2 - The Muscle

Awake.

At least, I think so. The lack of anything but black is kind of distracting.

It's cold, damp. My hands have been fastened behind my back - it's clear the people who tied me up have done this before. A pulsing ache is growing at the back of my neck from the strike that put me out. My chest feels like I rammed a brick wall and my face is numb. So, I felt the ground face-first.

I can hear voices - soft ones, as if they're expecting me to wake up in the middle of things. Though, to be fair, I did. I can't make out anything, but they seem to be coming from in front of me - figure there's a door there.

An idea sprung into my head, and I managed to pull myself up against a crusted wall behind me. Steadying myself, I braced my shoulder. These doors should be weakened intensely from the damp and the age, anyways.

With a swift breath, I ran forward...

...And broke the door off it's hinges and onto the floor. I fell, hard, and suddenly, my face wasn't numb anymore.

The room was lit - it seemed to be the same cellar that I was in before, only with everything highlighted. In the center of the room, stood two people - a man who was a good head taller than me and packed with more muscle than I could even dream of, and a woman who, forgive me, was a legitimate dwarf.

I had all of two minutes to appreciate the pain returning to my shoulder before the man grabbed me by the collar and pulled me off the floor. From here, I got a better view of him: his skin was tinged... blue? What? And his ears were pointed and cut, like he messed up a pierce and decided it was worth it. His nose took up the whole of his face, but I could make out the brown eyes filled with all manner of hatred pointed at me.

He pulled me closer to his face, probably intent on choking me with his breath. With a growl, he spoke in a gruff tone. "Figures this one ought to wake up soon." He turned to the door that remained in splinters on the floor. "Although he did a number on the door."

The woman piped up, in a deeper voice than I pictured from her size. "I'll call Charlie, maybe get a wrought-iron one put in by Thursday." She turns to me. "We need to deal with this quick."

The man smiled. "I got an idea." He extended both hands, let go of me, and drove a fist into my stomach.

I hit the ground and vomited. There might've been a flash of red in the bile.

My ears still ringing from the pain, I made out their voices.

"Nathaniel! We're not killing this one!"

The man chuckled. "What, seriously? Four wandered in, and you want to keep the one that breaks our shit and steals our liquor?"

"And I told you the same thing when it came to those three: we'd have just been fine with a simple headache and a little blackout!"

"Look, just because they couldn't take a simple punch to the gut without shitting themselves--"

"Nathaniel!"

I managed to regain my composure enough to try and stand. The two stopped arguing and looked at me.

The man laughed. "See? He's fine!" He grabbed me again and picked me up. "But we do need to deal with ya."

The woman slapped the back of the man's knee. "Nathaniel, remember what Mickey said."

Nathaniel scoffed, then set me down. I nearly fell from the pain in my gut. "Alright, alright. Just trying to scare him a bit."

I felt another urge, knelt, and let loose another torrent of bile. Hopefully the last. The woman approached me, careful of the puddles.

"Hey, buddy, are you okay? You feeling alright?"

I felt my head rise. My voice came out weak, hoarse, and all other manner of words. "I was just disemboweled by Chuckles over here after waking up from a headache the size of Texas and you're asking me that?"

Silence, while I continued gasping for air. I heard the Nathaniel guy cough.

I picked myself up and found I rose above the girl. Yeah, dwarf was the proper term here.

With actual breath filling my lungs, I looked at Nathaniel. "Fuck you, man."

He growled, but stood still. The girl motioned for me to look at her.

"Alright, alright. Look, we, uh, can't have you running around now..."

I gave her a quick glance. She was small, really small. And cute, but I think that's a side effect of being tiny. Other than her size, she looked like a miniature woman rocking a formal skirt and attire. Same style as the big guy, now that I look at them in the same frame.

Apparently, the look on my face was vicious, as she froze on the spot. She stepped back a bit, intent on giving me space.

I could use this chance.

I spat as much blood as I could on the ground in front of her. "What? So, what, you some mob bosses or something?" I gestured at Nathaniel. "He your fucking lackey or something? You gonna call a guy named Vinny to fit me with some cement shoes or something?"

The girl looked shocked. "What?! No! Vince is off for the week!"

I smiled. "Oh, goody. I get to meet Mickey, instead."

Suddenly, a look came across her face, and she turned to Nathaniel. "That's... actually a good idea."

Fuck.

Nathaniel grabbed me again - he's loving this too much - and hefted me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. From here, though, I caught sight of the red door - it was wide open, and pitch black darkness was visible inside. The woman ran through, then stopped at the door frame.

"Nathaniel, keep him off the ground until we meet up with Charlotte. We can't have him running, remember." And with that, she was gone.

Nathaniel, meanwhile, began towards the door with me in hand. He ducked under the door frame, and into the black void, which, as it turns out, is cavernous as all get out. The tears welling in my eyes from the heavy vomiting and gut punching make it hard to get an idea of the ceiling position or where I am really. I can also barely see my breath float in the air, so it's really damn cold - probably for the liquor they're storing.

It was then I noticed the noise. Chatter, like a bar - well, no shit. I couldn't make out any light, but I can here the voices coming and going, and as Nathaniel kept descending down whatever staircase we were coming down, they only grew louder than the ringing of  my ears.

Finally, Nathaniel stopped. I felt the pure cold on my numb skin, now.

I heard another voice in the darkness, just as gruff as Nathaniel here. "Mickey says you're good. Keep the monkey on a leash, though. We don't want an incident."

The woman's voice came. "Don't worry, Jimmy. Our 'friend' here ain't going nowhere."

Another door opened, and the voices were loud. As Nathaniel walked through the door, I caught sight of who they were talking to - a literal ogre of a man, complete with a thick horn growing out of his balding head and a single, solitary eye in the center of his face. For a minute, the vomit almost came back, but then I realized Nathaniel would probably do worse to me if I splashed him.

Soon as I noticed the dim lights in the room, the voices stopped. I looked beside myself, and found a bar filled with all manner of people and... things. Things straight out of myths and legends - an orc here, an elf there, a gaggle of wasps that somehow form a man, a dwarf looking like Gandalf's granddad, everything. Each and everyone, sitting at a table, holding a large glass, and staring straight at me with a look of disbelief. Apparently, among a gaggle of freaks, I'm the odd one out.

The bar itself was interesting. From the looks of it, it was something out of The Great Gatsby, with sequins, shelves, and all manner of New England-posh lifestyle touches to the furnishings.

And I just knew then and there how deep I had gotten myself into. I had seen what they kept hidden, and now they can't let me walk away alive.

We walked into another room. As soon as the door closed behind us, Nathaniel hefted me again and threw me onto the ground. I tried to get up, but a foot on my back kept me low. I looked up at a pinewood desk.

There, looking over the desk at me, was an old man - mercifully, human. His trimmed beard and mustache were lined with silver and white, and his eyes were sunken in from decades of age. With a trilby, this man might not have been out of place in a mafia scene, which was only confirmed by his pressed, gray shirt.

He spoke. "So this one?"

I heard the dwarf speak. "Yes, Mr. Mickelson."

He rose, then walked in front of the desk. Looking me in the eye, he smiled. He turned to Nathaniel. "Then we need him quiet for a bit."

And with that, I felt Nathaniel land a hook to my head before I passed out again.

1 - The Cellar

"Open for business."

The sign above the doorway said it, but the place looked abandoned, the bar covered in a thick layer of dust, the shelves as barren as the Mojave in August. Stools stood, statues in a dark room, gathered around the remains of the once-green pool table, the redwood turning black of rot, and the pool cue dangling near-daintily over the side.

Whomever had been here had evacuated long ago. And yet, the slightest hint of life, of a specter of a presence, still seemed to haunt the premises, as if desperate to renew what gloriously forgotten times had been had in this den of vice.

The only light in the room remaining came from behind me, through the open doorway that had been boarded up decades ago, and the malfunctioning light-bulb, across which the corpse of a moth threatened to flutter again, to spread it's shadows once more across the room in a gorgeous ballet.

Still, what I needed was here. And what I needed was an answer.

I had come across the location for this place through reading flyers and old advertisements from my attic - my great-grandfather had kept them hidden in an old cardboard box, tucked away between the edge of a dried car battery and a spare radiator. It had wrinkled and cracked from the battery acid and the residual moisture, but it held a taped side that seemed weathered. A flick of the wrist, and a pocket knife stolen from my late uncle, and the box had been opened - showing all of the hobbies that my great-grandfather had partaken in: horse-betting, boxing, hard-drinking chief among them.

This was when my eye caught the edge of a crusted, light-blue flyer, advertising the grand opening of a "specialty" bar - a bar that, as far as my research is concerned, never existed. Discussion with my grandmother, who had suffered through most of my great-grandfather's less pleasant tirades as a child, reveals that he would often head out after the horse races or boxing matches, grumbling and murmuring about "meeting Mickey for a Grey pint", then returning in the wee hours of the night, blind drunk and laughing about the "things that Charlotte knew to do with that tail of 'ers".

I traced the bar's location through several old maps of the city, provided by the local Library with about as much skepticism as possible when dealing with a man chasing ghosts, and came up with a building on the outskirts of town, long ago witness to a possible arson - but only reported on once, in the local equivalent of Weekly World News by a man with the probably-not-very-trustworthy-pseudonym of "Richard Puck". Still, a lead's a lead, and I headed out.

Initial contact was not very positive. In addition to being called various synonyms of "dork", pulling up near the building resulted in an elderly homeless woman pointing at me and shrieking like a banshee. After scaring her off with a broom, I then came upon the fact that not only was it burnt up and boarded, the building itself was only a good house long.

But, answers were answers, so a stiff kick and several minutes of separating nails from forty-year old pine led to this.

Walking through, it's clear to me the ashes of whoever had burned alive in here had drifted away from their skeletons, as colonies of dust sprung up as I took steps further inside. I managed a flashlight from my back pocket, and shining some brighter light only served to make the dust appear in full clumps. A door in the corner caught my eye: it had a Victorian design, with flourishes across the top and bottom in the same vein as the illustrations in an English novel. It was cherry red, almost appearing clear of all the dust that had smothered the place.

I felt a chill near it. I'll look into it later.

Past the bar, into the backroom, cider kegs and shelves holding empty bottles and crushed cases were stacked against the wall. Wood, burned or otherwise, covered the floor, and the roof was leaking ambient light against a broken mirror on the wall. A ledger - the tender's, possibly, when the place still ran - sat on a table, dried pen lying across the charred pages. More dust had risen here, and mixed with the ambient light, made the whole room rather harsh on the eyes.

Checking the bathrooms, the toilets had been broken, as the ceilings had let loose their loads on the porcelain thrones. Water stains remained the only tell-tale sign of proper hygiene here, although the mirrors here merely suffered from a blanket of dust and ash, rather than their shattered sister in the backroom.

Returning to the barroom, the red door caught my eye again. As I looked at it, it seemed to me recently that it got brighter in the time I spent looking through the rooms. As if the dust that had accumulated fell off once it felt my presence. I have no idea if it made me or the situation insane.

Finally, the only other room on the premises: the owner's office. As opposed to the destructive state of the rest of the building, this room was almost intact, save for a broken typewriter near the desk and the shelves having collapsed in on themselves. The office desk had multitudes of papers, stacked near as high as the ceiling, and all of them intact save a bit of dust. This confused me: why is the rest of the building charred or destroyed, yet the manager's office looks as if the man left for a stroll a week ago?

The papers on the desk were nothing special - mere records of the various patrons that had made their way here over forty years ago. Except... no, the last name on these records is listed as having arrived about a week ago - and the pen is smeared. Wet. As if the man had just run out for some reason.

Searching through the desk, multiple pens in shades of blue and black, all of them still wet, as well as sheets of paper too whole and untouched.

I ran back into the barroom, and came back to the red door. And it was then I had noticed the gold doorknob. Perfectly polished, as if it had been installed yesterday.

I checked the floor underneath. The dust had moved away from the door, as if it swung open very recently.

Reaching for the knob, I grabbed hold, twisted, and pulled open the door. It creaked like a rusted clunker, but moved smoothly enough.

Stairs were in the doorway, and I realized they would lead to a cistern of sorts - which seemed odd, considering the bar was American in design. Shining the flashlight down the stairs, I took the first step down.

The air felt overwhelmingly... cold. As cold as the bay in winter. It was also exceptionally dry, with my breath almost stolen from me as soon as I exhaled. I came across a cavernous space - perfect for storing proper spirits and liquor. Casks lined every wall as far as the shadows were parted, and for a minute I decided on returning up the stairs and leaving - but the lack of dust on any of the shelves caught my attention. Drawing nearer, I realized there was still edible liquor in these casks.

I pulled my father's old misshapen flask from my pocket and, with as much strength as I could muster without breaking the barrel itself, I pulled the cork off the top of a barrel placed against the wall. Dipping the flask in, the smell of mint and spice wafted to me, and I found my thirst had been magnified by the dryness of the room. I pulled the flask out to discover it filled with an aquamarine liquor, almost shimmering against the metal. It smelled of mint, rather than the usual spices and roasts that I had associated it with.

Tempted and encouraged by my dried throat, I took a quick gulp. The alcohol was smooth, but sharp, almost like swallowing ice. The strong flavor of mint filled my mouth, and I found myself holding my mouth open to air it out, then filling it again with more of the drink. Whatever this was, it was definitely wonderful, and I scooped up more for later. Hopefully, if a man can be persuaded to come back here with me, he'd might be persuaded to try some.

I believe it was then I noticed something behind one of the casks. Shining the light on it, I found another door, red, Victorian in design. Whoever owned the establishment, he loved the design well enough. I moved towards the door, eager to see more of this building's mysteries - and maybe sample more of it's liquor.

More stairs, and another cavern of a room. Here, though, I noticed along the wall were antique torches, like the kind used in old horror movies, the long sticks topped with oiled rags. Casks didn't pile against each other; instead, a desk sat in the room, almost exactly like the one in the manager's office. No papers stack to the ceiling, this time; instead, one single slip of paper with a crooked and rusted switchblade stuck through to the desk itself. The note was to the manager, I assume, and it was possibly written by a rival. I picked it up, pocketed the switchblade, and read:

"Charlotte,

 

Look, hon, I'm telling you: Archie ain't got the stones to through the race. It's time to cut off Ferguson before he decides that the Mermaid ain't legal property. You know it, I know it, and I'm not having the Council on my ass just because some drunk piece of shit decided to fall for a fish with tits.

- Nathaniel"

Mermaid? No matter how many times I looked at it, it was clear as day - Mermaid. A mythical creature? Here, in the building?

Folding the note, I shined the light into the rest of the room, once again coming across a Victorian door in red. Despite the others, however, this one was scratched up, aged in ways the others weren't. Every minute I stood there, the room felt colder; every nerve in my body acted up, telling me to walk away. But my curiosity got the better of me, and with another swig of the special liquor, I pulled the knob on the door.

As the door swung open, I recalled one last image: the sight of a large, brute creature with a single eye. In that moment, however, the world left me, and I fell unconscious.