Free Young Scrooge by R. L. Stine

to drop.
    I gasped. We were falling fast, falling straight down through the solid gray. The cold air came up to meet us. It was like falling through clouds.
    That was a dream I had a lot. Just falling straight down through clouds. Falling … falling … and never landing.
    The ghost’s top hat flew off his head. His hand dug into my shoulder. We plunged down, then started to slow. Colors swirled up in the gray, bright flashes of green and blue and red. So bright, I shut my eyes.
    When I opened them, I was standing on something solid. A floor in a living room. My eyes took a long time to focus. I saw a green carpet, stained and torn. The walls were covered in a green wallpaper. Some of it was curling off at the top.
    Blinking hard, I saw a scrawny Christmas tree behind a low black couch. It had an angel tilted at the top and only a few tree decorations hanging on its skinny branches. A single flame flickered in the fireplace. A MERRY CHRISTMAS banner hung crookedly over the mantel.
    The Ghost of Christmas Present was pushing down his wiry orange hair with both hands. Without his top hat, his hair had blown in all directions during our fall.
    I tapped him on one arm. “Whoa. You got it wrong,” I said. “This isn’t my house. You’ve made a big mistake.”
    â€œGhosts don’t make mistakes,” he replied. “I’ve never heard of a ghost making a mistake.”
    â€œMarley’s ghost made a mistake,” I said. “He tried to haunt the wrong house.”
    â€œWho is Marley?” the ghost asked. “Am I supposed to know him?”
    â€œForget about him,” I said. “I don’t live here. Look at this place. It’s a dump.”
    He pursed his tiny, heart-shaped lips. “This is your home now, Scroogeman. It’s very different from your home. I’m hoping it will make you appreciate your old life.”
    â€œI do!” I protested. “I do appreciate my old life. Take me to my house. I’ll appreciate it. I swear!”
    â€œMy hope is that your new family will show you how you are mistaken about Christmas,” the ghost said, fiddling with his red bow tie. “I think they can show you the true meaning of the holiday.”
    I tugged at his sleeve. “And if I learn it, can I go back to my family?”
    He narrowed his eyes at me. “You have a lot to learn before you can ever think of going back.”
    Those words sent a chill to the back of my neck.
    The ghost turned away from me. He motioned toward the small dining room. “This is your family now, Scroogeman.”
    I saw a ragged-looking man and woman and a pale, scrawny girl, who was about eight or nine. They were standing awkwardly at the dining room table.
    The woman had scraggly brown hair falling down the sides of her narrow, lined face. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. She wore a long brown housedress under a square white apron. The apron was dotted with brown and yellow stains.
    The man was thin and tired looking, too. His back was a little bent. He leaned on a wooden cane. His streaky gray hair was pulled behind his head in a stub of a ponytail. He wore a black sweatshirt over baggy maroon sweatpants.
    The girl was kind of cute. She had wavy brown-blond hair and big blue eyes. She wore a blue smiley-face T-shirt pulled down over faded denim jeans, torn at both knees. She kept motioning impatiently to me. She wanted me to come over to them.
    But I turned to the ghost. “Please—take me out of here. It’s Christmas Eve. Take me to my real family. Please.”
    â€œMerry Christmas, Scroogeman,” he said. Then he vanished.
    I felt a pop of cold air. And he was gone.
    â€œCome to the table, Scroogeman,” the woman said. “You’re late. You know it’s time for Christmas Eve dinner.”
    â€œCome sit down, sonny boy,” the man said. “If you stand there any longer, I’ll swat you. I swear