Father Clery did all he could to cheer the boys and remind them that not all was lost.
“But, nobody listened,” said a boy.
“And when they do, they tell us to shut up,” said another.
“They just need to be reminded what the Christmas spirit is about,” Father Clery said. “We can’t give up. It’s not in us to do so.”
That’s it, thought MacFie, a Christmas spirit!
The boys returned to the Orphanage and went straight to bed. Once Peter fell asleep, MacFie crept out of the room into the dreary, chilly night. He flew past the cemetery, the vegetable garden and the tool shed, where he spotted a large gunny sack. He grabbed it and draped it around him like a cloak. He tied a piece of rope around the waist, to finish the look.
“Surely, I must look terrifying,” said MacFie. “Even if I don’t I’ll scare the heck out of ’em.” He flew up in the sky and into town. He looked down at the roof tops and wondered where he should start his hector. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll start right there,” he pointed to a two story house. He flew down the chimney and began howling like a ghost, making the curtains wave. He made so much noise that he frightened awake the elderly couple that lived there.
“What do you want?” cried the old man, as he held the covers to his chest.
“You know what I want,” moaned MacFie in a low menacing voice. He pointed his finger at them. “You don’t believe in the Christmas spirit no more. You created me from your disbeliefs. I will bring you fear, and the more you fear, the more it makes me stronger. I feed on your spurn. I will come to you, every night.
“Every night!” the elderly couple shrieked.
“That’s right, every night and haunt you for as long as you don’t believe.”
“We believe! We believe,” they cried out.
“You lie!” MacFie shouted. “I can see in your hearts.”
“Who are you?” wailed the old woman, pulling the covers tighter to her chest. MacFie thought she looked silly with her sleeping mobcap.
“I am the–the, uhh,” MacFie hadn’t thought of a name. “The Spirit of those who don’t believe.”
“You don’t have a name?” cried the old man.
MacFie grew impatient. What did it matter if he didn’t have a name. “Abergoole,” MacFie shouted. “Abergoole, is my name. Be very afraid! You made me by your disbelief and as long as the Christmas spirit doesn’t come alive, I will never go away!” He howled a bit more and flew around the room. Before he left, he spooked the old couple by pulling off his hood. All they could see was his shadowy face. They yelped in fear, causing the old woman to faint.
He left the couples home and flew into the next house and the next and the next. By and by, he had everybody convinced he was the evil spirit that haunted them from their disbelief. The town was turned upside down. MacFie returned to the vegetable garden in the orphanage, and fell down laughing. “They believed me,” MacFie roared with laughter. “They really think I am an evil spirit that will haunt them.” He had never had so much fun since he had learned to fly. “That will teach them to rebuff the Christmas spirit. I wonder what I’ll do next? Maybe I can make so more noise. Shake their beds! Better yet, howl and open every door and window of their rooms. That’ll scare ’em.”