Tales from the Boer’s Head

There’s a new book on the shelf.

Didn’t arrive with any fanfare. No parade, no priest, no proper warning; just slipped in quiet-like, same as most things that matter.

The Belmire Asylum: The Book of Jack.

Strange little thing. Heavy in the hand, heavier in the head. Smells faintly of old paper, damp wood, and decisions that should’ve been left alone. I don’t stock many like it. Customers tend to look at something like that and decide they’d rather not know.

Can’t blame them.

Still, it’s here now. And once something like that finds its way onto a shelf, it rarely leaves without taking something with it.

Author’s a local sort. Keeps odd hours. Writes like he’s trying to measure something that doesn’t want measuring. Doesn’t talk much about the book, which is usually a sign it’s worth the trouble.

I turned a few pages. That was a mistake I won’t be repeating. Not because it’s poorly made, quite the opposite. It’s… deliberate. The sort of thing that doesn’t ask for your attention so much as assume it already has it.

You’ll make your own decision, I suppose. Most do. Some even walk away with it.

For those inclined to poor choices:

Buy it, don’t buy it. Makes no difference to me.

Just don’t say you weren’t told.

—

The Innkeeper
Keeper of the Last Good Pour, Tallyman of Debts Unpaid, Occasional Custodian of Things Better Left Uncatalogued.