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.
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