Tales from the Boer’s Head

The innkeeper has taken ill.

Fever, throat like rusted nails, joints popping like old wood in winter. He called off his usual rounds Sunday afternoon and has not been seen since. No new tales were pinned to the boards. The hearth remains cold. The stew, regrettably… still stirs.

He left no formal message, but we found a half-finished draft near his chair and an empty mug that smells of whiskey and honey. Classic treatment. Primitive, but effective, assuming you make it to morning.

In the meantime, guests should expect delays.The stories will return when the fever breaks. Or when the fever wins.

All guests are advised to keep their voices down and avoid eye contact with the cellar door. Please keep your boots off the furniture, your hands off the ink jars, and for the love of whatever gods you still fear, do not feed the triplets.

We thank you for your patience.Your silence.And your understanding that not all who vanish return the same.

Sincerely,

Management

~

This notice may dissolve upon the innkeeper’s return. Or yours.