Oscar Tweed
Novelette 2: The Perfect Cup of Earl Grey
The most challenging part of being a ghost is getting noticed by the living. They simply ignore you, unless you’re clever. You must practice, practice, practice. I am an experienced butler, perfection has always been my aim, so it was expected that I would one day become a model ghost butler. The problem remained that I didn’t know any other ghost butlers after which to pattern myself. Sadly, I hadn’t even met another ghost at all. The only eyes I knew that could see me in my current form was my employer, Oscar Tweed. He understood much about the spirit world, but he wasn’t a pleasant teacher and, at times, downright nasty.
I hovered above Oscar Tweed as he buried his nose deeper into a book. Every ten seconds or so, he looked up to me and snorted. A notion sprang to mind that he didn’t want me there looming above him in his study. Yet, oh what a charming study! Bizarre artifacts filled the wooden shelves - tiny globes, spinning metal devices to represent the stars, little telescopes, and framed insects. He also kept all of his ancient books on spirtualism, demonism, and all manner of spookiness in the study. Even as a ghost, or as one might say a ‘creature of the night’, I remained frightened of these books, but I realized that they did have a purpose.
Tweed, quite fed up with my presence, said, “Crutchley! I paid good money for you and I haven’t even heard so much as a whisper from those thin lips of yours. You just hover.”
I tried to respond, I mouthed the words, but nothing came out. I shrugged then nodded.
Tweed looked away in thought, furrowing his brow. “We need stimulus. Something to convince you to speak. It may not be pleasant.”
His devilish smile burned into me. Tweed would go to quite an extent to get what he wanted. Just an hour after my death, Tweed threatened me with the fires of Hell -- quite literally. His style proved overall effective, but very harsh.
“I’ll summon you when I’m ready. Don’t worry Crutchley, we’ll have you talking soon enough.” He shooed me away and went back to his book.
A few days ago, I had made dynamic strides toward model ghost butlership by training the tip of my finger to move the lightest of objects. I gave full credit to my precious book: Muffin’s Guide to Butlership and Service, or the MGBS for short. The book contained no advice on manipulating objects as a ghost, no not at all. It did contain, however, words on loyalty and perseverance. Proudly, I had studied the book every day since I first received it, being a ghost couldn’t stop me.
Before my death, I left the MGBS open atop the dresser as a preacher would his bible just before a sermon, luckily the staff left it untouched. Two evenings later, as a ghost, I hovered over the open book determined. I traced my finger over a passage about dental care, specifically, “Brush the denture before placing into your own, or another’s mouth.” I remember the passage verbatim because on that evening I read it over a thousand times, each time tracing my finger over the text. At approximately the twelve-hundredth attempt I heard a scratch. A few more hundred times, the page buckled. I scratched that page until it flipped to the next. I floated there victorious! The MGBS could not fail in life or in death!
I found another fantastic use for my page turning finger--mapmaking! It is an essential part of a butler’s job that he know his house from top to bottom. I needed to complete my map of Tweed Manor. I realized that my finger couldn’t move anything heavier than a piece of paper, certainly not a pen. Luckily, I found a dusty spot under a neglected green couch in the parlor room. I used the dusty floor to make my map, drawing walls in the dust with my finger. I had mapped nearly half of the massive manor and hoped to be finished soon. Daily tasks kept me sane by making me feel somewhat normal.
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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