Short Story: A Bacon Sandwich and the Severed Head in the Fridge

December 27, 2025 Colin Lawson Comments 0 Comment

Arthur Phelps had always suspected his flat was trying to kill him, but until recently it had confined itself to passive-aggressive tactics. Cold spots. Flickering lights. A smell in the hallway that suggested something had died, come back, and died again out of spite. Still, the rent was reasonable and the bus stop was close, which in Britain counts as a legally binding reason to endure almost anything.

It was the boiler, though, that finally crossed the line. Boilers are not meant to scream. They may rattle, clank, or sigh theatrically, but screaming implies intent. At 11.43 p.m. on a Tuesday, as Arthur lay awake contemplating whether adulthood was meant to feel this way, the boiler announced itself like a soul being forcibly removed. And that was the moment Arthur realised his evening was about to get much, much worse.

A Bacon Sandwich and the Severed Head in the Fridge

At precisely 11.43 p.m., the boiler in Arthur Phelps’ flat began screaming like a pig being slowly introduced to Satan.

Arthur lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the noise and weighing his options.

Option one: ignore it and die of hypothermia.

Option two: investigate and die of murder.

The flat was cheap, Victorian, and had come with a landlord who described “occasional manifestations” as if they were draughts.

Arthur chose option two, investigate and die of murder.

He put on his dressing gown, the one with the faded Badgers Rugby Club logo, armed himself with a torch that never worked properly and crept towards the kitchen.

The screaming stopped.

That was worse. In the silence, something wet moved behind the fridge.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Hello?” he said, because British politeness is strongest when death is likely.

The fridge door creaked open by itself.

Inside was not milk, nor leftovers, nor the mouldy chutney he kept meaning to throw away. Inside was a human head, floating slightly above the bottom shelf, grinning like it had won something.

“Evening,” said the head nonchalantly. “You’ll want to turn that torch off. It makes my eyes itch.”

Arthur fainted in a very tidy way, straight backwards, hands folded.

He woke up on the kitchen floor with a tea towel over his face. Someone had tucked it under his chin.

“You’re back,” said the head, now sitting, kind of, on the counter next to the toaster. “Good. I hate talking to unconscious people. They never laugh.”

Arthur sat up slowly. “I’m dreaming,” he said.

“You’re not,” said the head, smiling like all of this was normal.

Arthur looked around. The kitchen was exactly as before, except for the head and the fact that the boiler had stopped screaming and was now muttering to itself in Latin.

“What are you?” Arthur asked.

“Unfair question,” said the head. “What are you?” he interjected, A man in socks with holes, mostly.”

Arthur stared. “Why are you here?”

The head sighed. “Flat 3B. Thin walls. Poor insulation. And you left out a bacon sandwich last night.”

“That was for me.”

“Yes, well,” said the head. “You snooze, you lose. Or in my case, you manifest, you munch.”

Arthur rubbed his face. “Are you going to kill me?”

The head looked offended. “Absolutely not. Do you know how much paperwork that involves? I’m a haunting, not a serial killer. I’m here for ambience, light despair, and the occasional snack.”

Arthur nodded, because that seemed sensible. “Right. So what do you want?”

“A favour,” said the head. “And perhaps a cup of tea. Strong. No sugar. I’m dead, not American.”

They made the tea together. Arthur noticed that the head knew where everything was and tutted when he used the wrong mug.

“So,” said Arthur, sitting opposite the head like this happened all the time. “The favour.”

“I need you to complain to the landlord,” said the head. “The screaming boiler is unbearable. I died in 1847 and even I find it a bit much.”

“You died in my flat?”

“Don’t be dramatic. In the area. I was a solicitor. Choked on a suet pudding. Terrible way to go. No dignity.”

Arthur took a sip of tea. “And if I don’t complain?”

The head smiled wider. “Then I start doing voices at night. Children laughing. Whispering your name. A bit of scratching. Nothing major, just enough to ruin your sleep and your grip on reality.”

Arthur considered this. “Fair enough. I’ll email him in the morning.”

“Lovely,” said the head. “While you’re at it, could you ask about the damp? It’s murder on my sinuses.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment. The boiler began chanting again, softly.

“Can I ask you something?” Arthur said.

“Of course.”

“Why me?”

The head shrugged, which was impressive given the lack of shoulders. “You seemed lonely and you had bacon.”

Arthur nodded. that made sense.

The next morning, Arthur emailed the landlord. He was polite but firm, which for him meant adding “Regards” instead of “Kind regards”. By lunchtime, a boiler repair was scheduled.

That night, the head was gone.

Arthur slept badly anyway.

Three weeks later, the boiler purred. The damp improved. Arthur began to think the whole thing had been stress and mould.