Ellie and Jamie had moved into their first rented house together, a weathered Victorian full of charm and creaking floorboards. They loved it, even if it smelled of dust and old wallpaper.
One rainy afternoon, while unpacking boxes, Jamie pulled down the attic ladder. ‘Let’s see what ghosts we’ve inherited,’ he joked.
Up he went, flashlight in hand, and moments later called down, ‘Ellie… you must see this.’
It was an old, scuffed suitcase. Inside, neatly bundled and wrapped in plastic, was cash. Lots of it. Ellie’s hands trembled as she counted the notes. £20,000.
They sat in silence on the attic floor, the rain tapping on the roof above.
‘Do we tell someone?’ Ellie asked.
Jamie hesitated. ‘What if it’s illegal? Drug money? Or someone’s savings?’
‘But it could change everything for us,’ Ellie whispered. ‘No more credit cards. We could finally breathe.’
They decided to sleep on it. But that night, neither of them rested. Every creak of the house felt like footsteps.
Ellie went online searching ‘finders keepers’ and what she read was way too complicated. She used that as an excuse, ‘Let’s keep it.’
And they did. They’d seen enough cop shows to know they shouldn’t splash it about, so they paid off debts, bought a new sofa, Jamie talked about ‘laundering’ it through the bookies.
All went well for a month, until one drizzly morning a man built like an outdoor privy stood on their doorstep.
Luckily, the NHS took care of the medical bills.
If a genie lets you go back to school, make sure he tells you how to get back to the present. Mine didn’t, and that’s why I go to the electric chair tomorrow at nine.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
