supplied the prompt
I grew up in a pleasant house on a pleasant street in a pleasant town. That just about covers the subject. Everything was bland; there is really nothing more to say about it. My parents were rather bland, too; the sort described as 'lovely people'. Dad was a Bank Clerk and Mum was your regular Stay-at-home Home-maker. I was an only child. It was 1950. The street was Smith Street. Get the picture?
Well, you don't, actually, because I haven't mentioned my imagination. It was wild. I lived inside my brain more than I lived inside my body, if that makes sense. I read voraciously, and I created stories of my own. They galloped through my brain so fast that I never had time to write them down, but they sustained and energised me through the long, bland days.
I became fixated on the house over the road. The owners were totally unremarkable, like everyone else in our street; they 'kept themselves to themselves'. This was considered a virtue, for some reason. I only knew them as Mr and Mrs Sinclair. We only exchanged nods and the occasional time of day. They didn't interest me in the least.
But their attic window did. It was blacked-out, in contrast to the other windows, which were curtained normally. And the black was never removed. Every day I glanced up to see if, by chance, this was the day for Mrs Sinclair to throw open the window and give the room an airing. But she never did.
I started to take an interest in the attic when I was about five years old. I inhabited it with goblins, who crept out at night and played tricks on the neighbours. Later on, when I was nine or ten, I imagined a troop of Creatures From Outer Space living up there, ready to take-over the world! Then, later, there were the romantic ideas...... a beautiful girl was imprisoned up there, only waiting for me to rescue her. In my teens, I have to admit that my imaginings became quite torrid! What if the Sinclairs were running a brothel! Over the years that attic was inhabited by a remarkable array of characters and situations. It was a hive of imagined activity, although it would be hard to find anything less exciting, in reality.
In due course, Real Life took charge of me. I left home, with a sense of relief and found the adventures I had been yearning for for so long. I lived in the city; I married; I had children; I travelled. The attic was forgotten.
Until today, when I opened my old hometown newspaper. And there was the headline..........
'Skeleton Discovered in Attic of Demolished House on Smith Street. Police Investigate.'.