Oscar Tweed: A String of Novelettes

Novelette 2: The Perfect Cup of Earl Grey Part 2

“Nooo!” I would do anything to keep this letter from being posted. The fires of Hell seemed warm and inviting compared to shaming my school’s name.

“Quite good, Crutchley! Spoken like the living. However, in order for us to speak without otherworldly influence like this, I have a little trick.”

Tweed cranked the tiny phonograph and motioned for me to speak.

As the empty turntable spun I spoke and, like a miracle, my voice came through the horn! “Why? Why the letter?” It didn’t sound quite like me, but as if it were recorded sound.

Tweed explained, “Because there are two ways for you to speak without the use of this phonograph - one is through shame and sorrow. The issue with that method being, that you’ll sound like Jacob Marley whining away at Mr. Scrooge. Ghosts in torment always moan horribly when speaking. It’s disgusting and beneath you!”

“Oh dear. And the second way?” I asked, my voice still coming from the phonograph.

“Through pride and service. I assure you it will be painful and uncomfortable, but in the end you’ll have two voices and be able to fulfill your duties. You’ll thank me later, Crutchley, trust me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Have you understood anything up to now, Crutchley? It doesn’t matter! You need to make a choice. Shame your school and your name forever, or the alternative.”

The thing is, as a butler I didn’t have a choice. Tweed already held two forms of hell over my head, one literal and the other even worse. He mentioned pride and service--how could I refuse?

“Of course, the alternative, sir.”

Tweed nodded his head and tore the letter in half. “Good man, Crutchley.” He grabbed the phonograph, so we could continue to communicate, and headed toward my grave. He replaced my urn gently into the ground and with ancient hands filled the hole with dirt quite respectfully. Hidden behind a tombstone was the awful sign he placed above my door just a few days ago. Tweed laid the sign over the grave.

I was beginning to understand.

“Sir, am I the only ghost present? I mean to say, the only ghost in the vicinity?” I had been wondering this for a while.

“Oh, there are easily over one hundred, they are the caretakers of the manor-cleaning dusty walls, managing the topiary garden, and making the glass sparkle. I can see all of them working away.” He pointed at the manor.

This proved quite the revelation, when I first came to Tweed Manor I had no idea how a staff of three could handle an estate of this size. Ghosts, over a hundred, took care of this manor.

“But I, I can’t see them.”

“It is as difficult for a ghost to see another ghost as it is for a living person to see one. A ghost is a ghost. There is no such thing as community of ghosts unless a common fate is shared. Something like a band of slaughtered soldiers, a group of souls in a mass drowning--yet they would still only see each other.”

“So, we all go about our duty unaware of each other? Do the others have a contract with you as well?”

“Crutchley! That is my business! I suggest you mind yours. One thing I will tell you is that you are different than these hellbound caretakers. You are my fancy English butler, my valet, and some day you will serve me the perfect cup of Earl Grey! You are special, you oaf!”

“Thank you, sir!”

I took this as high praise. Tweed, quite the hard man, didn’t seem the type to give positive comments lightly. I wanted to earn that praise. The only issue was my inability to shove things around. I had a feeling Tweed wanted to help me in that department as well.