I was fortunate enough to have 24 nephews and nieces. I loved them all. When I was a teenager and they were young I would sometimes entertain them with stories. One of their favorites was “The Golden Arm,” a story that has been around since Mark Twain — and probably before. The following was my version.

Charles Hammond was a very rich man, and he was very proud of his wealth.  He was also known as a cruel and ruthless person. As a young man he had been in an accident that cost him his right arm.  Initially he had it replaced with a wooden arm, but as he acquired riches he replaced that wooden arm with a finely crafted arm of pure gold.

Charles Hammond was very proud of that golden arm, but his pride and wealth could not shield him from the inevitable.  One day death visited the Hammond mansion.  When Charles Hammond died, unloved, unmourned, his will directed that that golden arm be buried with him.  His body, with arm, was therefore interred in a highly secured family mausoleum.  

A bank robber lived in that same area, and when he learned the details about Hammond’s death and burial he decided to take action..  He was an experienced safe-cracker, so he believed that the mausoleum would pose no problem..

He was right.  Several weeks after Hammond’s death, in the dead of night, the robber stands over an open casket and begins removing the golden arm.  The thief suddenly has the sensation that the dead man is looking at him, but when he lifts his lantern he assures himself that Hammond is truly dead.  He finishes removing the arm, stuffs it in a satchel, closes the casket, and exits the mausoleum.  

It’s a cloudy, windy night, and the full moon is occasionally visible between the clouds,  The thief clutches the satchel and moves quickly down the road towards his own nearby home.  The wind moans through the trees, and the grave-robber thinks he can distinguish some words,

“I . . . want . . . . . my golden arm.”

Nonsense, thinks the thief, it must be my imagination.

But then, more distinctly, he hears a voice coming from the darkness behind him.

“I . . . want. . . . .my golden arm.”

The thief begins half running, half walking toward his house, which was now visible.   When he reaches it he runs onto the porch and looks back down the road.  In the moonlight he seems to see a dark patch outside the gate.  From it comes that dreaded voice.

I . . . want . . . . . my golden arm.”

The thief rapidly enters the house, bolts the front door and runs up the stairs.

The voice now comes from the front porch.

I . . . want . . . . . my golden arm.”

The thief runs into his bedroom, locks the door, jumps on the bed, and covers himself with a blanket.  He hears the front door open and the sound of someone, someTHING coming up the stairs.  He tries to suppress a scream of horror as he feels it bending over him.

I . . . want . . . . . my golden arm.”

(At this moment the storyteller screams)

I GOT IT !!!