Oscar Tweed: A String of Novelettes

Novelette 2: The Perfect Cup of Earl Grey Part 1

I zoomed over to the parlor room to begin working on my map, then I heard the staff speaking.

“It’s such a shame about poor Mr. Crutchley,” said Ms. Hobbs.

“It sure is. We only knew the fella for a single day, but he seemed nice enough,” replied Mr. Teeker.

“What I don’t understand is why Tweed had the morgue burn the body? It don’t seem like something ol’ Tweed would do, him ownin’ all those coffins.”

“Maybe it was in Crutchley’s will or something like that. He did seem like the type of fella who would pocket his own will in case he keeled over. He was polite like that.”

My body, with its tall thin frame, pointed nose, and disgusting feet had been burned to ash? This news disturbed me and I had more questions for Mr. Tweed. Was I not good enough for a coffin?

“I dunno, Mr. Teeker, something doesn’t seem quite right. Come let’s head over to the graveyard. I’ll collect Tweed.”

About half an hour later, Tweed, all dressed in black, made his way down the stairs with Ms. Hobbs. I cowered as they walked over the spot where my neck broke, killing me instantly. It barely counted as a funeral procession, with only three people, yet there they were - the staff and Tweed. My friends had no time to come from England and no one knew me, but these three. I’m sure I wore a broken face because Tweed looked up at me, rolled his eyes, and then sneered. Knowing what he knows about the afterlife, he must think funerals are a waste of time.

The three entered the graveyard located behind the manor. The graveyard hosted a nightmare filled with crows, tombstones, and death. Even as a ghost I remained mortified of the place. The rubble of tombstones littered the path. Uneven hills, spanned well into the horizon, covered with broken crucifixes. The wooden crosses rotted much like the bones buried beneath. The poor were buried there, only able to afford wood instead of stone. I looked up to dark clouds and heard the rumble of thunder. In my few visits to the graveyard, the constant morose atmosphere persisted as a grandstand play of fright.

The one calming feature was a large canal zigzagging through the grey hills of the cemetery. The water contained no life except algae giving it a beautiful green cast. I noticed it flowed under the manor, why, I had no idea. Not wanting to get a verbal thrashing from Mr. Tweed for poking around in the canal, I elected to stay with the group. I could investigate it later and, after all, it was my funeral.

After passing six or seven rows of neglected tombstones they arrived at what I assumed was my plot. Smooth dead grass covered the ground and on top laid an austere urn. Mr. Teeker dug a hole about two feet deep.

“Should we say a few words?” Ms. Hobbs asked.

“No,” replied Mr. Tweed. He then kicked my remains in the hole.

The pain and utter disrespect for my position made me cry out in agony! Mr. Teeker look frightened and dropped his shovel.

“Did you hear that, Ms. Hobbs?” asked Mr. Teeker.

“Yeah…it sounded like…Crutchley.”

Both Ms. Hobbs and Mr. Teeker backed off as Tweed scoffed at me. He made a shooing gesture and the frightened staff quietly returned to the manor.

“Good, Crutchley, nicely done. At least it was noise, but we aren’t quite there, are we?”

Tweed’s statement proved correct. Even though I wailed earlier, at this point, I couldn’t utter a word.

“Fear and sadness are sloppy motivators. They’re strong though. You’re afraid of this graveyard aren’t you, Crutchley?”

I nodded. The graveyard conjured notions even a ghost didn’t want to entertain.

“Good. Perfect. Look around you, Crutchley, you aren’t like most of these dead people. Remember, only your bones are ash, not your soul, you’re quite fortunate. The others? Well, they’re not always so lucky. Do you know that I’m able to see all their fates?” Tweed gestured to a row of nearby graves.

I looked upon the graves, some ancient, dating back to eighteenth century. Those corpses had tombstones, at least some dignity. My ashes were thrown aside, kicked into an open hole.

Tweed pointed a bony finger at a large slab of granite. “This tombstone, for example, the one that reads ‘Tallulah Knightingale,’ I precisely remember the fear in her eyes as fire-eyed demons tore her soul to pieces. Her bones remain white and pristine in the ground, but her soul has become ash. She earned her place in Hell. But not you, Crutchley. You’re too pure, but despite your true soul, I have the power to trick the demons into thinking you belong in that fiery pit, or I could do worse.”

Worse? What could be worse than being ripped to shreds by atrocious demons? Tweed beckoned me to follow and began walking to the center of the cemetery to a ramshackle wooden building. Old and dilapidated, it fit right in with the rest of the graveyard. Within the tiny broken building were four items of note: a quill, a stack of letters, a table, and a phonograph. Tweed touched one of the letters gently and said, “worse.”

I looked at the letters. Three of the letters were condolences to be sent to friends and family. The fourth letter made me gulp! It was addressed to Muffin’s! I began reading.

To the wretch that sent me Crutchley,

After enjoying a cruise that I paid for, Crutchley made his disgusting appearance. When we were introduced he was drunk. Drunk on my whiskey!

I put him on probation, reminded him ‘to be of service’ , but the drunken fool fell to his death before completing even one day on the job.

Enclosed are three bills: for his cremation, clean up from the bloody staircase, and five ounces of my best whiskey.

Sincerely,

Oscar Tweed

======Author's Note=====

This chapter is dedicated to Tallulah Knightingale - she won a "who wants to be a dead person in my story" contest.  Congrats Tallulah!

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