Arts: Blackjack Fiction

When Does the Goose Creep Into the Flesh? It was nearly half past three in the morning. Somewhere a clock tolled the hour—twelve long strokes. Down the shadow-shrouded stairway moved a skeleton, clad only in a pair of violet pajamas. Softly, sibilantly, the spectre sped. An errant mouse cried out in terror, his hoarse shriek breaking the tense stillness. At the foot of the stairs a single, shining shaft of moonshine drenched the leg of a human being, severed at the knee, lying in a pool of gore. Arsenic Hatpin, gentleman capitalist,...