Justin von Bosau
Stories (8/0)
The Peculiar Visitor of the Night Watchman
If we're being completely honest, then Charlie Tibbs was not the best candidate to become the night watchman for the Museum of Classical Art. It wasn't that Mr. Tibbs was at all bad at his job: he was thrilled by it, and had been for the past fifty-three years, ever since he'd left the farm with its large barn and mooing occupants for the big city. He took every nightly tour with a methodical nature honed by time, and punctuated by an appreciation of the same paintings and statues he'd admired every night before this one. He was always cordial, always on time, never slept through the wee hours of the morning, never took his lunch break somewhere he wasn't supposed to--in short, he was perfect in all but one aspect.
By Justin von Bosau4 months ago in Fiction
When Hanson Returned
The old woman barely put up a fight when I killed her. My name isn't important. I don't tell it to anyone, and I don't remember it myself most days. If you want my skills, you either know where to find me, or you don't want them bad enough. I'm paid my commission, I do my work, and that's the end of it. No repeat customers, no chit-chat, no "could you do this as well?" One person dead, any item of theirs procured from wherever they died. I don't go the extra mile to rob somewhere else after the body's gone cold.
By Justin von Bosau4 months ago in Horror
A Little Life, After Death
Anne Baker found the day that she died to be rather boring, actually. It was in the middle of May: she was out in the garden, watering flowers where they bloomed on plump bushes, and had, by way of the heat and a too-tight corset, dropped of exhaustion and hit her head against the raised stones that made a perimeter around the dirt. She died without knowing any pain, and after a few minutes got back up, brushed herself off, and saw herself lying there dead.
By Justin von Bosau6 months ago in Fiction
Torso
The day had actually been a very nice one until we found the body. The sun had been shining; perfect day for fishing, Edison had commented, and Harker had joked that it was still up for debate--Edison might scare them away with his balding mug peeking over the edge of the boat. Edison had made a sour face, but finally acquiesced, laughing with us as we three headed down to the lakeside.
By Justin von Bosau6 months ago in Horror
Drifting Dunes
Sand got in my face, and I almost threw it away when I brought my hands up to brush my eyes. It was a small thing--little, I mean; insignificant and little and adrift amidst the massive dunes that had piled up against the glass of the city buildings. But I had kept it, and as my hands came up, I clutched them tighter to keep it in my grasp--too tight, and the metal's edges cut against my palm. Wincing, I opened my eyes again against the wind, and opened my hand to look at it again.
By Justin von Bosau11 months ago in Fiction
