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The Skeleton’s Hand
The house was in National, in the Garnavillo area, which boasts of perhaps the richest, blackest land in Clayton County. Once a thriving community, National is now only a small gathering of houses.
But the house did—maybe still does—exist. Or so a local man says his grandfather, now dead, told him. His grandfather was a great storyteller, and this story, which happened about 1910, was one he swore was true.
The elegant, two-story, brick home and the land had been owned by a doctor before the Hans Neyerman family bought the farm. The doctor had a good practice and was by all accounts an excellent medical man. He was also a bit eccentric. Because there were few laws regarding burials then, the bodies of the poor and of criminals who died were often used by the medical profession to learn about the human body and its ailments. Somehow, during his years of medical practice, the doctor had obtained a skeleton that he insisted was that of a famous criminal. He kept this ghoulish item in an upstairs bedroom closet and frequently brought it out for his guests to view, whether they wanted to or not. He would only laugh when they cringed, saying, “It’s only the live ones you have to worry about!”
Hans and his family—wife, two boys, and three girls—bought the farm in late 1909. The doctor’s health was declining and by spring, when the Neyermans were to move in, the doctor had died. The doctor’s wife took the lovely furniture and the thick velvet drapes from the arched windows, but she left the skeleton. She had always hated it, she told Hans, and he was welcome to it.
Hans did not really want the skeleton either, but he had much to do and he could not bury the skeleton when the ground was still frozen. But he assured his wife, Augusta, that he would move it as soon as spring came. He would give the skeleton a decent burial in the small private plot on the farm.
The children at first would not go near the room at the top of the stairs. This bedroom was used as a storeroom. But, gradually, the children started to peek inside, then quickly retreat. They began to stay a little longer until they were all boldly entering the room (though only in the daytime) and playing there. All except Marie, the youngest. She was 7 and did not like the bedroom or the closet or anything in the “scare room.” In the evenings, the children would complain the room was too chilly and dark to play in, even though it was lit with candles as the other rooms were.
The family got used to the house and, despite Hans’s promises, he did not get the skeleton removed and buried. Marie had a birthday that June and wanted to have a party. Hans thought a party an extravagance, but he had a soft spot for his youngest and finally consented, promising her he would have the skeleton out before her birthday in two weeks. However, the day before the party, it rained hard and Hans couldn’t bury the skeleton.
Eight little boys and girls arrived in their parents’ buggies and wagons, the girls in long dresses and the boys in knickers. First to arrive was Karine, a fair-skinned girl with blond, straight hair. She was Marie’s best friend. Karine’s parents were Norwegian, unusual in this solid German community, and Karine was teased because of her Scandinavian accent. But today she was very happy because her mother had let her wear a special outfit. She had on a red-and-white Norwegian costume, hand-embroidered by her grandmother. Marie thought the outfit was beautiful.
After eating cake, the children played games. Never having been in the house before, they wanted to play hide and seek so they could explore this fancy home. They had also heard about the skeleton from their parents, though Marie would never talk about it.
Reluctantly, Augusta gave permission—if they were careful—and they were not to go upstairs. Marie started the game and, several turns later, she was “it” again. Even though she was not supposed to, Karine’s curiosity got the better of her and she snuck up the oak staircase. She crouched down to peer at Marie through the railing. When Marie got to “eight,” Karine slipped into the first room she saw, at the top of the stairs. The door was slightly ajar. Despite the fact that it was June, the day had become dark; storm clouds were returning. By now, Karine could hear Marie saying “10!”
In the gloomy room, Karine could see a small bed against the opposite wall. A dresser was on her left and a rag rug covered the shiny wood floor. Karine could just make out a door near the foot of the bed. As she started toward this door, thunder boomed and she jumped back. She remembered seeing a lighted candle on a table in the hallway. She ducked back out, took the candle, and set it on the dresser in the room. The soft glow made her feel better. Taking off her red cap, she set it carefully on the dresser and walked towards the closet door.
By this time, Marie had found all the other children and, giving up, hollered for Karine to come out. But Karine did not come. They quickly searched the downstairs and decided to ask Mrs. Neyerman.
Augusta started to look but suddenly spied the light under the closet door at the top of the stairs just as Karine screamed. Augusta ran up the steps, Marie and the other children following. As they opened the door, they saw Karine, white and shaking, stagger out of the closet and collapse. Augusta rushed to her and lifted up her head, instructing one of the boys to get Hans and to tell him to get a doctor.
“He grabbed me, he grabbed me. He wouldn’t let go,” Karine whispered. Her eyes rolled back and she went limp. “Who?” asked Augusta, shaking the small body gently.
“Him, Mommy,” said Marie, pointing to the closet. And there was the skeleton, long blond strands of hair in its right hand.
By the time the doctor arrived, Karine had died. The doctor said she died of heart failure. He thought she may have had a weak heart and the shock of the incident killed her. Hans removed the skeleton and buried it in an unmarked grave. Augusta locked the door to the closet and to the room. The family never used the room again.
The man who told this story does not recall the precise spot his grandfather said the house stood. The house may still be there, doors locked.
