“I apologize for the meanness of my hospitality,” said the old man. “But it is quite the process to serve a spirit a hospitable high tea, as they deserve.”

“Tell me, what is the long and short of it?” the shade inquired, politely.

“Well, first, I would need the ghost of a teapot. Surprisingly difficult to procure. One might think that all teapots that have been tossed out in the rubbish would have ghosts, but no, as long as they still work in the slightest there is no spirit that has left them.”

“Suppose you took a teapot and destroyed it,” offered the spirit.

“Aye, that would do it,” agreed the old man. “But that would bring about a vengeful ghost of a teapot, you see? It would be disquieted, resist the pouring. Perhaps even evil. No, we’ve to find a teapot that breaks after a long life of warmth in a loving home, but one that isn’t for the rubbish. That’s rare enough. But even then, not every teapot rises after it has poured its last.”

“You speak with great authority,” the spirit observed.”

“Aye, well, for many years it had been my pleasure to serve a spectral high tea to those spirits that found their way here. That is, until an infernal poltergeist broke my ghost teapot.”

“If I may,” the spirit inquired, “from whence does the ghostly tea come?”

“That’s a long tale for a strong stomach,” the old man laughed. “I’ll tell it, but believe you me when I say you’re better off not knowing.”

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