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The Ninth Skeleton
A walk into the woods leads to a terrifying discovery… (note very short story)
excerpt
Excerpt
It was beneath the immaculate blue of a morning in April that I set out to keep my appointment with Guenevere. We had agreed to meet on Boulder Ridge, at a spot well known to both of us, a small and circular field surrounded with pines and full of large stones, midway between her parents' home at Newcastle and my cabin on the north-eastern extremity of the Ridge, near Auburn.
Guenevere is my fiancée. It must be explained that at the time of which I write, there was a certain amount of opposition on the part of her parents to the engagement — an opposition since happily withdrawn. In fact, they had gone so far as to forbid me to call, and Guenevere and I could see each other only by stealth, and infrequently,
The Ridge is a long and rambling moraine, heavily strewn in places with boulders, as its name implies, and with many outcroppings of black volcanic stone. Fruit-ranches cling to some of its slopes, but scarcely any of the top is under cultivation, and much of the soil, indeed, is too thin and stony to be arable. With its twisted pines, often as fantastic in form as the cypresses of the California coast, and its gnarled and stunted oaks, the landscape has a wild and quaint beauty, with more than a hint of the Japanesque in places.
It is perhaps two miles from my cabin to the place where I was to meet Guenevere. Since I was born in the very shadow of Boulder Ridge, and have lived upon or near it for most of my thirty-odd years, I am familiar with every rod of its lovely and rugged extent, and, previous to that April morning, would scarcely have refrained from laughing if anyone had told me I could possibly lose my way... Since then — well, I assure you, I should not feel inclined to laugh...
Truly, it was a morning made for the trysts of lovers. Wild bees were humming busily in the patches of clover and in the ceanothus bushes with their great masses of white flowers, whose strange and heavy perfume intoxicated the air. Most of the spring blossoms were cyclamen, yellow violet, poppy, wild hyacinth, and woodland star; and the green of the fields was opalescent with their coloring. Between the emerald of the buck- eyes, the grey-green of the pines, the golden and dark and bluish greens of the oaks, I caught glimpses of the snow-white Sierras to the east, and the faint blue of the Coast Range to the west, beyond the pale and lilac levels of the Sacramento valley. Following a vague trail, I went onwards across open fields where I had to thread my way among clustering boulders.
excerpt
Excerpt
It was beneath the immaculate blue of a morning in April that I set out to keep my appointment with Guenevere. We had agreed to meet on Boulder Ridge, at a spot well known to both of us, a small and circular field surrounded with pines and full of large stones, midway between her parents' home at Newcastle and my cabin on the north-eastern extremity of the Ridge, near Auburn.
Guenevere is my fiancée. It must be explained that at the time of which I write, there was a certain amount of opposition on the part of her parents to the engagement — an opposition since happily withdrawn. In fact, they had gone so far as to forbid me to call, and Guenevere and I could see each other only by stealth, and infrequently,
The Ridge is a long and rambling moraine, heavily strewn in places with boulders, as its name implies, and with many outcroppings of black volcanic stone. Fruit-ranches cling to some of its slopes, but scarcely any of the top is under cultivation, and much of the soil, indeed, is too thin and stony to be arable. With its twisted pines, often as fantastic in form as the cypresses of the California coast, and its gnarled and stunted oaks, the landscape has a wild and quaint beauty, with more than a hint of the Japanesque in places.
It is perhaps two miles from my cabin to the place where I was to meet Guenevere. Since I was born in the very shadow of Boulder Ridge, and have lived upon or near it for most of my thirty-odd years, I am familiar with every rod of its lovely and rugged extent, and, previous to that April morning, would scarcely have refrained from laughing if anyone had told me I could possibly lose my way... Since then — well, I assure you, I should not feel inclined to laugh...
Truly, it was a morning made for the trysts of lovers. Wild bees were humming busily in the patches of clover and in the ceanothus bushes with their great masses of white flowers, whose strange and heavy perfume intoxicated the air. Most of the spring blossoms were cyclamen, yellow violet, poppy, wild hyacinth, and woodland star; and the green of the fields was opalescent with their coloring. Between the emerald of the buck- eyes, the grey-green of the pines, the golden and dark and bluish greens of the oaks, I caught glimpses of the snow-white Sierras to the east, and the faint blue of the Coast Range to the west, beyond the pale and lilac levels of the Sacramento valley. Following a vague trail, I went onwards across open fields where I had to thread my way among clustering boulders.
17 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1928
7 people are currently reading
29 people want to read
About the author
Clark Ashton Smith
731 books1,023 followersClark Ashton Smith was a poet, sculptor, painter and author of fantasy, horror and science fiction short stories. It is for these stories, and his literary friendship with H. P. Lovecraft from 1922 until Lovecraft's death in 1937, that he is mainly remembered today. With Lovecraft and Robert E. Howard, also a friend and correspondent, Smith remains one of the most famous contributors to the pulp magazine Weird Tales.
His writings are posted at his official website.
His writings are posted at his official website.
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Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews
July 24, 2018
Unlike Forrest Gump’s comparison to life as a box of chocolates, pulp fiction is more like a Storage Wars auction. You might get a container full of junk, rare treasures, or a jar full of severed head.
So we come to Clark Ashton Smith’s 1928 (very) short story The Ninth Skeleton. First published in the September 1928 edition of Weird tales. This is little more than a sketch, an atmospheric dream reminiscent of William Hope Hodgson’s fine work.
As a fan of Lovecraft and pulp fiction, Smith has long been on my radar but this had more of the feel of Philip K. Dick needing rent money than as a well-developed and thought provoking short work of horror / fantasy fiction.
Clearly not one of his better works, but I’ll still read more from him as his reputation amongst the Weird Tales writers is quite good.
So we come to Clark Ashton Smith’s 1928 (very) short story The Ninth Skeleton. First published in the September 1928 edition of Weird tales. This is little more than a sketch, an atmospheric dream reminiscent of William Hope Hodgson’s fine work.
As a fan of Lovecraft and pulp fiction, Smith has long been on my radar but this had more of the feel of Philip K. Dick needing rent money than as a well-developed and thought provoking short work of horror / fantasy fiction.
Clearly not one of his better works, but I’ll still read more from him as his reputation amongst the Weird Tales writers is quite good.
June 4, 2023
Free from Amazon
A short story first published in 1928. This was the first of Clark Ashton Smith's stories to be published in WEIRD TALES magazine. It has the elaborate language, descriptions and atmosphere for which Smith was known but it lacks the fright factor.
A short story first published in 1928. This was the first of Clark Ashton Smith's stories to be published in WEIRD TALES magazine. It has the elaborate language, descriptions and atmosphere for which Smith was known but it lacks the fright factor.
September 16, 2014
Short piece. Interesting for the imagery displayed and the language used to paint the picture, but that's about it.
July 17, 2014
The first question that came to my mind upon completing this book was, “what did Herbert eat?” My first guess would be mushrooms and they didn’t really agree with him. The tale is cloaked in dense foliage of flowery words that challenge the reader. Much is said but little is done. The journey through this story is both long and tiring; much like walking on one of those exercise machines with a distinct and radical incline. The trip is long but the destination is just around the corner. I can see this piece appealing to word lovers but it would be completely lost on literary action buffs.
November 29, 2025
Read online: https://www.libraryofshortstories.com...
“ The sky had now grown so dark that the whole scene took on a semi-nocturnal aspect, and made me think of a doomed world in the twilight of a dying sun. All was airless and silent; there were no birds, no insects, no sighing of the pines, no lisping of leaves: a baleful and preternatural silence, like the silence of the infinite void.”
Smith knows how to set the mood.
“ The sky had now grown so dark that the whole scene took on a semi-nocturnal aspect, and made me think of a doomed world in the twilight of a dying sun. All was airless and silent; there were no birds, no insects, no sighing of the pines, no lisping of leaves: a baleful and preternatural silence, like the silence of the infinite void.”
Smith knows how to set the mood.
September 18, 2022
Young Goodman Brown meets An Inhabitant of Carcosa and Army of Darkness. No, I will not explain.
November 13, 2024
2.5 stars rounded down.
A weird little tale about a guy going to meet his girl and having a bad trip. I liked the description of the change in the sky, it felt like the moment when a video game boss is about to attack. I kind of wish he had ended the story with the narrator becoming the infant skeleton for the 9th skeleton instead of coming to with his fiance tugging his arm. Maybe I should hop in my time machine and give Clarky-boy some story notes.
A weird little tale about a guy going to meet his girl and having a bad trip. I liked the description of the change in the sky, it felt like the moment when a video game boss is about to attack. I kind of wish he had ended the story with the narrator becoming the infant skeleton for the 9th skeleton instead of coming to with his fiance tugging his arm. Maybe I should hop in my time machine and give Clarky-boy some story notes.
May 24, 2020
A great idea, killed by its length. More!
June 29, 2024
Builds up well, but sadly into nothing at all.
August 1, 2025
great story by a great author.
April 9, 2026
3.75 stars.
April 28, 2026
Classical creepy ghost story, nice and short, beautifully written. Does what it needs to extremely well.
Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews