But, whatever the previous history of this curious skull, it has at times caused a good deal of trouble, resenting any proposal to consign it to the earth, for buried it will not be, no matter how many attempts are made to do so.  Strange to say, most of this class of skulls behave in the same extraordinary fashion.  At a short distance from Turton Tower—­one of the most interesting structures in the neighbourhood of Bolton—­is a farmhouse locally designated Timberbottom, or the Skull House, so called from the circumstance that two skulls are or were kept there, one of which was much decayed, whereas the other appeared to have been cut through by a blow from some sharp instrument.  These skulls, it is said, have been buried many times in the graveyard at Bradshaw Chapel, but they have always had to be exhumed, and brought back to the farm-house.  On one occasion, they were thrown into the adjacent river, but to no purpose; for they had to be fished up and restored to their old quarters before the ghosts of their owners could once more rest in peace.

A popular cause assigned for this strange behaviour on the part of certain skulls is that their owners met with a violent death, and that the avenging spirit in this manner annoys the living, reminding us of Macbeth’s words: 

    “Blood hath been shed ere now, i’ the olden time,
    Ere human statute purg’d the gentle weal;
    Ay, and since too, murders have been performed
    Too terrible for the ear; the times have been
    That, when the brains were out, the man would die
    And there an end; but now they rise again,
    With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
    And push us from our stools.  This is more strange
    Than such a murder is.”

Hence, a romantic and tragic story is told of two skulls which have long haunted an old house near Ambleside.  It appears that a small piece of ground, known as Calgrath, was owned by a humble farmer, named Kraster Cook, and his wife Dorothy.  But their little inheritance was coveted by a wealthy magistrate, Myles Phillipson, who, unable to induce them to part with it, swore “he’d have that ground, be they ’live or dead.”  As time wore on, however, he appeared more gracious to Kraster and Dorothy, and actually invited them to a great Christmas banquet given to the neighbours.  It was a dear feast for them, for Myles Phillipson pretended they had stolen a silver cup, and, sure enough, it was found in Kraster’s house—­a “plant,” of course.  Such an offence was then capital, and, as Phillipson was the magistrate, Kraster and Dorothy were sentenced to death.  Thereupon, Dorothy arose in the court-room and addressed Phillipson in words that rang through the building and impressed all for their awful earnestness: 

“Guard thyself, Myles Phillipson!  Thou thinkest thou hast managed grandly, but that tiny lump of land is the dearest a Phillipson has ever bought or stolen, for you will never prosper, neither your breed.  Whatever scheme you undertake will wither in your hand; the side you take will always lose; the time shall come when no Phillipson shall own an inch of land; and while Calgarth walls shall stand we’ll haunt it night and day.  Never will ye be rid of us!”