Amelia was enormously disappointed when the human skull they found in the attic of her new home turned out not to be a murder victim.
It wasn’t that her imagination leaned toward the gothic, rather she was in public relations and knew television production companies would pay good money to ordinary folk like her for True Crime stories.
Simon, her most recent husband, had discovered the skull resting on a moth-eaten shawl, as though waiting to be discovered.
Detectives wearing latex gloves found no signs of violence, no blunt-force cracks, no stab wounds. There was no tissue to testify, no blood-soaked fragments. After running it against every missing-persons report in the region, they pronounced it ‘not the skull of a murder victim.’
‘Never mind, Mel,’ her husband tried to comfort her. ‘Maybe we can sell it on e-Bay. Some nutter will pay good money for it.’
Police records said the home’s original owner was an anatomy professor in the 1880s. He kept a small bone collection, using it to teach medical students about the human body.
That winter evening, Amelia and Simon sat by the hearth, the skull perched on their mantel like a grim guest.
As they locked up for the night, Simon switched off the lights and said softly, ‘It’s funny, the way its eyes follow you around the room.’
‘Yes,’ Amelia replied, ‘It’s scaring me witless. Let’s put it online tonight.’
In the dark, the skull’s grin widened. He was making plans while there was still time.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 