Laura and Tom moved into Number 19 on a bright April morning. It was their first home – semi-detached, red-bricked, and a squeaky gate that Tom promised to fix.
They were giddy with it all. Boxes in every room, takeaway on the floor.
‘Bet the attic’s full of junk,’ Tom said, tugging on the ceiling hatch cord. Dust rained down.
A wooden ladder unfolded with a groan.
Laura followed him up, her phone torch casting eerie shadows across the beams. The attic was cramped and stale. Cardboard boxes. A rusted trunk. Cobwebs like veils.
Then Laura saw it. In the far corner. Nestled among yellowed newspapers.
A skull.
She froze.
‘Tom,’ she whispered.
He turned, laughed – until he saw it too.
It was unmistakably human. A smooth, pale dome. Empty eye sockets. Teeth still intact.
They stared in silence.
‘Could be… fake?’ Tom offered weakly.
Laura shook her head. ‘That’s not plastic.’
They called the police.
Two officers arrived within the hour. The skull was bagged. Questions were asked. Former owners contacted. An investigation opened.
Eventually, word came back: the skull dated back over a century. Likely medical in origin. A teaching tool, long forgotten.
No crime. No haunting. Just history.
Still, Laura insisted on burning sage in the attic. Tom bought a padlock for the hatch.
They never went up there again.
But on quiet nights, when the pipes creaked or the floorboards sighed, Laura would glance at the ceiling and wonder:
Was that really the only thing up there?
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 