BY G. CONNOR SALTER

Author’s Note: This story is, of course, a fictional homage to Charles Dickens and Philip Van Doren Stern (and references to a certain book by Dr. Seuss). However, it does integrate scenes and quotes from historical sources, listed below. Some chronology details have been rearranged to produce a coherent story.

From the beginning, it was clear Boris did not like the surprise.

He was not expecting anything when he and his wife, Evie, went to the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel for the new taping of This Is Your Life. They regularly joined the audience, watching people be surprised by old friends recalling their escapades. Then the host Ralph Edwards walked out and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, our beloved guest tonight is not coming through those doors, because he’s in the audience, watching the producer’s monitor. Tonight, This is Your Life… Boris Karloff!”

Boris turned to Evie with a look. His daughter Sarah later told him the look could have melted a camera lens.

He was pleasant after the look. Boris went to the stage with Edwards, listening to the host summarize his progression from “English schoolboy, then Canadian stock actor, then horror film icon.” Boris joked about how he changed his name, William Henry Pratt, when he went into the theater because “Pratt” seemed like a poor name for an entertainer. He shook hands with old schoolmates from Uppingham. When makeup man Jack Pierce appeared to talk about the movie Frankenstein, Boris embraced Pierce and said Pierce was “the best makeup man in the world, I owe him a lot.” When an old stock theatre castmate gave Boris a set of doorknobs from their shared dressing room, Boris held them to his neck like bolts. “I remember now. Do I wear them like this?”

He was visibly happy when Sarah appeared on the stage. But after the show, after the after-party with Sarah and his friends, Sarah leaned into his ear while saying goodbye and whispered, “She meant well, Daddy. Don’t be too hard on her.”

On the taxi ride home, Evie said he was lovely at least a dozen times. He did not answer.

“We brought in everyone we could,” Evie said for the sixth or seventh time as their taxi pulled onto their street. “I just felt it was a shame we couldn’t get one of your brothers.”

Boris rubbed his back. “India is a long way for a consular agent to come, Evie.” He got out of the taxi and walked to the apartment door. His hand froze on the door as a Slavic voice called out.

“Merry Christmas, one and all!”

Evie turned to see a man staggering along the sidewalk. The man waved at them and began singing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” as he staggered around the corner.

“How strange,” Evie said. “It’s November, too.”

Boris nodded slowly. “Quite.” He watched the man reach the end of the street and hail a tramcar.

“Are you alright, dear? You look as if you saw a ghost.”

“No. Not at all. It’s… well, for a moment there he sounded like someone I haven’t seen in some time.”

“A bit like your old friend Bela Lugosi,” Evie said. “Didn’t he die last year?”

Boris nodded. “Yes. Yes, poor Bela is gone now. So much more than a vampire actor.” He opened the door.

Evie went to bed, and Boris went to the living room. He picked up a book and a Redbook issue Evie had left on his chair. The December Redbook issue, sent several months early. The book was called The Greatest Gift. He placed them on the side table by some photographs and turned on the television. A late night movie, Plan Nine from Outer Space, appeared. Boris sighed when the opening credits announced “Guest Stars… Bela Lugosi.”

“Bela again?” He shook his head. “Dear boy, to see you reduced to this…” His eyes lingered on the photographs. Evie had asked him about them last week, saying she had found them in the back. Research she passed along to This Is Your Life team, he realized now. The first photograph showed him in a Santa Claus costume playing cards with Bela dressed as Dracula. In the next, Bela wore a Santa Claus outfit while riding a sleigh down Hollywood Boulevard. He and told Evie the photographs were from Christmas charity events sometime in the 1930s. Or 1940?

A tap interrupted his memories. Boris looked to the living room door. Nothing. He turned back to the movie. He watched Bela dressed as a funeral mourner leaving a cemetery. Then aliens appeared and declared their plan to raise the dead to invade Earth.

“Oh, dear boy, what were you thinking, appearing in this rubbish?”

“I was thinking that I could use the money, old boy.”

Boris swung his head. A man with a graying widow’s peak, dressed in a Santa Claus costume, was standing by the window.

“Bela! But you…”

“A ghost, Boris. Here to remind you of some things.”

“But how…”

Bela walked to another chair and sat down. “In a moment, Boris. First, let us watch my last performance.” The movie shifted to show a man dressed in a Dracula scaring a woman in a nighty. The man’s face was not visible, but he was a foot taller than Bela. A few scenes later, Bela appeared from behind a tree in the cemetery, waving his cape as he passed a row of crosses.

“That wasn’t you in the bedroom,” Boris said.

Bela stroked his Santa Claus beard. “A bit of recasting. Even I could not finish a movie when I died during production.” He looked to Boris. “You were not happy tonight, seeing so many old friends. Oh, you were happy to see your daughter and relive some happy memories. But you did not want people to talk about your past.”

“I did not ask them for the surprise. And I do not care to reflect on my past. Besides all the bother, what have I done, Bela? A few monster movies, a little television, some stage work. Do you really suppose anyone will remember me in a few years? When I got into the taxi tonight, the driver asked if I was that horror actor, Lon Chaney. The fellow didn’t know Chaney has been dead for nearly 30 years.”

Bela picked up the photograph of himself. “We can never know our legacies for sure, my friend. But we can know what we did with the time we had.” He stroked his Santa hat as he stared at his younger self. “I seem to remember I was drunk that night. Of course, I was often drunk after 1931. Not much work came after Dracula. I got nothing but monster roles, and rarely a good one.”

He turned in his chair. “But you did well after Frankenstein. And you were kind to me. When we were making Son of Frankenstein, you helped convince the producers to pay me more.”

“Well, you were quite good. A very memorable Ygor.”

Bela put the picture down. “Some said I upstaged the monster in that movie. Of course, you were always good in our movies together. To return that favor, I have arranged a favor with the fellows upstairs. Tonight, you will see your past, your present, your future, and see what is in store.”

Bela stood and touched Boris’s arm.

“My back. I cannot walk very…”

“We will not walk, my friend.”

Bela picked Boris up in his arms and carried him to the window. It opened, and they floated through it into Boris’s backyard. A sleigh stood on top of his vegetable plot. Eight reindeer were nosing his lemon tree.

“Enough of that, children of the night!” Bela called. Then he carried Boris onto the sleigh.

Boris did not know when they were airborne, but soon they were traveling over Spanish villas and Los Angeles apartment blocks, and then into the clouds. A pile of clouds in front of him evaporated to show a piece of English countryside.

“My gracious, I know that place,” Boris said. “Einfeld. My family lived there when I was a boy.”

“Then you know what we are going to see, my friend. A moment from when you were little more than a baby.”

Boris’ hand clenched the sleigh rail. “I have no memories of being a boy. My parents died when I was young. I do not want to see this.”

“I think you are perhaps not being honest with me, Boris.”

The English countryside became a street, and the street became a house, and the house became a kitchen. A fortyish Anglo-Indian woman sat at the kitchen table, reading from several papers. A slightly younger Anglo-Indian woman was standing at the sink, staring through the kitchen window.

The woman holding the letter spoke first. “It does not say whether he died peacefully, Eliza. Only that he died in Paris.”

“And he left nothing to me. Or for his children. Or you and your brother Edward.”

The woman holding the papers shook her head. “The lawyer says Father left his money for the poor in India. No mention of anyone else.”

Eliza kept looking out the window. “Six years since he left, and he never paid a cent of alimony. Now he dies, and not one of our nine children gets anything. If he died peacefully, it was more than he deserved.”

“Your children might hear you, Eliza.”

“Emma, last week, one of the boys called his father a devil of a man. I told him to stop, and he asked why. I could not think of a reason.” Eliza looked down at the kitchen sink. “I know he was your father, Emma. Perhaps he was a different man when he was married to your mother. But when I think of our years together, I think of him shouting and spitting on the children’s schoolwork. The day he left me, he took Richard with him without telling me. His brother found Richard in a Calais hotel and brought him back to me on a cattle boat.”

Emma folded the papers and stood. “What do you intend to do?”

“Contest the will. In the meantime, there is William to think of.”

Emma brushed her sleeve. “Are you sure you want me to take care of William? He is barely two years old.”

Eliza lowered her gaze from the window to the kitchen sink and began washing dishes. “I cannot care for him. Perhaps later, but not now. you and the older children will have to watch him for now.”

The kitchen door opened, and an Anglo-Indian toddler entered the room. He grabbed at the table to steady his bowed legs and looked up at Eliza.

“Whath… whath wrong, Mummie?”

Emma kneeled to the ground. “Not now, William. Your mother and I are speaking.”

Eliza set a dish on the drying rack and stared into the sink. “Your father is dead, William. You’re going to stay with Emma for a while.” She returned to washing.

Boris buried his face in his arms. “Take it away.”

Bela watched the clouds cover the scene. “Your mother died when you were seventeen, did she not? A sad woman dealt a sad fate.”

“I cannot stand this.”

Bela raised his hands, and the reindeer moved faster. “You left for Canada three years after your mother died, yes? To play the stage. That was when you became Boris Karloff, not William Henry Pratt.”

“I didn’t want the family to be embarrassed by me.”

Another hole opened in the clouds. Emma was older now, standing with a nineteen-year-old at a harbor. She handed him an envelope and patted his jacket. “Remember, William. Do not show the money to anyone until you get to Canada.”

Smaller holes opened, showing brief scenes. A young Boris working on a railroad, rubbing his back. A still-young Boris dressed like a lumberjack, fighting another man on a stage. A middle-aged Boris riding on a tramcar through Los Angeles.

“It was there that you met Chaney, was it not?” Bela asked.

Boris brightened up. “Yes. He gave me the best advice of my career. ‘The secret of Hollywood lies in being different from anyone else. Find something different that no one else can do or will do—and they’ll begin to take notice of you.’”

The sleigh flew past a scene of Boris dressed as an orderly, walking into an office. He fought a man to the ground. The scene shifted to Boris walking from a dressing room to a film studio commissary. As he put a sandwich and a cup of tea on a tray, a man tapped him on the shoulder.

“Mr. Whale would like to see you at his table.”

A thin, suited Englishman smoking a cigarette watched as Boris walked.

“Mr. Karloff?”

“Yes, Mr. Whale. How very good to meet you.”

Whale nodded and put out his cigarette. “I’ve been seeing your work on The Criminal Code. We’re getting ready to shoot the Mary Shelley classic, Frankenstein, and I’d like you to test—for the part of the monster.”

The scene changed to Karloff sitting in a makeup chair. Jack Pierce spoke as he applied a pair of bolts to Boris’s neck. “Now, once this is done, we will start on the body makeup. You’ll have to stand for that, and I’m afraid you can’t move much.”

Bela leaned in and watched Pierce work. “You took it very well. When I was working with him on Dracula, I would not allow him to do anything on my face except a little greasepaint. You should have seen his reaction when they wanted me to test for Frankenstein.”

“It was an ordeal. But it made my career,” Boris said.

A woman holding a little girl’s hand walked past the open door, looked inside, and covered her mouth. She tried to walk away, but the girl pulled on her hand. The girl stepped into the makeup room. She took a flower from her buttonhole and held it out toward Boris.

“Lovely child,” Bela said. “She was excellent in the picture.”

“I hated the scene where she drowned,” Boris said.

“Yes, but she was never frightened of you. Children were never frightened of you, were they? The adults ran, but children, never.”

Boris rubbed at his eyes. “I got so many letters from children saying they understood the monster.”

The sleigh began to descend, and a swarm of newspapers flew toward the two men. Boris read one as he pulled it off his face. “Universal Finds New Star.” Another paper followed. “Karloff and Bela with Lugosi in ‘The Black Cat.’”

“They had me fight you in that one,” Bela said. “I got to tie you to a rack.”

“I wondered perhaps if you enjoyed that too much,” Boris said.

As the newspapers swarmed, a new hole appeared in the clouds. Boris was dressed like an undertaker, pacing around a Broadway stage with another actor. “You shouldn’t have killed that cab driver,” the actor said. “Just because he didn’t like the way you looked. I’ve changed your face three times. You can’t complain because people are frightened this time around.”

Boris turned to the audience. “He said I looked like Boris Karloff. You did that to me!” The audience howled.

The scene changed to Boris sitting in a dressing room. A stagehand walked in carrying a garment bag. “Wonderful performance, Mr. Karloff. And you thought you didn’t belong on Broadway.”

Boris chuckled, “A lark, dear boy. Do you have the costume?”

The understudy held up the garment bag. “Yes, it’s right here. What is it, something for another horror picture?”

Boris unzipped the bag and took out a Santa Claus outfit. “Don’t call it horror, it’s distasteful. These are dark fairytales. But no. This is something for a benefit the producer suggested.”

The scene shifted to a hospital hallway. Boris dressed as Santa Claus walked through a door marked Cripped Children. A group of children with crutches and wheelchairs clapped as Boris roared, “Merry Christmas!”

Boris rubbed his eyes.

“I think you were a better Santa than I was,” Bela said. “Not as much presence perhaps. But the right heart.”

The clouds parted, and the sleigh descended toward a dark building. It passed the roof and landed in a room filled letters and monster posters. Bela picked up a letter and handed it to Boris. “You still receive fan mail, I see.” He patted Boris’s shoulder. “And now it is time for us to see something of the present, Boris.”

Bela picked up Boris and carried him through the door. They stepped into a backroom of the Roosevelt Hollywood Hotel. The sounds of Edwards talking and the band playing filtered through a large door. A knot of people stood by the door, waiting to be announced. A woman wearing a hotel receptionist uniform signaled them to step through at the right time.

The man holding the doorknobs was standing in the corner with his wife and a young boy. They were chatting with Sarah about Canada. “Hard to believe he became known for horror movies, isn’t it?” The boy’s mother said. “He’s such a nice fellow.”

Sarah chuckled, “Oh, he always tells me that he won’t call them horrors. ‘Horrors revolt. The thing to do is make them into good scary fun like Peter Pan or the Brothers Grimm stories.’”

The mother chuckled, then looked down at the boy tugging on her sleeve. “Not now,” he whispered. “We’ll get the autograph later, after Mummy and Daddy have gone through to meet him. Just wait and read your book.”

The boy looked down. “I’ve read it.”

Sarah reached into her purse and handed him a magazine. “Here, this should be fun. There’s a Dr. Seuss story in it.”

The boy accepted the magazine and nodded. “Thank-you.”

Sarah stood next to the boy as his parents went through the door. The boy reached under his seat and picked up a monster mask. He put it on his head as he opened the magazine. The December issue of Redbook. He began reading aloud. “Every who down… down in who-ville… liked Christmas…”

Bela leaned down and whispered into Boris’s ear. “He looks like one of the boys you let try on your hook when you were playing in Peter Pan a few years ago, doesn’t he?” Then Bela waved a hand at the lightbulb in the ceiling. “One last scene before the curtain falls, Boris.”

The lights went out. Boris heard footsteps clomping around and someone coughing. The light slowly returned to reveal a smaller room, a recording studio with microphones and chairs. A man with a round head wearing a bowtie was standing next to an older man with a bowed back, pointing at a script. Boris gasped when the round-headed man moved so he could see the older man’s face.

“… When is this?”

“Soon, Boris,” Bela replied. “About ten years from now, but in the grand scheme of things, soon.”

The round-headed man patted the older man’s shoulder. “Just start from there, and we will see how it goes, Boris,” the round-headed man said. “You’re sure you don’t want to finish tomorrow?”

The older Boris shook his head. “Not at all. Tell me when you are ready.”

The round-headed man nodded and walked over to a tall man watching from the producer’s booth. The tall man held a children’s picture book in his hands.

“Still nervous, Ted?”

The tall man shrugged. “He’s great, Chuck, that’s not my worry. He’s reading like he’s only lost half his lungs. Are you sure he wants to finish today?”

Chuck turned back to the older Boris. “Alright, Boris. Action.”

The older Boris coughed. He adjusted himself in the seat. Then he began to read. “Every Who down in Who-ville liked Christmas a lot. But the Grinch, who lived just north of Who-ville, did not…”

The lights darkened. A white square appeared in the middle of the room. The logo for CBS appeared on the square. Bela carried Boris to a chair in front of the square. As his eyes adjusted and he realized he was looking into a television set, Boris realized that he was not the only one in that room. Dozens, hundreds of tiny faces appeared around the square. They sat down in front of the screen. One of them, a child wearing a monster mask, sat next to the chair. A child with a flower in her dress climbed onto the chair and sat in Boris’ lap. The CBS logo gave way to the logo for Full Service Bank, and then sleigh bells rang as a cat wearing a hat appeared.

“A Cat in the Hat Presentation… Dr. Seuss’s How the Grinch Stole Christmas! Produced by Chuck Jones and Ted Geisel… The sounds of the Grinch are by Boris Karloff… And read by Boris Karloff too!”

The children wiggled their heads and sang as the animation showed characters singing Christmas tunes around a tree. They gasped as a green monster appeared. They laughed at the monster’s silly dog. They gasped as the monster stole presents and cheered on the little girl who caught him in the act. They booed as the monster kept stealing presents. They cheered as the monster changed his mind. As the lights flickered, the child on Boris’ laugh jumped off the chair. Her flower lay on his shirt sleeve.

Boris sobbed. “Thank you.”

“What was that, darling?”

Boris woke with a start. He was sitting in his chair. Evie was standing by the door.

Boris rubbed his eyes and stood. He walked to the window and opened it. Outside, he could see the early morning light shining on his garden. There were no reindeer bites in the lemon tree or sleigh tracks in the vegetable plot. He turned to Evie.

“I said, thank you. I truly mean it.”

“Are you all right, dear? You slept in your clothes.”

Boris patted his jacket and said, “I feel perfectly all right, Evie. Last night was wonderful. And Merry Christmas.”

Evie opened her mouth, then closed it. “You’re welcome, dear,” she finally said.

She walked out of the room. The sounds of a refrigerator opening and eggs being cracked came from the kitchen. Boris fingered the photograph of Bela on the side table.

“And thank you, my poor, good friend.”

Boris picked up the Redbook issue from the side table and read the cover. “How the Grinch Stole Christmas: A New Book-Length Holiday Classic for Family Reading by Dr. Seuss.”

He sat in the chair and began to read.

Historical Sources

Biographical details used in this story are taken from the following: Boris Karloff: A Critical Account by Scott Allen Nollen; Dear Boris: The Life of William Henry Pratt A.k.a. Boris Karloff by Cynthia Lindsay; Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff: The Expanded Story of a Haunting Collaboration by Gregory William Mank; A History of Horror: Frankenstein Goes To Hollywood written by Mark Gatiss and directed by John Das; Boris Karloff: The Man Behind the Monster written and directed by Thomas Hamilton. Genealogy records of Karloff’s father, Edward John Pratt Jr., his mother, Elizabeth Sarah Pratt, and his half-sister, Emma Caroline Margaret Pratt. Also, John Squires, “These Vintage Photos of Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff as Santa Claus Will Warm Your Heart,” Bloody Disgusting, December 13, 2017. Boris Karloff (as told to Arlene and Howard Eisenberg), “Memoirs of a Monster,” Saturday Evening Post, November 3, 1962. Boris Karloff, “My Life as a Monster,” Castle of Frankenstein no. 14, 1969, pp. 14–16. Frank Taylor, “Jack Pierce — Forgotten Make-up Genius,” American Cinematographer vol. 66 no. 1, 1985, pp. 33–41.