The Skeleton Who Put Himself Together Wrong

More about The Skeleton Who Put Himself Together Wrong

At eleven minutes past midnight, Barnaby Rattlebone discovered that his left foot was a hand. What worried him was the fact that the hand waved whenever he thought about breakfast. He stood in the ballroom of Blackthorn Manor, surrounded by the wreckage of his annual Halloween party: overturned goblets, crushed party hats, confetti, and enough loose bones to make a cemetery superintendent resign. One arm was longer than the other, his right knee bent backward, and a mysterious extra rib had attached itself beneath his chin like a particularly unsuccessful bow tie. “Oh, splendid,” Barnaby muttered. “I've assembled myself from the lost-property box.” From beneath the piano came a cheerful giggle. Pip, the manor's smallest ghost, floated out wearing a purple sleeping cap and carrying a lantern. “You look different!” “Thank you. I was aiming for symmetrical.” Barnaby tried to scratch his skull and slapped himself with his borrowed foot. Pip laughed so hard that his lantern went out. The previous evening had begun innocently enough. Barnaby had invited thirty-seven supernatural acquaintances to celebrate his two-hundredth deathday. Then someone had produced a bottle of Widow Grimsby's Graveyard Punch. The label promised “one unforgettable evening.” It had neglected to mention that its contents dissolved the magical joints holding skeletons together. At half past ten, the ballroom had become a blizzard of femurs. By midnight, everyone had crawled home carrying whichever bones they could find. Barnaby had apparently reconstructed himself in the dark while humming a funeral march. “We need an inventory,” he declared. He found his anatomy handbook and opened it at the illustration of a normal skeleton. Marmalade, the black cat, sat on a velvet cushion chewing a finger bone. “Drop that,” Barnaby ordered. Marmalade stared at him with absolute contempt. “That might be mine.” The cat bit harder. Pip floated toward a chair piled with miscellaneous remains. Barnaby picked up a thighbone. It began humming a sea shanty. A shinbone trembled whenever the grandfather clock struck. He found three identical kneecaps, a jaw that recited poetry, and a rib engraved PROPERTY OF THE MUNICIPAL MUSEUM. A violent knocking rattled the front door. Before Barnaby could answer, a skull wearing sunglasses rolled across the threshold. “Where,” it demanded, “are my legs?” Barnaby recognized Mortimer Clack, the most argumentative skeleton in the county. “And whoever took my legs had better return them before the midnight waltz championship.” Barnaby glanced at his own absurdly long legs. One wore Mortimer's distinctive red ankle ribbon. “Ah.” “AH?” Mortimer shouted. “Those are my championship legs!” Barnaby looked down. His right foot suddenly began tap-dancing without permission. From the corridor came a furious voice: “That would be MINE!” Lady Ossifica entered, or rather her upper half did, propelled by a pair of tiny borrowed legs. The elegant former opera singer wore a black lace shawl and a furious expression. “Barnaby! You have stolen my dancing foot!” “Borrowed,” he protested. “Unintentionally.” “Then why is it doing my signature finale?” The foot executed a flourish and kicked the umbrella stand through a window. Lady Ossifica demanded tea, though she had no stomach to receive it. A bell rang from inside the wall. Barnaby froze. That was the sound of the Bone Collector, the supernatural official responsible for investigating anatomical irregularities. He appeared through the wallpaper in a dusty frock coat, carrying a measuring tape and a ledger bound in suspiciously familiar leather. “Routine inspection,” he announced. “Reports of unlawful skeletal redistribution.” “A misunderstanding,” Barnaby said. The Collector measured his arms. He examined the extra rib beneath Barnaby's chin. “This belongs to a horse.” “A horse?” Barnaby squeaked. Marmalade sneezed. From beneath the sofa came an indignant whinny. Sir Neighs-a-Lot emerged as a floating horse skull attached to two human arms and a chandelier chain. The Collector clicked his pen. “We have a serious case. Under the Ancient Remains Act, all mismatched skeletons must be dismantled and reassembled under official supervision.” “How long will that take?” Barnaby asked. “Six to eight centuries, depending on paperwork.” Mortimer screamed. “There must be another way,” the ghost pleaded. The Collector consulted his ledger. “There is the Voluntary Bone Exchange Procedure. All parties must identify their original parts before dawn.” Barnaby glanced at the clock. It was nearly four. They turned the ballroom into a sorting station. Pip hung lanterns above tables marked ARMS, LEGS, RIBS, and UNIDENTIFIED BUT DISTURBING. Mortimer tested every femur by attempting a waltz. Lady Ossifica identified her bones by their tendency to point dramatically toward imaginary balconies.