The Bone Collector

(2'017 words.)





The summer of 72 came flooding back.
My parents and I paid a visit to a farm on the East Coast. My aunt and uncle lived there and although I knew them as relatives, they were actually family friends and two of the nicest people anyone could wish to meet. My parents had known them since their childhood years.
We arrived mid-morning, exchanged pleasantries, deposited our bags and were then treated to lunch. My aunt was a large boned lady, who wore blue-framed glasses, had a great smile and was always pleasant. And when she set a table, boy did you know about it. Dinner was so big you didn't know whether to eat it or climb it.
Afterwards, my parents went home and I stayed for the weekend. Left to my own devices I quickly realised there's never a shortage of things to do or places to investigate on a farm for a ten year old.
I spent most of my time in the barns and the old air raid shelters, tending to the host of stray cats, continually running backwards and forwards with saucers of milk for the little ones.
One barn was a particular favourite: a huge dome shaped building consisting of two or three separate rooms. The timbers were old and creaked and the roof needed renovating but to me it had a strange, yet inviting atmosphere.
I met up with my uncle who was repairing one of the tractors. He was about sixty with a tanned complexion: a face that was strong and firm and full of character with enough laughter lines to make a map. He had thinning white hair. His right hand was missing a couple of fingers.
And a voice I'll never forget, mellow and soothing.
While he was working and talking I roamed the barn as usual, thinking I was The Saint, or James Bond. I suddenly came across a pile of old bones that I suspected the dogs had been chewing on. But having said that, they appeared to have been laid out with a purpose: an outer layer formed a circle with the shape of a cross placed inside.
I turned. 'Uncle Albert, why are there so many bones around the farm? And you said you were going to tell me about that skull you have in the living room '� you know '� the one in the glass case.'�
My uncle glanced at me, placed his tools on the floor, wiped his hands on an oily rag and sat down on a huge tree stump. From where I stood, his wellington boots fitted all the way up to his neck.
'Do you really want to know?'�
'Yeah!'� I shouted eagerly, sitting on the other side of the tree stump, inhaling the aroma of pigs that were somehow constantly ingrained into his clothes.
He draped his arm around my shoulders. 'You're a rum lad, you are,'� he said, laughing. He picked up a pipe, lit it and then glanced down at me again. 'You'll probably grow up to write ghost stories with that imagination of yours '� so here's one for your collection'�'�
The pungent smell of smoke added to the eerie atmosphere as he began to recite.
'Lots of farms and manor houses keep a skull on display. It's usually someone that lived there and insisted that it be done when they die. The luck of the house and the family were said to depend on its presence, and if anyone tried to move or bury it, it would either come back on its own, or cause violent and noisy haunting until replaced. Or'�'�
'Or what, Uncle Albert,'� I asked, impatiently
'Or '� something bad happened.'�
I wondered what that meant '� how bad?
My uncle continued. 'At Bettiscombe Manor, near Lyme Regis in Dorset, the skull is supposed to be that of a Negro slave, angry at not being sent home for burial. At Burton Agnes Hall just down the coast road there, it's said to be the youngest of three sisters in Elizabethan times, who on her deathbed made her sisters swear to keep her head on a table so she could see the Hall completed. And the famous 'Dicky' of Tunstead Farm in Derbyshire, already installed in 1790, is said to have been a rightful heir in Elizabethan times, murdered by his cousins and buried in the grounds.
'In fact'�'� he leaned in closer here and whispered, making me shiver. ''�at Warbleton Priory in Sussex there are supposed to be two, the former owner and his murderer.'�
I turned and glanced around the barn. It seemed colder, and I could hear every noise. I swear even the spiders were wearing boots.
'Who does your skull belong to, Uncle Albert?'�
'A man called John Beckett. In the summer of 1872, Beckett used to travel up and down the east coast, village to village, offering a sharpening service to all the local farmers: tools and gardening implements mostly. For what he offered the pay were small; coppers, a meal every now and again, but always a choice selection of animal bones. Beckett used to take these and make his own soup. He had very little else, perhaps only the clothes he stood up in, and they varied from week to week depending on his luck.
'John Beckett's day of reckoning were a bad one. In fact, it were hundred years to this day when it all happened. That day the weather were sweltering and Beckett had laboured hard. The farmer had little time for him because his wife were ill and he believed she were dying. He didn't trust hospitals or doctors and thought he were doing right by keeping her at home.
'It was obvious to Beckett that the old farmer couldn't cope. Beckett went out into the barn and collected a pile of old bones, which he boiled with a selection of herbs and made the woman drink the remedy. By nightfall, all trace of her fever had disappeared and although the farmer's wife were still weak her colour had returned.
'So grateful were the farmer that he offered Beckett a permanent job with lodgings. Beckett declined and said he would rest in the barn overnight and be away in the morning. Both were proud men and respected each other's decision.'�
Uncle Albert drew deeply on his pipe and let the smoke rise high into the barn. I loved the smell. Wherever I was, that smell always reminded me of uncle Albert.
'What happened next?'� I asked.
'Midnight came and Beckett awoke to a rustling sound. He jumped up and came face to face with a madman from the local lunatic asylum, approximately three miles outside the village. The escapee brandished a sword, and accused the tramp of stealing his wife. As Beckett raised his arms to protest, the prisoner sliced off his hands. Beckett bled to death before anyone found him. The prisoner were never caught and the hands were never found.'�
Poor Beckett, I thought, all because he was helping someone.
'Why do you keep the skull, Uncle Albert?'�
'The skull were here when we bought the farm. It's been in the house ever since it happened. Every farmer has passed it on because it's believed that Beckett's ghost can pass on information. You see, skulls were used in traditional cures, usually for epilepsy but sometimes also for headaches and plague; either water were drunk from them, or fragments were grated into food. If you scrape moss from an old skull it's supposed to staunch bleeding; a tooth from one cured toothache.
'In the 1880's, a woman who's husband had left her tried to buy from a chemist a substance called 'Oil of Man', made by distilling the skulls of hanged men, believing that by burning it she would call him back.'�
'Did it?'� I asked, in all innocence.
'I don't know, son,'� he laughed.
I stood up. My back was starting to itch. I wasn't too keen on that story. But I still had to ask. 'Where did all this happen, Uncle Albert?'�
He turned and stared hard into my eyes. 'Why '� here '� of course.'�
My stomach turned and I didn't know where to put myself. He must have noticed how frightened I was because he suddenly started laughing.
'Now you run along and play and let me sort this tractor out before your Aunt Mary sorts me out.'� He picked up his tools. 'And one more thing, make sure you're never caught in the barns after dark.'�
Before I left the barn I turned and asked him something else: 'What happens if you are?'�
'John Beckett's ghost is said to haunt the barn, still looking for his hands. If he catches you, you have to make a trade with him to save your life: you'll have to offer him a hand ... your own hand!'�
Spooked, I ran out of the barn quickly. There was no way I would be in the barn at night. I didn't believe him anyway; he was a great storyteller, my uncle.

That night I found myself extremely restless, and before long I was in the barn, searching around the old tractor, seeking out the pile of bones, thinking I was braver than James Bond because even he wouldn't be here.
And then, in a dark corner I heard someone whistling a tune. I didn't know who it was and had no desire to find out.
I picked up one of the bones, when suddenly, the entire barn lit up.
'Take my bones, would you, sonny?'�
My head shot upwards and I froze at the sight before me: a giant of a man dressed in a pair of old brown overalls. He had huge bulbous eyes, which threatened to leave their sockets; a stump for a nose, and it constantly dripped; a large mouth with nicotine stained teeth, and rotten breath that almost made me sick.
But the sight that I'll never forget were the missing hands: just bloody stumps.
'Well..?'� demanded the rasping voice.
I threw the bone as hard as I could. In a blind panic I turned and ran straight into the tractor, smashing my shin into the wheel.
As I fell over, the Bone Collector jumped on top of me.
I was suffocating.
I started screaming before I realised it wasn't the Bone Collector but my uncle, trying to calm me down. I knew that because I could smell the pigs and the pipe, even in his pyjamas.
'Hey, come on, lad.'� He took me in his arms and gently rocked back and forth with me. 'It's only a dream, you're all right now '� I've got you.'�
I was so relieved I started to cry.
'You're okay,'� came the soothing voice.
My aunt Mary came in and then she cradled me and kissed the top of my head. Eventually she laid me back down and covered me with blankets.
My uncle lifted up the skull. 'I'll put it back, shall I?'�
'I didn't mean any harm, Uncle,'� I said, still shaking.
'I know you didn't.'� He smiled, a reassuring smile. 'I did tell you not to move it.'�
Relieved but embarrassed I turned over to and tried to settle into sleep.
***

I stared down at the hospital bed, a tear meandering down my face.
My ten year old son lay there, his left arm swathed in bandages. The accident happened a couple of days ago '� at the farm. It was early evening and the peace had been broken by an almighty scream. My son came running out of the barn holding his left arm, blood spurting.
We rushed him to the hospital. There was nothing they could do for his left hand because we simply couldn't find it.
But the haunting part came when he finally regained consciousness. I needed to know what happened. He implored me with those big round, sorrowful eyes, and said.
'It was the Bone Collector, daddy, he says you still owe him.'�

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...