An Unexpected Ghost

An excerpt from A Presidents Day Carol

The light in the Oval Office grew, revealing the rest of the room, though still in the hazy gloom of twilight. As the light revealed the room, so too were dozens of figures illuminated, each about his own business. Some were very recognizable, others not so much, but they all had the distinct bearing of men given the highest office of leadership.

Warren Harding elaborated, “When you become President, you inherit a legacy of the past. This White House is a nexus for all the decisions made here that echo out into eternity. Whether occupied lengthily or briefly, each left their indelible mark. But some marks are left deeper than others.”

Trump could see the ghosts of Presidents from the recent past all the way back to the nation’s beginning. They all sputtered about aimlessly as ghosts do, imitating the actions they performed in life: Looking at papers, pacing about, napping while someone else did their job for them, presidential things.

“We’re elected to perform a job, but it’s not necessary.” Harding motioned to one of the napping figures lying supine on a couch. The ghost had a long face and round glasses, his hands folded neatly on his chest. “My predecessor, Woodrow Wilson, suffered a stroke late into his second term, and his health declined so sharply that his wife essentially ran the country, controlling who could see him and making decisions in his name. The rumors at the time were fiercely denied. Now, it’s accepted history.” Warren Harding would have frowned if his face were not fixed in a permanent frown already. “It doesn’t matter. No one cares that a President was mentally unable to perform his duty.”

“But that was back in the Stone Ages without constant news coverage and cameras everywhere,” Trump protested. “Surely a President couldn’t get away with something like that now.”

“What’s up, Jack?” An oddly familiar voice said. The former Vice President, Joe Biden stood before Donald Trump. He wore aviators and held a dripping ice cream cone in one hand. He seemed corporeal and solid, unlike all the other ghosts which Trump could see through if he focused hard enough. “I am the Ghost of Christmas—no wait, that’s not right. I’m the Ghost of the thing, you know.”

“You’re not dead, Joe,” Donald Trump said. “You are many many horrible things, but dead is not one of them.”

Joe Biden waved another wandering specter in old-timey clothing and a powdered wig over to them, “Hey, you there. This is the Father of our Constipation- no, that’s our Coronation- no, our you know.”

“James Madison,” the ghost said, clearly annoyed, “Father of the Constitution.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying, the Mother of our Computer Station. Listen. Tell Donald the thing.”

The ghost of James Madison sighed, “Since time has no meaning outside of a physical context, the spirits of the dead exist in a space beyond time. Our visages are mere echoes of the lives we lived. The echo can reverberate not only forward, but backward as well.”

“Prezzactly,” Joe Biden slurred. “I’m a backtrack echo thingie—ghost.”

“So, you're the ghost of a guy who hasn’t died yet.”

“Exactomundo.”

“Then does that mean you’ll be President before you die?”

“What are you talking about? Barap Jemima is President. Anyway, I want to tell you to listen to this guy here.” Biden motioned to Warren Harding. “Not only does he have a funny name, but he knows his trunalimunumaprzure. He just hasn’t shared it with me. But I tell you what, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to go to bed.” Joe Biden then turned and shuffled off in a random direction and through a wall.

Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump
You better hope these are just visions of what may be rather than what will be, or WE ARE ALL IN TROBL

Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump
Just sayin.

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Find out what happens next in A Presidents Day Carol now available in paperback and ebook!

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