The skull is from a murder
Once upon a time, there was a gaming shop at the edge of town on the wrong side of the tracks near an abandoned junk yard. Taped to the inside window, a sign read, “We buy and sell interesting and unique items of the occult; see a clerk for details.”
Fog rolled in at two in the morning as a man and a woman entered the establishment, holding a box covered with a cloth. They approached the counter where the owner stood, smoking a pipe, rummaging through an old photo album.
“What can I do for you?” the owner asked. His name was Ruskin, and he looked like a Renaissance faire reject with a long beard and wrinkled eyes. “We have wands on sale, and I have two painted porcelain wizards that would look lovely on your bookshelf at home.”
“No thank you,” the woman replied. “Your sign says you buy as well as sell, is that correct?”
“Yes honey,” Ruskin replied. “What is your name if I may ask?”
“Medina, and my boyfriend is Bob. He likes to be called Bon Jovi, don’t ask me why.”
Ruskin looked at the covered box and to the man standing behind it. “What is your favorite Bon Jovi song? ‘Living on a Prayer?’” Ruskin asked.
“I don’t like music,” BonJovi replied.” Triggers my Tourette’s.”
“To each their own,” Ruskin replied with a smile. “What’s in the box? I’m assuming whatever’s in there is for sale.”
Medina pulled the cloth cover, revealing a dead Possum, a human skull, and a few rib bones. “How much will you give us for all of this?”
Ruskin tipped the box to see the contents and shook his head. “I don’t buy dead animals, and that skull looks like something you dug up at the local cemetery. There are laws about that you know.”
“Let me assure you, we did not dig up anything,” Medina replied. “The possum led us to the skull in the forest along with the other bones.”
“Was the possum alive at the time?” Ruskin asked, unconvinced.
“Of course not,” Medina replied. “I am a witch and can communicate with the dead, ask my boyfriend.”
“Is your boyfriend here some expert on communication with the dead? Does he carry a license or something?” Ruskin asked.
Bon Jovi spoke up pissed. “The skull is from a murder that occurred thirty-five years ago. We spoke to the spirit.”
“Shouldn’t you be taking this to the police?” Ruskin asked. “What am I supposed to do with it? It’s evidence of a crime, as you say and I could end up in jail. The police will want to know where you found it.”
Bon Jovi grabbed a pen and paper off the counter and scribbled a map. “We found it here, by the waterfall under the large Oak tree. Now, how much for the skull?”
“Are you sure this belonged to a murder victim? Skulls pop up occasionally from old Indian burial sites. What did the skull say to you? Did it give a name?”
Medina hesitated to reply but knew she had to. “Her name was Betty; she was married to the local sheriff and went missing after she was caught cheating with a deputy. She said her husband murdered her and buried her out by the river where we found her.”
“Betty who?” Ruskin asked, diving into Google on his laptop. “Holy shit, I found something. Betty Jurgens, thirty-five years old, disappeared in 1982, and the body was never found.”
Smugly, Bon Jovi stated, “I told you so, now the price just went up. I will sell it to you for two hundred and fifty dollars.”
Ruskin pulled his phone and began to punch in the local sheriff’s number. “I told you I don’t pay for evidence of a crime. If I were you two, I’d have a seat and wait for the authorities to arrive.”
“I think not,” Median replied, covered the box, and the two strangers left the building, into the fog, into the dark, never to be seen again.
