Busolaaah

Busolaaah's Books(2)

The studio

Horror

5.0

The Studio The smell of turpentine and decay was ever-present. The two scents, one artificial and sharp, the other organic and sour, swirled together in the basement studio beneath a brownstone at the edge of Chicago's art district. Elias Granger stood barefoot on a drop cloth splattered with flecks of red-paint, mostly. He held a palette in one hand and a brush in the other. On the easel before him was a canvas nearly complete: the portrait of a woman with auburn hair, blue-gray eyes, and a soft expression. Her smile was serene, almost beatific. Elias smiled, mirroring the expression on the canvas. "You're perfect now, Emily," he whispered. He set down the brush and turned to the real Emily-what was left of her, anyway-sitting across the room in a battered, velvet armchair. Rigor mortis had long passed, but he'd preserved her well enough. Her head slumped slightly to the side, skin pale and waxy under the harsh white light. Her expression, once contorted in fear, had been gently adjusted into something more... suitable. He leaned in close and studied her face. "Don't worry," he said softly. "The gallery show is next month. They'll see you. They'll see all of you."

The collector

Horror

5.0

The Collector" In the quiet town of Elmridge, nothing ever really happened-until people started disappearing. Detective Mara Lin had seen her share of murderers, but nothing prepared her for the case that would haunt her long after retirement. Each victim was meticulously chosen: no connections, no patterns-just ordinary people plucked from their lives. The bodies, when found, were always displayed like works of art: posed, eyes open, smiling. A single white rose in their hand. The media dubbed the killer "The Collector." What no one knew was that The Collector lived among them. Thomas Avery, a charming local librarian with an encyclopedic knowledge of true crime, spent his days recommending books and chatting with elderly patrons. He was the last person anyone suspected. At night, however, Thomas transformed. He wasn't driven by rage or revenge. He didn't hear voices or feel compelled. He was simply... curious. What did fear look like? How did the human body respond to slow, methodical dissection? Could he recreate the perfect expression of peace in death? He documented everything-scrapbooks filled with notes, Polaroids, and autopsy sketches. He believed each "project" brought him closer to understanding the soul. But he made one mistake: Mara Lin's niece was his eleventh. Mara followed the clues no one else saw-the misplaced library checkout timestamps, the rare flower only found in Thomas's greenhouse, the way he always seemed to know more than he let on. When she finally cornered him in his basement studio, she saw what he had done. And Thomas, smiling like one of his lifeless portraits, simply said, "Do you see it now, detective? The beauty in stillness?" Mara didn't respond. She just raised her gun and ended the collection.