STRANGE STAGE MAGIC

It is said that Christmas is a feeling. Not a date or a tradition, but something far more elusive. Like happiness, sadness, or anger, it is different to each person, and yet somehow the same. When it finds you, often when you least expect, it doesn’t just warm the skin, it stirs the soul. And when it stirs, it carries you to memories, to moments, to chapters of life long past, or not yet written.

The room was still. Three sitters were gathered around a worn wooden table, their faces softened by candlelight. Before them stood a small cloth bag, deep green, its drawstring loose.

“I have something here,” the reader said, resting a hand on the bag, “that is exceptionally special to me. And also, rather valuable.”

He reached into his coat pocket and produced a pair of white gloves, pristine, the sort worn in archives or museums, and handed them to the sitter on his left.

“Would you mind putting these on?”

She obliged, sliding the gloves over her fingers. The bag was gently opened, and with the care of someone retrieving a relic, she reached inside and withdrew a small hardback book. Its cloth cover was worn with age; the gold foil lettering, just barely legible in the light, read ‘A Christmas Carol’.

As she held it, a faint scent rose from its pages. It was the unmistakable perfume of age: old paper, dried spice, and distant memory. She caught her breath slightly.

“That,” the reader said, pointing gently, “right there, that’s the feeling. I don’t know where exactly that took you, perhaps a Christmas long past, but undoubtedly, your past.”

He took the book from her gloved hands and opened it with reverence. As if reciting a rite, he spoke clearly and without affectation:

“Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.”

He paused, letting the line breathe in the silence.

“This isn’t just my favourite ghost story,” he said. “It’s my favourite story of all time. My grandfather used to tell it to me when I was small. Every December since I was grown, I’ve read it all the way through, every single year.”

The sitters watched as he turned the pages.

“Most people don’t know this,” he continued, “but Dickens wasn’t just a writer, he was also a conjuror. A performer. And in some strange way, he captured real magic in these pages.”

He closed the book and rested it gently on the table.

“It’s said the book was designed to give answers. Answers to the past, the present, and the future. A book of guidance. A book of… clarity. It was made to be elegant, small enough to fit in a pocket so you could carry it with you. And when the moment came, you’d open it, and find what you needed.”

He looked at the three of them.

“I’d like to try that now.”

He turned to the sitter nearest him. “I’d like you to think of a question about your past,” he said, then to the next, “and you, one about the present,” and finally to the third, “and you, perhaps the most important of all, something about your future.”

The third nodded slowly.

The reader picked up the book again and said, “Because we’re dealing with the future, we’ll start from the back. These final pages, that’s where the future lives.”

He held the book sideways and began to flick through the final chapters, the pages whispering against his thumb.

“Say ‘stop’ whenever the moment feels right, but try to stop me before I reach the middle.”

“Stop,” the sitter said quietly.

The reader halted the motion, not revealing the open pages just yet.

“In a moment, I’m going to hold up the book,” he said, “and I’d like you to look at either page. Find a word that feels right to you. Something that represents your question, just one word.”

He paused, eyes glinting slightly.

“But, before I do, I should warn you. This is the end of the story, after all. Nearly every page here has Scrooge crying out that he’ll change, so words like ‘change’, ‘weep’, ‘crying’ etc. are going to jump out. Try to avoid the obvious ones.”

A smile.

“‘Christmas’ and ‘Spirit’ appear a lot too, no surprise there. And, ah, so does the word ‘grave.’ Not that I’d expect you to choose that word about your future.” He chuckled lightly. The others did too, albeit a little nervously.

The book was turned toward the sitter. They leaned forward, reading silently, and after a moment, nodded once. They had their word.

“Did you go for a long word?” the reader asked, as he gently closed the book.

The sitter shook their head.

“No matter,” he said. “We can work with that.”

From the same bag as the book, the reader withdrew an envelope. Inside were three bookmarks, modern and unassuming. One was handed to the future sitter.

“Slip this in where you stopped, please.”

They did so.

The reader handed the remaining two bookmarks to the other sitters.

“You,” he said to the present sitter, “place yours somewhere in the middle.” Then to the past sitter, “And yours near the beginning.”

Each did as instructed.

“Now,” the reader continued, “go back to your page. Find a word, just one, that speaks to your question.”

He turned to the present sitter.

“And if you would, look at the top sentence of either page. Try to remember its imagery, its tone. As much detail as you can.”

The sitters sat silently, absorbed.

The reader turned first to the one who had marked the past.

He studied them, tilting his head slightly.

“There’s something here,” he murmured. “Something you carry still. A thing unfinished. I see… snow. A hallway. A door never opened. A voice not heard for a long time.”

The sitter blinked.

Then he leaned in and whispered something directly into their ear.

The sitter gasped, and then said nothing. Only nodded. Whatever had been shared, it would remain private.

“Even so,” the reader said gently, straightening, “we mustn’t dwell. The past has had its say. The present, well, that’s where we still have power.”

He turned now to the middle sitter.

“The word you saw,” he asked, “would it have meant something very different if you’d read it as a child?”

The sitter considered, then nodded slowly.

“Yes. Very different.”

The reader smiled faintly.

“I thought so, this may be why the text you read pertained to a child. A feeling of absence. Cold. And, an old building. Not a home… a workplace, perhaps. The counting house?”

The sitter’s breath caught. The details were aligning.

“Your question,” the reader said, “was about now. But the answer, I think, reached a little further back than you expected.”

After revealing more details, he should not have been able to know, he finally turned to the sitter who had marked the future.

“No one sees what lies ahead,” he said. “Scrooge saw a future, yes, but it was only one version. A possible one. The future is simply a consequence of our actions and subsequent choices in the present.”

He looked down at the book.

“This book,” he said, tapping its cover, “is especially valuable. Not just because of its age. But because it contains a misprint. Several, in fact. And one of them… one of them is unlike any other.”

He gestured to the sitter.

“Please. Open to your bookmark.”

They did, and stared.

The words were gone.

Gone.

The image was there, yes, one they vaguely recognised from earlier, but the text, the lines that should have filled the page, were missing. They turned page after page, searching for the duplicate. There was none.

The others leaned in, whispering. No one could quite explain it.

“We spend so much time fixating on the future,” the reader said quietly, “we sometimes start to see it before it even exists. But the truth is, it can’t exist. Not yet. Not until we give the present its due.”

He pointed to the bookmark still held in the sitter’s hand.

“There’s something on the back. Would you read it, please?”

The sitter turned it over and read the words aloud.

Their voice trembled slightly.

The message was personal. Astonishingly relevant. Somehow, impossibly, it fit.

The room fell silent once more.

And then, with a soft smile, the reader spoke the final line of the night:

“I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach.”

 

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Introducing Christmas Presence — The Spirits of All Three

This is the closest thing to real magic I’ve ever created.

From the moment your sitter opens the green velvet bag, they are transported, not just to Christmas Past, but to their past. Within the pages of Dickens’ ghost story lies a complete system for meaningful, accurate readings that feel authentic, personal, and impossible.

Thanks to a beautifully simple technique shared (with generous permission) by Michael Wilson, you’ll be able to give confident, insightful readings within minutes. This single method changed everything for me, and it will do the same for you.

A Book Worthy of the Story

Created in collaboration with Haresign Press, the book has been produced with obsessive attention to detail. The cloth, the brasses, the gold and blind embossing, the gilt edges, every element has been chosen to look and feel truly original. I genuinely believe this is the closest anyone has come to a faithful early edition. Each copy is printed on the very same machine used for the first editions of a certain boy wizard, albeit with a few unorthodox adjustments made in pursuit of authenticity.

More Than a Book Test

Hidden within the pages are the 22 Major Arcana, in fact, they appear twice, allowing you to perform readings “face up” or “face down” like a true oracle. The book also includes a new method for ‘locking’ the pages, subtle hits you can reveal at will, and an expanded cold reading framework designed for real-world performance.

Christmas Presence can be performed for a group or used one-on-one exactly as you would use a deck of Tarot cards. It’s more than a reading. More than a book test. It’s an oracle you’ll honour in your heart and perform it all the year!

What You Receive

Both editions include:

• A four-way-out Chandaulope (festive red finish) with very kind permission from Mark Chandaue

• A set of custom printed bookmarks you’d likely get from a bookstore or the Dickens Museum

• A printed booklet covering the routine, methods, and cold-reading system

• A red presentation box with gold lettering

• A digital copy of Michael Wilson’s cold reading lecture, Stereotypes Exist For A Reason

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The Editions

The Collector’s Edition (Limited to 50 copies)

An aged, early-edition variant designed to look and feel like a museum piece. Each copy is hand-treated with age-appropriate distressing, a period-correct scent, and arrives with:

• Certificate of Authenticity

• Green velvet bag

• White museum gloves

• A stick of cinnamon to mask the decay of old paper

Perfect for parlour or stage when you want something truly and beautifully bizarre.

The Performer’s Edition 

Originally intended to be released only in aged form, the un-aged version proved too beautiful to withhold. This edition is pristine, ready to sit unnoticed on a shelf until the moment of performance, and carries a subtle scent of Victorian Christmas long past.

Combined Edition 

Both editions together at a substantial discount.

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Note: Although not strictly needed, one inexpensive additional item (available on Amazon) is required for the full routine. Most performers will likely already own one.

If you purchased the Collector’s Edition earlier this year and would like the Performer’s Edition, message me for a discount code equal to the Combined Edition pricing difference.

Thank you once again for supporting my work. May your holidays be full of warmth, cheer, and ghost stories.