Disclaimer: Tangled belongs to Disney. A Christmas Carol was written by Charles Dickens, and it is now out of copyright.

Author's Note: This story is AU, and there are two main differences between film canon and the back story of this fic. The first is that in the background of this fic, Eugene was not stabbed and dying when he cut Rapunzel's hair and brought about Gothel's death. The second is that Rapunzel did not have her epiphany or revelation about her birth.

Like its source, this story will be five chapters long. The rating is for the dark emotional content and one "mature" implication; I don't plan to raise it above T.

Content Warnings: General psychological darkness until the last chapter. I should warn you now, chapter 4 in particular will be extremely dark and sad. But the fic is based on A Christmas Carol, so it won't end on that note.

A Corona Christmas Carol

Chapter One: Gothel's Ghost

Mother Gothel was dead. There was no doubt about that. Eugene had personally watched her change from a sable-haired woman to a wrinkled old crone, and then, when she had fallen out the window, he had rushed over and watched as her body turned to ancient dust that dispersed even before the empty clothes hit the ground. Eugene had been astonished to watch the process of postmortem decay take place so quickly, but it indisputably was the process of decay, and he attributed its rapidity to the unraveling of a magic spell. After all, he had just broken such a spell himself by cutting off a sixty-nine-foot-long mane of formerly magical hair. The bottom line was, Mother Gothel was as dead as a doornail.

Whatever that meant. It was a saying that made no sense to Eugene Fitzherbert—or, as he had taken to calling himself once again, Flynn Rider. But, though the cause of death might have been highly unusual, there was no doubt that Mother Gothel was dead. This fact must be distinctly understood, or there will be nothing remarkable in the tale that follows.

It is said that to watch another human being die forever changes a person, and it may be taken as true for Flynn's case. He didn't like to think too much about how the woman had died. In fact, he didn't like to think too much about her at all. He wouldn't admit to himself why he preferred not to think about her, though he knew in his gut that it was not just because recalling memories of a death made him uncomfortable.

On the whole, Flynn Rider had preferred to think about a longtime favorite subject, the acquisition of money by illegal means. Even though he had held a job in a bookstore for over a year and a half now, and even though for the past six months he had only had to provide for himself and a horse, he still felt that it did not pay enough, so he liked to... supplement his income.

One Christmas Eve, Flynn was ambling back from work to his small flat. He had just picked the pockets of an aged traveler, and had done it so expertly that the old fool had not even noticed—though Flynn supposed that he likely was half blind. That, in his opinion, was merely a situation that he should exploit, rather than a cause for sympathy or restraint. Surreptitiously he brought out the coin purse that he had stolen and weighed it with his hands. It was quite heavy. Flynn knew it was heavy, but he still liked to exult in his feat.

Nobody stopped him in the street to give him the time of day. No beggars approached him, and no children teased him. But he couldn't care less. Solitude and isolation were what he had known for most of his life and all of his adult life—with one year, which he now attributed to a moment of insanity, excepted—and they were what he preferred, given the choice.

Flynn approached the building that included his flat. It was a run-down, weather-beaten brick edifice that might once have been a townhouse, but now housed a variety of mostly transient boarders, travelers—and Flynn. He had selected it because it contained a carriage house in the back, something that his horse required, and also because it was cheap. Flynn could not see the point in spending money on luxurious premises when it would entail spending all that he had every month to maintain such a style of living. Better, he thought, to hoard what he was able to save. Flynn did not go much for the idea that money has value only as a means of acquiring something else, something more personally useful. To Flynn, money had inherent value. It made him feel good to know that when he slept in his own bedchamber, he was actually surrounded by hidden money.

As he walked up the front steps, he glanced idly at the door knocker. He had looked at it a hundred times before. There was nothing remarkable about it; in fact, it was tarnished and dented like everything else in this building. But as his gaze randomly fell upon the knocker, it changed shape before his eyes to the face of Mother Gothel.

It was not the face of the old crone. It was not even the face of the violently angry young woman that Flynn had encountered in the tower. It was the face as he supposed she might have seen it, glancing benignly out at him, an expression on the woman's face that was neither a frown nor a smile.

He blinked. He looked again—and then it was a door knocker once more.

Flynn felt a chill creep down his spine, then back up it. But he immediately dismissed the stark fear with an audible scoff, stuck his key in the front door, and pushed it open.

There were no boarders or travelers in the building tonight, being as it was Christmas Eve. The aged landlady was also away from the decrepit premises, since she had a family of her own. Flynn had the building to himself, and as he let the front door shut, a clang echoed throughout the empty halls. He stopped cold for a moment as the sound faded, but when it was gone, he took a deep breath, scoffed once more, and proceeded up the dark stairs with a single lantern.

His quarters consisted of a sitting room, bedchamber, bath chamber, and storage room. He was still chilled from the memory of Mother Gothel's face, so—irrational though he deemed it—he could not settle down and relax until he had looked under his bed, under every sofa, in the half-empty wardrobe, under the table. No one was there. He checked under the loose planks in his bedroom. Sparkles of gold and silver gleamed from beneath them, the piles of money and treasure that he had squirreled away in the space between floors. No one had taken that either.

"Hmph!" he said as he locked the door to his little apartment at last and headed back to the sitting room. He lit a match and started a low, dim fire.

As Flynn felt the tension seeping out of his body at last, he happened to glance, in the flickering firelight, at a bell that hung upon the wall. It was connected to some apparatus elsewhere in the building and had apparently once been used to summon servants or perhaps to summon the occupant of the room to dinner, but it was now rusted from disuse. As Flynn's eyes caught sight of the rusty little bell, he watched in amazement and horror as it shifted to one side. Then it shifted back—and a sound rang out from it so loud that he could not believe the rusty instrument could have produced it.

Flynn leaped up out of his chair, his heart pounding. The bell continued to ring for about half a minute, but at last it ceased. Yet there was no relief for Flynn at this, for the sound was immediately followed by a heavy metallic clanking noise, as if a chain were being dragged somewhere below. Then the sound started to become louder, and the clanking took on a rhythmic pattern, as if chains were being dragged up a flight of stairs.

His resolution of skepticism, which had weakened as soon as the bell first began to ring out, was on the verge of collapse. The clanking was now right outside his door—and then, as if the door were nothing at all, it came through the heavy wooden door. The small flame that Flynn had kindled in the fireplace leapt up as if to shout, "It's the ghost of Mother Gothel!", then died again.

It was Mother Gothel, no doubt about it. She wore the same medieval-styled gown that Flynn had seen her in. Her hair was curled in rippling waves and her visage was that of the young woman rather than the old. She carried a chain, attached around her waist and draped over her shoulders. Flynn's gaze followed the links, and he noticed that attached to it were drooping six-petaled flowers, bricks, stones, and keys. Within the loops was woven an incredibly long tail of pale hair. Mother Gothel's body could be seen through, but there was no question that this shade bore her image.

"Well!" Flynn said, trying to muster up his courage, though it only came out as bravado. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

"Much," the ghost spoke. Flynn had not heard the deceased woman speak much, but what he had heard and remembered was exactly like the voice that issued forth.

"Very well," Flynn said, ignoring the rumble of fear in his gut, "but you didn't answer my first question, and that's not a real answer to my second."

"Ask me who I was."

"Fine. Who were you?"

"In life I was the woman who raised Rapunzel. You, and she, knew me as Mother Gothel."

"Wait—the woman who raised Rapunzel?"

"All will be explained," the ghost said. It then fell silent once more and regarded Flynn with piercing spectral eyes.

Flynn shivered under the ghost's glare. He felt, somehow, as if he were being turned inside out; as if all his secrets, all the thoughts of his own mind, were being laid bare. He began to tremble. "Why are you chained?" he cried, no longer making any futile attempt to hide his terror. "Why are you here? What do you want with me? I didn't know that cutting off that hair would kill you, so if you've come back to haunt me as revenge—" He broke off, shivering, rendered speechless by what was before him.

"I forged this chain myself in life," the spirit said. "I made the unique pattern it holds. You surely comprehend why I bear this chain."

"Yes," Flynn said in a shaky voice. "Bricks—stones—keys for locked doors—the hair. It's for things you did against—her."

"Correct," the spirit said. "I am doomed to walk this earth in death, never to find peace, rest, or joy again, because of the deeds I committed in life. And I warn you, Eugene—yes, I know your true name—that the chain you have forged for yourself is even heavier. What you have done against that 'her' whom you won't name is even worse than what I did against her—and there are other things."

"I did nothing against her," Flynn snarled. "Nothing compared to you. Is that what you're here for, to condemn me? I am not interested, Mother Gothel—from what I was told, you condemned her for no cause all the time."

The spirit of Gothel regarded him without wrath. "You lie only to yourself, Eugene. Your own conscience condemns you. Though you do not know the full extent of the harm you have done to her, your conscience judges you for that part you do know. Now, I cannot linger long. In my long life I limited myself to the few miles between the island and the tower, focusing solely on my own selfish goal... so in death I must wander the far corners of the earth. I am not here to condemn you. I am here to warn you—and to offer you hope. You may yet escape the same fate."

"Good to know," he said sarcastically.

"You will be visited by three spirits," Gothel continued, still without wrath.

"That's your idea of hope?"

"It is your only hope. Without them, you will walk the same path I do. The first will visit you at one in the morning. The second will visit you the following night at the same time. The third will visit you at midnight on the next night. I shall not appear to you again. Remember this. Remember me."

The ghost floated toward the window, chains in tow, and as it approached, the window opened slightly. When the spirit was standing next to the window, it was wide open. The spirit of Gothel held out a spectral arm and floated out the window into the night.

Flynn watched as the spirit grew fainter and fainter, vanishing at last entirely. Then he realized that the casement window had apparently shut itself of its own accord. The fire flickered in the fireplace. All was as it had been before. There was no sign, no indication, no proof that a paranormal visitor had been there at all—and Flynn found himself wanting very much to scoff, to deem it all humbug. But he couldn't.

He quelled the flames, dressing himself for bed almost mechanically. Whether it was from the shock and fear, or whether making contact with such a presence took a physical toll upon a person, he found that he could not hold any thoughts in his brain, and sleep seemed to be calling him. Within a few minutes he was ready for bed. Taking a single candle in hand, he headed into his bedchamber and collapsed upon the empty mattress, where he promptly fell asleep.