(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

I found the corpse making a circle around the center of the floor, as the note
stated. It was old, all the flesh had rotted away, and the bones were
yellowed and brittle with age. The number "42" had been chiseled into its
forehead, its bones and joints were wrapped with leather straps to hold it
together, and a black smock was draped over its body.
I tilted my head, "I have to ask: Why the smock? I mean, it's not like you
have anything to be modest about." Morte chuckled.
At the sound of my voice, the skeleton suddenly straightened, crossing its
arms over its chest, its fingers hooking into its ribcage.
"Uh..."
The skeleton's arms dropped to its sides.
"Uh... hello? Do you remember me?"
The skeleton crossed its arms again.
"Would you cut that out? His arms are going to break off," Morte snapped.
Enough. I mimicked the gesture, and in response, the skeleton dropped its
arms to its sides. The leather cords securing the skeleton's torso snapped,
and the ribcage folded outward like a pair of double doors. I couldn't explain
why, but a sudden urge came over me to reach inside the ribcage.
I slid my hand inside, and an unsettling feeling of my hand being somewhere
else came over me. An extradimensional space had been built inside this
thing, probably when it was first made. Probably made by me. I shivered a
little, but explored, and my hand bumped against something hard, about the
size of a fist and attached to the skeleton's spine.
I pulled. It was stuck.
I tugged a little harder, harder still, bracing a hand against the skeleton's
clavicle, when suddenly the object snapped from its base. The sudden
release threw me off balance and I stumbled backwards. The skeleton
wasn't so agile: its light frame flew away from me and shattered against the
floor, sending bits of bone and joints scattering. His skull bounced once,
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