Old Joe’s mystery meat stew bubbled in a slow cooker, its contents best left unquestioned.

Despite—or perhaps because of—the bizarre food, everyone was having a wonderful time. This was community. This was what Ed had once dreamed of building. And here it was, thriving in spite of him rather than because of him.

Bobby Davis stood near the drinks table, looking tired but smiling as he watched Timmy carefully stack cookies on a plate.

“Not too many, mijo,” Bobby said gently.

“But they’re so good, Dad!” Timmy’s voice was hoarse, his breathing slightly labored. “Can I take some to Mr. Ruje?”

The room got quieter. Several people exchanged looks.

“Mr. Ruje doesn’t come to the potluck, buddy.”

“I know. But maybe if we brought him some cookies, he’d feel more like celebrating. Grandma says everyone deserves Christmas cookies.”

Bobby’s wife, Linda, joined them. She was a thin woman with kind eyes and hands that never stopped moving—wiping a child’s face, straightening a napkin, adjusting Timmy’s jacket.

“That’s sweet of you, baby,” she said. “But Mr. Ruje likes to be alone.”

“Nobody likes to be alone on Christmas,” Timmy insisted with the certainty of childhood. “Not really.”

The ghost nudged Ed. “Kid’s got you figured out, man.”

Bobby lifted Timmy onto a chair so he could reach better. The boy was light, too light for a child his age. His skin had a waxy quality, and dark circles shadowed his eyes.

“He doesn’t look good,” Ed said quietly.

“That’s ’cause he’s not, bro. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Needs treatment that costs way more than Bobby’s paycheck. Which, reminder, you decide.” The ghost’s usual haze of confusion cleared, his voice sharp. “That family right there? They’re drowning. And you’re standing on the shore with a life preserver, charging them rent to look at it.”

Sandra approached the Davis family, Helen beside her.

“Bobby, Linda—we wanted you to know, we’ve raised almost two thousand dollars so far for Timmy’s treatment.”

Linda’s hand flew to her mouth. Bobby’s eyes filled with tears.

“Two thousand?” he whispered.

“Everyone chipped in,” Helen said. “Some folks gave five dollars, some gave fifty, some gave what they could. Even the kids had a bake sale.”

“We asked Mr. Ruje too,” Sandra added quietly. “But he—”

“I know,” Bobby said, his voice thick. “I know. It’s okay. This is… this is more than okay. This is a miracle.”

Linda pulled both women into a hug. Timmy, not quite understanding but sensing the emotion, wrapped his small arms around all of them.

Ed felt something crack inside his chest.

“Two thousand dollars,” he said. “I spend more than that on property tax.”

“Yeah,” the ghost said. “You do. Wanna see what two thousand dollars means to them?”

The scene shifted. They were still in the community center, but time had jumped forward. The potluck was winding down, people gathering coats and taking home leftover containers of mystery food.

Bobby sat with Timmy on his lap, the boy drowsing against his chest. Linda sat beside them, her head on Bobby’s shoulder. They looked exhausted but peaceful.

“Maybe things will be okay,” Linda said softly.

“Maybe,” Bobby agreed. “Two thousand will cover some of the treatments. Buy us time. We’ll figure out the rest.”

“We always do.”

“We always do,” Bobby repeated, but his voice wavered. He held Timmy closer.

The ghost touched Ed’s shoulder. “They won’t figure it out, man. Not without help. Two thousand buys them maybe two months. Then what? Bobby works fifty hours a week for poverty wages. Linda works at the laundromat. They’re doing everything right, and it’s not enough. Life doesn’t care about fair.”

Ed watched Timmy sleep, his small chest rising and falling with labored breaths.

“What happens to him?” Ed asked. “In the future?”

“That’s not my department, dude. I’m Christmas Present, not Yet to Come. But you can probably guess.”

The ghost pulled Ed away from the Davis family, through the wall and back outside. The hovercraft sat in the snow, leaf blowers silent.

“One more stop,” the ghost said, climbing aboard. “We gotta visit Margie.”

They wobbled through the air again, past decorated trailers and dark ones, until they reached trailer thirty-four. The Christmas lights that hung from other trailers didn’t extend this far. The eviction notice was still taped to the door.

They passed through the wall.

Margie sat on her couch, surrounded by boxes. She moved slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter her. Photo albums lay open on the coffee table—pictures of children, grandchildren, decades of life lived in this small space.

The trailer was neat despite the packing. Every surface was clean. The decorations were modest but cheerful—a small tree in the corner, a few knickacks on the windowsill. This had been someone’s home, truly and deeply, for forty-two years.

Margie picked up a framed photo—her wedding day, judging by the white dress and the young man beside her.

“Oh, Frank,” she said quietly. “What would you think of this? Evicted on Christmas Eve. After everything.” She set the photo in a box, wrapping it carefully in newspaper. “I know the rent was late. I know the rules. But I hoped… I guess I hoped Ed would remember who I was. Who we all were, back when he cared about things besides money.”

She coughed—a deep, rattling sound that made her wince and press a hand to her chest. When she pulled her hand away, Ed saw how thin her wrists were, how the skin seemed to hang loose on her bones.

“The treatment’s not working anyway,” Margie continued to the empty room. “Dr. Chen says maybe six months. Maybe less. I just wanted to die in my own home, Frank. That’s all. Wanted to wake up one more Christmas morning in the place where we raised our babies.” She wiped her eyes. “Guess that’s asking too much.”

She returned to packing, slow and methodical, occasionally stopping to rest or cough.

The ghost watched Ed’s face. “She’s got a daughter in Ohio. That’s where she’ll go. Spare bedroom in a house where she doesn’t know anyone, in a town she’s never lived in. She’ll die there in about four months. Alone, mostly. The daughter means well but works a lot.”

“I didn’t know she was this sick.”

“You didn’t ask, dude. That’s kind of the point.” The ghost pulled out his vape pen—which had been in his hand the entire time—and took a long drag. “Oh hey, found it.”

The scene began to fade. Ed felt the familiar sensation of being pulled back to his trailer.

“Wait,” he said. “What about those kids? The ones by the dumpster?”

“What about them?”

“What happens to them?”

The ghost’s perpetually relaxed expression darkened. “Nothing good, man. Nothing good. They’re everyone’s problem, which means they’re no one’s problem. Until they are, and by then it’s too late. That’s how it works.”

“Can they be helped?”

“Can anyone be helped? Yeah, probably. Will they be? Depends on people caring enough to do something.” The ghost looked at Ed meaningfully. “Depends on people like you, bro.”

The ghost’s form began to waver, the smoke that surrounded him dispersing.

“One more thing,” the ghost said as he faded. “That whole vape pen thing? I knew where it was the whole time. Just figured you needed the levity. Some comic relief before things get really dark. ‘Cause dude, the next ghost?” He shook his head. “She’s intense.”

And then Ed was back in his trailer, alone, gasping for breath.

His watch read 3:00 AM.

A knock on the door. Not hesitant like the ghost’s knock, not aggressive like Marley’s entrance. This knock was measured, deliberate, theatrical.

Ed opened the door.

She stood silhouetted against a backdrop of stars that hadn’t been there moments before, draped in flowing black fabric that moved in a wind Ed couldn’t feel. Her face was hidden beneath a hood.

Slowly, dramatically, she pulled the hood back.

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come had arrived.