The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories, Volume 4 by Christopher Philippo

Author:Christopher Philippo
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Valancourt Books
Published: 2020-12-07T00:00:00+00:00

Luke Sharp

The Blizzard

Tragedy of the Man Who Interviewed His Own Skeleton

Humorist Robert Barr, Jr. (1850-1912) reportedly adopted his nom de plume “Luke Sharp” from a Toronto area undertaker’s sign. A Canadian, he was nonetheless a regular contributor to the Detroit Free Press, in which this story appeared in the December 9, 1888 issue. Barr was a friend of Arthur Conan Doyle and the first to parody him with “Detective Stories Gone Wrong, or, The Adventures of Sherlaw Kombs,” again in the Detroit Free Press, in 1892. At the time he was writing, no reader would have had the narrator’s experience of seeing his own bones, apart from a nasty break; X-rays would not be invented until 1895.

I. THE APPARITION.

John Brent was engaged in the unromantic occupation of mixing mortar with a hoe. He was not accustomed to such work, but a man who sets out to carve a fortune for himself on the plains of Dakota has to do many things that he has not been accustomed to do, or let them go undone. The stuff he was mixing could hardly be called mortar in the plasterer’s sense of the term, for lime and many of the other necessary components were lacking. The mixture was merely mud, but the pioneers thought it would do for the purpose. As Brent worked at the mud, his partner, George Wentworth, was in the bush near by cutting sticks with which, in conjunction with the mud, they intended to build the chimney of the cabin they had just completed.

The bending over was very tiring, and John straightened himself up with a sigh, to rest for a moment. An astonishing sight met his eyes. So astonishing was it that he rubbed the moisture from them and looked again. A skeleton sat on a stump looking at him, if the eyeless sockets can be said to look, and on the fallen log beside the stump sat a second skeleton with its skull resting in its bony hands, an attitude that reminded him oddly of his friend Wentworth.

“Hello,” cried Brent, when he had somewhat recovered from his surprise. “Who are you?”

“I am your own skeleton, John,” answered the apparition, “don’t you know me?”

“Can’t say that I ever had the pleasure of seeing you before,” replied John; then, feeling the bone of his arm, he continued: “And now that I do see you I don’t believe in you. My skeleton is in its place all right enough.”

“Well, perhaps I am hardly justified in saying that I am your actual skeleton. But you know queer things happen on the plains. Perhaps you have seen a mirage since you came out? Yes. Well, I am what you may call a mirage of your real skeleton. Understand?”

“Yes, I think I do. But this is so unusual, don’t you know, that I hardly—say, would you have any objection to my calling my friend Wentworth?”

“I haven’t. Perhaps his own skeleton here would like to have a talk with him,” then, turning to

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