The Darkness of Bones Read Online Free PDF

sheets back, revealing the secret.
    Fortunately, Jack stood and then walked towards the door.
    “Dad, do you know if there was ever an old abandoned graveyard, over near Barton’s Forest? Or anywhere about, near there?”
    “Barton’s Forest? Abandoned graveyard?” Jack seemed to be thinking. “No, not to my knowledge. The nearest graveyard is Milltown Cemetery, about five miles away. But that’s still in use. Why do you ask?”
    “What? Oh—no, nothing, really. I have an essay due in two weeks, about old graveyards. I was just wondering.” Adrian felt his face tighten with redness. He hated the thought of lying but was secretly astonished at the boldness of the lie.
    Jack shook his head, seemingly amazed by the topics bestowed on his son’s generation. “Graveyards? Wish I had been given subjects like that, when I was at school. When I was a kid, many moons ago, our essays were writing about an aunt or an uncle. You kids, nowadays, have it made, with such a diverse curriculum.”
    “I know, we have such an easy time of it,” replied Adrian, sarcastically.
    Opening the door, Jack stopped abruptly. “Funny, now that you mention it, I remember being told by an old wise owl that bones
are
authors.”
    Pushing himself up in the bed, Adrian looked slightly puzzled. “Authors? What do you mean, Dad?”
    “Every one has a story to tell.”

Chapter Six
    “Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness.”
    H.P. Lovecraft,
The Outsider
    T HERE IS A small circular box in Judith’s bedroom that she keeps in plain view, near her bedroom window. Occasionally—when doubt and weakness attempt to seep into her thoughts—she will open the box, and remove a set of Polaroid photos. The photos are of a naked child—a boy—not yet in double figures. The boy’s face is partially obscured. The photos are almost black as if overexposed to light, or wrongly shot in a darkened room. Only a bold white line running up the cleft of the young boy’s scalp, mimicking the rounded valley of his buttocks, plays contrast.
    The photos have aged quite a lot since their original introduction, and unlike good wine, they have not aged well. Fading is entrenched—as are numerous tiny rips. Some of the rips are accidental; nervous fingers have caused others.
    Even now, all these years later, Judith believes she can clearly remember the photos being shot; the quick flash prior to the photos being vomited out through the thin mouth of the camera; the hand waving the photos, drying them, spreading them on the wooden table like a game of solitaire.
    She believes she can remember the boy crying, whimpering, terrified of making a noise. She believes she can remember other things, also, but prefers not to.
    Perhaps it is only her imagination telling her that she can remember such fine details, but what she needs no imagination for is the smell of unwashed skin and the darkness of a room suddenly bleached white, turning her eyes to water, and the soft voice telling the young boy that it’s better in the light. So much better.
Come and look at yourself. See how the skin glistens like stardust, my little bunny.

Chapter Seven
    “The artist brings something into the world that didn’t exist before, and
…
he does it without destroying something else.”
    John Updike,
Writers at Work
    “ E EXPRESSIONS G ALLERY”, READ the sign above the door. “Owner: Sarah Bryant. Auctions and viewing held daily. Original art paintings bought and sold.”
    Jack knew Saturday afternoon was the gallery’s busiest time of day, but what he had to say to Sarah couldn’t wait any longer.
    The entrance door was ajar, and he entered. A few seconds later and his eyes located Sarah standing adjacent to a large painting, speaking to a Japanese man. She seemed to be hugging the frame, as if desperately wanting to be in the painting. Her body movement and beaming face said an imminent sale.
    Waving at Jack, she indicted with a finger. “One