Well, this is my second one.
[/b][/i]~~The Bagpiper~~[i][b]
The high pitched sound emanated from the bagpipe the young lad squeezed nervously. Baron Ogilvy reclined in his ornate chair, nodding his head, a subtle smile forming on his face. Pure blissful bagpipe notes, something the foolish English would never understand.
'Well Skelton, you can take Bailiff's post of piper. Insolent man could never play such a fine tune.' the great grey-bearded Lord bellowed in his commanding voice. 'Arundel see to his sleeping quarters.' he said, turning to his Castle Steward.
'Yes your Lordship.' Arundel muttered sullenly.
Skelton felt excited, elated. Finally he had procured the job. As he left the magnificent red carpeted Grand Hall, he slipped off, heading towards the Castle's massive entrance. As the shallow-faced youth ran to nearby Harwick Town, the castle's battlements seemed to frown sternly at him...
The thick tobacco smoke hit Skelton's nose like a cannonball as he entered the tavern. Intoxicating. The Pilgrim's Sickle--a place for all sorts of smugglers, thieves, cheats and murderers to gather. You could buy a man's death here it was said.
A dark hooded man signaled at him with a gauntlet clad hand. Skelton scurried over, nimble as ever. 'Have you gotten the job?' the man whispered with a thick Yorkshire accent, aquamarine eyes darting around. Skelton sat down on a stool unhurriedly.
'Yes.'.
The man's eyes glinted with joy, the gauntlet hand swiftly withdrawing into the dark depths of his robe. 'Excellent, the Duke would certainly be pleased. Now for you to gain Ogilvy's absolute trust. This is the plan...'
From that day on, Baron Ogilvy would often ask Skelton to play his bagpipe. Day and night, the sharp notes would hover over Berkeley Castle. The Baron was contented and so was Skelton. But the Baron had made many bitter enemies over the years, including the powerful Northern English nobles...
The cannon roared and ripped chunks of stone from the castle. The neighing of horses and clash of claymores against swords drowned out the shouts of men being struck down. Berkeley Castle was under siege.
'Hah, the pathetic English will never defile Berkeley Castle!' Ogilvy snorted heatedly. 'Let the Duke of Northumberland try all he wants! These walls built by my ancestors will never crumble!'
Once nightfall came, as the smoke twirled lazily from the English camp, Skelton crept softly up to the highest tower in the castle, bagpipe in hand. Looking down at the hard unforgiving bed of limestone at the foot of the castle, he began to blow his bagpipe... The change of guards was
beginning...
The English, hearing the sought after signal, took to arms and rushed at the castle. With their iron rams, they battered down the oak door reinforced with wooden beams. Screaming, they charged in, massacring defenders. Arundel, hearing this counterattacked; scores of grim leather-armored men with cruel knives following his orders. The English for all their preparedness had forsaken their armor to accomplish a quick strike. Skelton's malevolent line of a smirk faded, eyes widening in horror. Suddenly he felt a gloved hand clamp down on his mouth, a great mace descended. Darkness followed...
The next day, as the English host fled, bloodied and panicking, Ogilvy famous for his Latin temper had the piper brought before him from his cell.
'Arundel! Dispose of this filthy traitor!' the Baron screamed, white foam frothing at his mouth, shaking with rage.
'As you wish my Lord. Guards!'
Bright knives flashed in the light, striking the piper's wrists, biting into them like voracious wolves, piercing the terrified Skelton's arms. The blood flowed plentifully in two rivers from the stumps where the piper's hands were, staining the crimson carpet. Guards grabbed him, roughly carrying him up to the tower where he had played his final tune...
'So you really love to play the bagpipe do you?' Ogilvy hissed. 'Well now you can forever!' The young piper shrieked as he was flung down the battlements, the ground rushing up at a terrific speed...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'Aye my lad so that was the story the Baron told us happened 600 years ago.' The foreman growled. 'If you ask me it's all hogwash, something Ogilvy just conjured up.'
Marshston, the new worker nodded. The renovation on the castle was in its critical stages, he just wanted to get home, let alone learn some useless history of this godforsaken hellhole of a place.
'Right boys, let's get down to business.' Gaidar the foreman spat, pulling on his red glove. Ever so proud of it Gaidar was. Rumor had it he had filled it up with Vaseline to keep his hand soft.
'Get started,less that old crackpot of a Baron starts complaining again!'
Marshston quickly started up his jackhammer, pounding the stone floors with it. 'Stupid story.' he thought; it gave him the creeps. Just then, a loud cry was heard from the kitchen. 'Gaidarrrrrr!'
'Alright which one of you young weaklings shouted!' Gaidar roared. He stormed into the kitchen and Marshston followed, curious as a cat. One of the welders was pointing to an old iron box, rusty, heavy and half buried in a hole. Gaidar grabbed it abruptly and went off...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That night, when the ten men returned to the rooms the Baron allowed them to sleep in, wet with sweat, they saw Gaidar forcing the box open with a wrench. Panting with the effort he finally did so. 'Let's see what this old box holds.' he laughed, revealing a toothy grin. Surprisingly, it opened smoothly, as though someone had oiled its hinges recently.
'The Heavens above!' Gaidar exclaimed. Marshston peered in. What he saw almost gave him a heart attack. Inside were two skeletal hands, cracked with age, thin cobwebs between the fingers.
'Well that was quite a find I say! So the Baron must be telling the truth!' Gaidar admitted, beaten down for once. 'Guess I'll just keep it here till he comes tomorrow.'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The fire crackled merrily as it ate up the wooden logs tossed inside the stone hearth. Gaidar, Marshston and the other construction men sat around the room, playing poker, swilling bottles of beer. Rock music pumped out from the battered battery power radio nearby.
An hour crawled by, then another...
At midnight the men were exhausted, counting their winnings or cursing their ill luck. Without warning, there came a shrill melody from the radio, cutting into the song being played. 'What the!' Gaidar uttered.
The sound was horrible, it sounded like a hundred nails on a whiteboard. Like the cry of a newborn cat. The sound of a bagpipe. The radio distorted it further. Some of the men quickly stuffed their fingers into their ears. Not the beetroot faced Gaidar though.
'Darn radio!' He slapped it hard. Still no change. Pressing the off button, he expected silence. The radio defied him. Snarling with annoyance, he ripped out the batteries and hurled it to the side. Still the sound continued, the radio seemed to mock his every move, the sound's pitch getting higher and higher.
Marshston was spooked by now. What was making that awful unearthly bagpipe sound?
Crackle! The room was plunged into pitch darkness as the fire mysteriously went out. There wasn't even a draught in the room. The men were quite by their sides now. The temperature plummeted, to a freezing cold. The men's breath came out in white puffs. Ice crystals crawled up the windows slowly. This was ridiculous! It was still summertime!
A blue glow shone at the center of the room, just like will-o-the-wisp, right where the box was. To Marshston's horror, the hands were twitching madly in the iron box, crawling about the box like two pale crabs. Black tatters of flesh appeared seemingly out of thin air on the flailing fingers. As he watched, the flesh turned to soil-brown, then with one last flop they turned to a healthy beige colour, the turquoise veins visible on them, fresh and bathed in the eerie flickering blue.
A blurred smoke-like humanoid figure slowly started taking shape. A tartan patterned bagpipe hung at its side. Marshston gasped with fright, heart palpitating. It had no hands! The men were rooted to the ground, paralyzed.
A crystal ashtray suddenly shot across the room, straight through the figure, shattering into a million shiny pieces on the wall. Gaidar stood jaw agape, his throw had done nothing...
The phantom floated to the box, the horrible hands floating up to meet their master at last. It was at that moment that Marshston collapsed, the sight too much for him, the sad bagpipe tune echoing in his ears...
The next day when the Baron arrived, he found an empty castle; the room where the men stayed was empty, the oak door swinging on its creaky hinges. In the old iron box he saw on the table laid ten pairs of skeletal hands, one of them with a red glove...Revenge...
