A Christmas Tale by Sylvia Moon

It was Lillian’s idea to go.

The old waterfront loos had been transformed — quite miraculously — into a pub called The Merry Buoy, all polished brass and dark green velvet, with a smell of pine and roasted coffee. You’d never have guessed that ten years ago it was a place you’d only enter under duress and with your own tissues.

“Urban renewal,” Lillian said approvingly as we stepped inside. “Proof that even lavatories can be reborn.”

The place was charming — strings of warm lights around the windows, a modest Christmas tree dressed in copper baubles, and a view of the harbour that glittered under the winter moon. We found a small table near the window and ordered Irish Coffees, because it seemed the sort of evening that called for them.

Lillian took hers with a scientist’s precision, sipping slowly to preserve the cream layer. I, on the other hand, drank mine with the enthusiasm of someone who has never truly trusted moderation.

Outside, the tide was high and the boats rocked gently, their masts tipped with fairy lights. We sat in comfortable silence, the kind that comes easily after years of shared misadventure. Then Lillian frowned.

“Did you see that?” she asked.

“A Christmas miracle?”

“A man dressed as Santa.”

I turned. Sure enough, a figure in full red regalia was walking along the quay — tall, with a white beard that looked far too real. He carried a sack slung over one shoulder and walked with the unhurried air of someone who belonged there.

“Must be part of the town parade,” I said.

“The parade was last weekend,” Lillian replied.

The man stopped beneath the streetlamp and turned his head slightly toward us. For a moment, I thought he smiled. Then he disappeared — not dramatically, just stepped out of sight beyond the wall.

A few moments later, the door to The Merry Buoy opened, and a gust of cold air swept in. No one entered.

The lights above the bar flickered. The music — an old Bing Crosby tune — hiccuped, warped, then steadied.

Lillian set down her cup. “Sylvia,” she said, in the tone she reserves for things she’d rather not be happening, “did you bring something with you again?”

“I didn’t bring him,” I said. “He seems perfectly capable of finding us on his own.”

We both turned to the window. The man in the red coat was standing outside again — in precisely the same place as before. Only this time, his reflection in the glass was wrong. It moved a heartbeat slower than he did.

Lillian leaned closer. “You see that too, yes?”

“Unfortunately,” I said.

The Santa figure lifted his hand in a small, almost apologetic wave, then pointed toward the harbour steps. For a moment, it looked as though he meant for us to follow.

I felt the air shift — that gentle tightening, as if the veil between things had gone thin again. But Lillian shook her head firmly. “No,” she said aloud, to no one in particular. “We’re having Irish Coffee, and that’s final.”

The man smiled — or at least his reflection did — and slowly began to fade. The glass frosted over where his face had been, leaving behind the faint outline of a handprint, which melted before our eyes.

The lights steadied. The music returned. Someone laughed at the bar.

We sat in silence for a long moment. Then Lillian said, “I hope the afterlife has decent plumbing.”

I laughed, though my voice trembled. “You think he’s—?”

“The old caretaker, perhaps. The loos’ original guardian, checking that we approve of the renovation.”

“Do we?”

Lillian raised her cup. “We do. Thoroughly.”

We clinked glasses, and the window cleared completely, revealing the moonlight dancing on the waves.

When we left later, the air was sharp and clean, the tide still high. On the step outside the door, half-frozen into the frost, lay a single red button — smooth, old-fashioned, from a coat that had seen better winters.

Lillian pocketed it without a word.

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Postscript from Lillian:

The button was Victorian. Brass core, enamel surface. No reasonable explanation for its presence, unless Santa shops in antique haberdasheries. Sylvia insists it was “a gift.” I prefer to think of it as proof that some ghosts have excellent taste.

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