I'm Keith Morrison, and this is the final episode of A Christmas Carol. It's a wonder Ebenezer Scrooge has made it this far in our story. The last ghost he met, the spirit of Christmas future, showed him terrible things. Tiny Tim was dead, and so was Scrooge. Though not one single soul mourned him. All of it, Scrooge sees, could have been prevented if only he had been a better person. He is tortured now, and as the last ghost disappears, Scrooge is desperate to atone for his sins. As we pick up the story, Scrooge is suddenly back in his own bedroom. Everything just as it always was. It's Christmas morning, and old Ebenezer, the most hated man in all of London, is about to get the most precious gift of all. A second chance. The bed was his own. The room was his own. Best and happiest of all the time before him was his own to make amends in. I will live in the past, the present, or the future, Scrooge repeated as he scrambled out of bed. The spirits of all three shall strive within me. Oh, O Jacob, Marley, heaven and the Christmas time be praised for this.

I say it on my knees. O Jacob, on my knees. He was so flutter and so glowing with his good intentions that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with his spirit, and his face was wet with tears. They're not torn down, cried Scrooge, folding one of his bed curtains in his arms. They're not torn down, rings and all. Here they are. I am here. The shadows of the things that would have been may be dispelled. They will be. I know they will be. His hands were busy with his garments all this time, turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every extravagance. I don't know what to do. Cried Scrooge, laughing and crying at the same breath. I am as light as a feather. I'm as happy as an angel. I'm as merry as a schoolboy. I'm as gitty as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everybody. A happy New Year to all the world. He had frisked into the sitting room and was now standing there, perfectly winded. There's the saucepan the grill was in, cried Scrooge, starting off again and going round the fireplace.

And there's the door by which the ghost of Jacob Marley entered. There's the corner where the ghost of Christmas present sat. There's the window where I saw the wandering spirits. It's all right. It's all true. It all happened. Really, for a man who had been on the practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh, the father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs. I don't know what day of the month it is, said Scrooge. I don't know how long I've been among the Spirits. I don't know anything. I'm quite a baby. Never mind. I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the lustiest peels he had ever heard. Running to the window, he opened it and put out his head. No fog, no mist. It was clear and bright and jovial and stirring and cold, cold. Piping for the blood to dance to. Golden sunlight, heavenly sky, sweet, fresh air, merry bells. Oh, glorious, glorious. What's today? Cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes who perhaps had loitered in to look about him. 'Aye!

' returned the boy with all his might to wonder. What's today?, my fine fellow? ' said Scrooge. 'Today? ' replied the boy. Why, it's Christmas Day. It's Christmas Day, said Scrooge to himself. I haven't missed it. The spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hello, my fine fellow. Hello, returned the boy. Do you know the butchers in the next street but one at the corner? Scrooge inquired. I should hope I did, replied the lad. An intelligent boy, said Scrooge, a remarkable boy. Do you know whether they've sold the prized turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prized turkey, the big one. What? The one as big as me? Returned the boy. It's hanging there now. It is, said Scrooge. Go and buy it. I am an artist. Go and buy it and tell them to bring it here that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come back with that man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes and I'll give you a half crown. The boy was off like a shot.

I'll send it to Bob Cratchett's. Whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hand and splitting with a laugh. He shant know who sends it. It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one, but write it he did somehow and went downstairs to open the street door, ready for the coming of the butcher's man. As he stood there, waiting his arrival, the knocker caught his eye. I shall love it as long as I live, cried Scrooge patting it with his hand. I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it has in its face. It's a wonderful knocker. Here's the turkey. How are you? Merry Christmas. It was a turkey. He never could have stood upon his legs, that bird. He would have snapped him short off in a minute. By, it's impossible to carry that to Camden town, said Scrooge. You must have a cab. The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy were only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chair again and chuckled until he cried.

Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake very much, and shaving requires attention, even when you don't dance while you're at it. But if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a piece of sticking plaster over it and been quite satisfied. He dressed himself all in his best, and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth as he had seen them with the ghost on Christmas present. And walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded everyone with a delighted smile. He looked so irresistibly pleasant in a word. The three or four good-humored fellows said, Good morning, sir. A merry Christmas to you. And Scrooge said often afterwards that of all the happy sounds he ever heard, those were the happiest in his ears. He had not gone far. When coming on towards him, he beheld the porkly gentleman who had walked into his counting house the day before and said, Scrooge and Marley, I believe. It sent a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met. But he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it.

My dear sir, said Scrooge, quickening his pace and taking the old gentleman by both his hands. How do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very you. A merry Christmas to you, sir. Mr. Scrooge? Yes, said Scrooge. That is my name and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness? Here Scrooge whispered in his ear. Lord, bless me!, cried the gentleman as if his breaths were taken away. My dear Mr. Scrooge, are you serious? If you please, said Scrooge, not a farthing less. A great many back payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me that favor? My dear sir, said the others shaking hands with him, I don't know what to say. Don't say anything, please, retorted Scrooge. Come and see me. Will you come and see me? I will, cried the old gentleman, and it was clear he meant to do it. Thank you, said Scrooge. I am much obliged to you. I thank you 50 times. Bless you. He went to church, and he walked about the streets, and he watched the people hurry to and from and patted the children on the head and questioned the begars and looked down into the kitchens of houses and up to the windows and found that everything could yield him pleasure.

He had never dreamed at any walk that anything could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon, he turned his steps toward his nephew's house. His nephew, the bright and sparkling young man whose optimism stood fast even in the face of Scrooge's unforgiving misery. He could turn Scrooge away, of course, and who would blame him, really? Hey, it's Anna Garcia, host of True Crime Daily, the podcast. Each week on the show, we cover high profile and under the radar cases from across the country. We'll take you inside some of the most unbelievable and shocking true crime stories that you may or may not have heard of before. Listen and follow to True Crime Daily, the podcast, an odyssey podcast, on the odyssey app or wherever you get your podcasts. Alice is in Dead is a road trip mystery podcast by New York Times bestselling author and creator of Welcome to Night fail, Joseph Fink. A truck driver searches across America for the wife she had long assumed was dead, but Alice isn't dead. It has been called one of the best horror stories by The New York Times and the gold standard of story podcasting by The Irish Independent.

Find Alice isn't Dead wherever you get your podcasts. Christmas Day. Scrooge is on the threshold of a whole new life and on the doorstep of his only surviving relative who was kind to him even when he was at his most despicable, his nephew, Fred. Now Scrooge approaches Fred's house, and as Dickens writes, he hesitates. He passed the door a dozen times before he had the courage to go up and knock, but he made a dash and he did it. Is your master at home, my dear? Said Scrooge to the girl. Nice girl. Very Yes, sir. Where is he, my love? Said Scrooge. He's in the dining room, sir, along with the mistress. I'll show you upstairs if you please. Thank you. He knows me. Said Scrooge, with his hand already on the dining room lock. I'll go in here, my dear. He turned it gently and sidled his face in round the door. They were looking at the table, which was spread out in great array, for these young housekeepersers are all always nervous on such points and like to see that everything is right. Fred, said Scrooge, dear heart alive how his niece-by-marriage started.

Scrooge had forgotten for the moment about her sitting in the corner with the footstool, or he wouldn't have done it on any account. Well, I blessed my soul, cried Fred. Who's that? It's I, your Uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in, Fred? Let him in. It's a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. So did everyone when they came. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, wonderful happiness. But he was early at the office the next morning. Oh, he was early there. If he could only be the first there and catch Bob Cratchett coming late, that was the thing he had set his heart upon. And he did it. Yes, he did. The clock struck 9:00. No, Bob. A quarter passed. No, Bob. He was full 18 minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open that he might see him come in. His hat was off before he opened the door. His comforter, too. He was on his stool in a jiffy, driving away with his pen as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock.

Hello, growled Scrooge in his accustomed voice as near as he could faint it. What do you mean by coming here at this time of day? I'm very sorry, sir, said Bob. I'm behind my time. You are? Repeated, Scrooge. Yes, I think you are. Step this way, sir, if you please. It's only once a year, sir, pleaded Bob. It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir. Now tell you what, my friend, said Scrooge. I am not going to stand this thing any longer. And therefore, he continued leaping from his stool and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back, and therefore, I'm about to raise your salary. Bob trembled and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it, holding him and calling to the people in the court for help in a straight jacket. A merry Christmas, Bob, said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fella, than I have given you for many a year. I'll raise your salary and endeavor to assist your struggling family.

We will discuss your affairs this very afternoon over a Christmas bowl of smoking, Bishop Bob. Make up the fires and buy another coal scuttle before you dot another eye, Bob Cratchett. Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all and infinitely more. And to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he became a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh and little heated them, for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset, and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes and cringe, as have the malady and less attractive forms. His own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him. He had no further intercourse with spirits, but ever afterwards, it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well if any man alive possess the knowledge.

May that be truly said of us and all of us. And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us. Everyone. And that's Charles Dickens' Christmas Carol for the Ages. It is the redemption of a greedy, selfish old man, and perhaps, Dicken's Christmas wish for all of us. Because there's another story not famous like his Christmas carol. Though he never spoke much about it, Charles Dickens' whole family, his mother, his father, and all of his siblings were sent to debtor's prison for unpaid bills. Only 12 years old at the time, the young Charles was spared, but was required to work in a rat infested factory for 10 hours a day. A 12-year-old boy pasting labels on jars. And maybe that's why for the rest of his life, Charles Dickens championed the poor, the vulnerable among us, hoping to show what good it would do if we were all just a little bit kinder. I'm Keith Morrison. From our NBA news family to yours, happy holidays, everyone. Maurice and mysteries is a production of Dateline and BBC News. Charmy andling and Liz Brown are senior producers. Carson Cummins is Associate Producer. Sound mixing by Bob Mallory and Catherine Anderson.

Ryson Barnes is Head of Audio Production. Hey, guys. Willy Geist here reminding you to check out the Sunday Sitdown Podcast. On this week's episode, I get together with one of the biggest stars on the planet, Scarlet Johansson, to talk about stepping into the world of Wes Anderson, the secret behind the success of her new skincare line, and much, much more. You can get our conversation now for free wherever you download your podcasts.