The Butler

Butler of this house was once more than just a character I played. This uniform I wear was once more than a costume. There were once parties, social events, a social standard to which we adhered. Now, only one night each year does the bell chime as it once did. Tonight, they will swarm the famously haunted mansion of Hallowed Hill. Tonight, the bell which has rung twice all year will ring many times. And I will answer.

The house looks the same to me as always. It is still the grandest, the oldest on the street by decades. The world changes around it, while it attempts to stand stubbornly outside of time. I still imagine the tire swing in the back, on the barren, cracking tree, where we used to play as children. Before my father passed the role of butler on to me. Before your mother would have passed the role of mistress of this house to you, if she had ever had the chance. Even then, we were the last of our dying breeds. 

As ever, there are preparations that must be made. My slacks must be pressed, my shoes shined, my gloves bleached again. Music must be chosen, refreshments procured. And the decorations, as ever, must be perfect.

The goal may seem the opposite, but in truth, it’s exactly the same. It always was about playing a part, about the impression we wanted to leave upon our guests. As you always loved, I will make sure they leave thinking of us exactly as they did when they came. 

To that end, I leave the thorns untrimmed, the steps creaking, the cobwebs fogging the porch. I prop the front window open, letting the leaves blow in, the long branches scrape, and moon chase shadows down the hall. I plug in the broken lamp, inviting it to buzz and flicker. The cat will look much less sinister once she has been bathed and trimmed. That will happen tomorrow. 

I affix the finishing touch. The old “help wanted” sign, found in a forgotten box, then ripped in half so that only the word “help” is left. I tape it to the inside of the basement window, under a broken board, facing the street. This was your idea, once. I must admit, it was quite clever. It gives me a start, even now, the same as the first time I saw it there. 

I wait for the townsfolk to arrive with their pitchforks and pillowcases. I play my violin in the front room. The wind roars tonight, and I believe it carries the notes to you.

The dark clouds in the distance are full of empty threats, holding off the rain, but none of tonight’s visitors. It’s for the best. Tonight is the most important night of the year, the most necessary of evils. It protects your image from the inquisition, from the truth. I protect the pure memory they have of you. They would twist and sully the truth, the way they sully solitude, and decorum, and the lawn.

Their conclusions are ridiculous. Part of me wishes to tell them this, but I refrain. In fact, I do the opposite. I lean into the macabre. I work hard, as ever, to give them what they want, to make them believe it, so that you live on in their memories.

Tonight, they remember the story, as they have heard it, and repeat it to any who may have escaped its reach. They believe you haunt this house. They whisper this foolishness to each other in the streets, tonight more than any other.  

They blame a shrouded, star-crossed affair. They say you ran, that you must never have made it out of the woods surrounding the city. I still have nightmares that we are lost there, that I am looking down at blood on my gloves. 

Sometimes I dream I took you away from this place. That we are hidden in the open, far away somewhere—on a ship, in a tent, in a cave. Anywhere no one would know us. Anywhere with no intrusive front door. 

And yet, its bell rings. 

The children old enough to approach unaccompanied dare each other to ring the bell, to speak. The parents of small children take their selfies from a safer distance, unsure how much of the transmundane to believe.  

“Good evening,” I greet them. “May I take your coat? Your hat? Your ghoulish mask?” 

They blink at me, hardly remembering to utter “trick or treat,” perverted politeness as even that would be. I offer them their treats anyway. They all but literally eat out of my hand. 

I lift the silver dome from the good serving tray. I did not bother dusting it off. I offer an assortment of small, hard candies, which I chose thoughtfully. 

They are pieces of practicality, masquerading as decadence. Enduring, lingering in mouths, or leftover in bags in the basement until next year. They are the bone texture of reality, literally sugar coated and wrapped in a bright foil disguise, so brazen as to feature printed words that tell me exactly what it wants me to believe it to be.

And if one of these grim little reapers were to choke, it would be none of my nevermind. Some of them take two, or even three. They are greedy miniature monsters. But you and I understand a little something about greed, don’t we? 

But how could destiny be greed? Wait for me, my love. Soon we will be together again. 

The groups file forward, one after the next. There is a bloody bride, to whom I take great offense. There is young couple dressed as Catherine and Heathcliff, who have, I’m sure, had to explain their costumes all night. But I understand them. You would have, too. I can save time describing any of the rest to you, as they were all the same. 

The house does its work. The victrola scratches. The old pipes let out quiet wails. The sounds coming from the basement join in the harmony. They don’t matter tonight. They mix with the chill in the air, adding to the effect. The visitors take their videos, harvest their evidence to attempt to prove the haunting. It’s all so absurd. 

If I cared to, I could prove they are all wrong. If it served you, the way you truly deserve, I would. This house is not haunted by your ghost. It’s simply not possible. I know this, not because I am any authority on apparitions, but because I am an authority on you. I always was.

I know, because if the powers in their plastic rings were real, if their crude, fitted-sheet ghost costumes truly allowed them to transcend the walls and descend the basement stairs, if they could be real glittering butterflies on these walls tonight, they would see. They would bear witness, as I carry my tray, bringing down your soup. They would listen, as I read you the next chapter in our story.