“Let me see,” he offered, pulling the napkin close and looking over the series of numbers and letters. Instantly, his face went pale.
“What?” Betty asked. “What is it?”
“This is the place your pop bought?”
“I assume so. He’s the one who wrote down the address.”
Pushing the napkin back toward her, Carlos shook his head. “Don’t go in there, Betts. Tell your dad to forget about it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m telling you. Don’t go in that building. You don’t want to open a new bar there.”
She tried to look her boyfriend in the eye. Beads of sweat had suddenly built up on his forehead. “Why?”
“There is something wrong with that place,” he admitted, swallowing hard. “It’s cursed. Stay away from it.”
“Cursed? What the heck does that even mean? Is it like one of those locations that always fails no matter what new business buys it?”
He shook his head. “Worse. Just forget all about it.”
“You mean it’s, like, haunted or something?”
“I have to get back to work,” he snapped, standing up and grabbing the nearby rag. He vigorously began whipping the wood of his bar.
“Carlos?” she asked, standing up. “You can’t just leave me in the dark like this. Tell me what you’re so afraid of?”
“You better go,” he instructed her. “I’ve got a lot to get done before we open.”
CHAPTER 5
* * *
Cursed. What could he have meant by that? How could a building be cursed? Did he just mean that every bar that tried to open there ended up going out of business? Or was it something else?
“Whatever,” she groaned to herself, pushing her boyfriend’s warning out of her mind. Maybe he just had a bad experience with the place. That had to be it, nothing more.
She refused to believe it was haunted or cursed.
Pulling up along the street outside the brick building, she checked the napkin with the numbers on the curb.
Sure enough, they matched.
Getting out of the truck, and making darn sure she remembered her coffee, she looked up at the place. Two square stories of brick. It wasn’t huge by any means, but it wasn’t tiny either.
It honestly didn’t look like much. The first floor looked bare—just the front door and one small window with a blinking OPEN sign hanging in it. The upstairs had arched glass windows looking out on the street.
Betty wondered what was up there if the bar was downstairs. Maybe it was an old gambling hall. She shrugged and was about to step up on the curb and head inside when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone watching her from the upstairs window.
Snapping her head up to get a better look, she realized there was no one there.
Sighing, she figured it was just a trick of the light, a reflection on the glass, and headed toward the front door. Stepping inside, she was instantly chilled by the cold air of the room. “Sheesh,” she muttered. “Does he have the air conditioning on full blast?”
Moving into the room and letting the door shut behind her, she looked back and forth for her father. “Pop?” she called out. “Are you in here?”
“I said, I’m right here,” he snapped, appearing from behind the counter like a jack popping out of the box. Moving across the room, she realized he was halfway down a staircase that was back there.
“Why are you snapping at me?”
“Well, maybe if you listened to me the first time, I wouldn’t have.”
“The first time?” she asked, feeling confused.
“Yes,” he groaned. “I heard you come in five minutes ago. I yelled hello, but you ignored me.”
“I wasn’t here five minutes ago,” she informed him, starting to feel concerned.
“Don’t try to lie to me. I heard you open the front door and come in. When I called up to you, you didn’t answer. A minute later, I heard you calling and I said again that I was in the basement.”
“But I wasn’t here, Pop,” she argued. “I literally just walked in.”
“Right, sure you did,” he shook his head and disappeared into the basement.
“Also, did you know that the OPEN sign is on?”
“Again?” he groaned, popping back up for a second. “That thing is on the fritz. I swear I turned it off.”
“I’ll get it,” she offered, sighing and walking back toward the front door and the window.
“Thanks.”
“By the way. Why do you have the air conditioning on so high?” she asked, looking for the switch.
“What air conditioning?” he asked. “This place doesn’t have it.”
She glanced back toward the bar. “Then why is it so darn cold in here?”
“Cold? I don’t feel cold at all,” he confessed.
“Whatever,” she groaned, finally locating the switch for the sign. She flipped it, and the neon went quiet. “There.” Turning to talk to her father again, she heard a buzzing noise of the sign coming back on. “What the heck?” She moved back to the sign and flipped the switch again. This time, nothing happened. “This thing is busted,” she yelled to her dad.
“Just unplug it,” he suggested.
“Right,” she agreed, following the cord to the outlet. Gripping the cord, she tugged. It didn’t budge. “Come on.” Yanking harder, it still didn’t move, almost as if it were glued in. “Piece . . . of . . . junk,” she spat, giving on last mighty pull, ripping the cord from the wall.
On the instant, the prongs came free from the outlet, there was a magnificent spark of electricity and Betty let out a surprised shout as she stumbled backward—an explosion of light coming toward her. The heat from the little blast warmed her face and brushed her hair.
“What happened?” Pork asked, trudging up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him.
“I think you have a bad electrical connection here or something,” she nodded, still trying to catch her breath.
“Are you okay?” he asked, moving around the counter.
“Fine, Pop.” Standing herself up, she was surprised to find herself in one of her father’s famous bear hugs.
“Glad you’re safe,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry for snapping earlier.”
“What is this?” she teased. “You were just giving me a hard time a few seconds ago.”
“But I couldn’t live without you,” he nodded. “Who else would I give a hard time?”
“Nobody, Pop,” she smiled. “Now, tell me what else I can do to help—preferably something that doesn’t involve electricity.”
“Wait until you see downstairs.” As he guided her away, neither of them noticing the sign buzzing back to life again.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
“You won’t believe all the stuff that’s down here,” Pork informed his daughter as he guided her behind the bar and toward the basement stairs. “Most of it looks like it’s in good shape, too.”
“What stuff?” Betty asked, reaching the top of the stairs. As soon as her foot touched the first step going down, she had a strange sensation, unlike anything she’d ever felt before. A cold wave passed over her body, goosebumps prickled all along her flesh from her legs to her neck. The cold was gripping her as if the basement were actually an ice cellar.
“Oh, you know, stuff for the bar,” her father continued. “Tables, chairs, glasses—” Pork paused when he realized she wasn’t following him and looked up at her. “What is it?”
At first, Betty didn’t respond. She only stood there, trying to make sense of what she was feeling. Finally, she knew what it had to be—dread—a stark combination of uncompromising loss of hope and totally encompassing fear.
Then, just as quickly as it had overcome her, it seemed to melt away. She still felt slightly chilled, as she had when she first entered the building, but not to the point of wondering if an unnatural winter had hit the small Arizona town.
“Betts?”
�
��N-nothing,” she admitted. “It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure?” he pressed. “Because you looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
Smiling down at him, she began to laugh. “Right, a ghost. Like that would ever happen.”
“My little girl,” he shook his head and smiled. “Always the skeptic. You’d think with all those scary movies you watch, you’d have more of an open mind for the supernatural.”
“I have an open mind,” she argued. “I just don’t believe in ghosts, that’s all. I mean, movies are movies, right?”
“If you say so, short stack.” Turning, he walked down the stairs again, leaning heavily on the old brass handrail for support.
“Did you know this place is supposedly cursed or something?” she asked, following him down the narrow staircase into the dimly lit basement.
“You mean like, haunted?” he asked, following the stairs as they made a right angle at a middle landing.
“Sure?” she shrugged. “Haunted.”
Pork chuckled. “I did get the impression the realtor lady was afraid to come in past the front door.”
“She was?” Betty reached the bottom behind her father. He was slow going up and down stairs due to his arthritis, one of the reasons he wasn’t allowed to take long rides on his hog anymore. Still, he could get around pretty easily.
“Yeah. She was pale and sweaty and looked like she might just faint.”
“Maybe it was the heat?”
“That’s what she said, but I knew better,” he nodded, giving a sideways smile like he’d solved a great mystery.
The room before them was large, potentially larger than the floor above, but you wouldn’t know it for how lousy it was with junk. Round black tables with fold down legs stood on end, leaning one on the other in the corner. Stacks and stacks of black metal chairs were lined against the brick wall next to them. There were also stacks of glasses, plates, bowls, and more all lined up in plastic crates. One corner held an assortment of musical instruments including an acoustic guitar, a disassembled drum set, and an old broken down keyboard.
There was even a wooden shelf full of old bottles—wines, beers, and other assorted liquor products—all full and waiting to be opened and used.
“Wow,” she gasped. “It’s like someone put everything down here in storage in anticipation that they’d come back and reopen the place.” If it wasn’t for the thick layer of dust, and the canopy of cobwebs over everything, she would have thought the previous owners had just walked out the day before.
“It’s all the better for us,” Pork proclaimed, sticking his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans and rolling back on his heels proudly.
“I can’t believe it,” she whispered.
“What do you think of my investment, now, short stack?”
She nodded. “I’m getting there. I mean, we could probably be open for business tonight with the amount of stuff down here.”
“Well, we have to wait for my paperwork for a business permit to go through, but yeah. Once we haul things upstairs and do a little cleaning, we’re basically ready to go.”
“If we can get a hold on the business element of this whole thing, we might just be in good shape.”
“I’d say we already are,” he sniffed, wiggling his mustache back and forth as if he caught a little bit of the dust in it. “I mean, I’ve done my research. I started looking into owning my own bar years ago but just couldn’t give up the road. However, when the doc told me to stay put, I realized now was the time.”
“That’s what you’ve been doing on the computer the last few months?”
“Yep, looking at locations to buy. When I spotted this one, I couldn’t believe the price and snatched it up.”
“Sheesh, what’s wrong with it?” Betty laughed quietly. “Maybe it really is haunted,” she joked.
“It’s not impossible,” Pork admitted, picking up the rag he was using earlier to wipe things down.
Betty raised an eyebrow. “You believe in ghosts, Pop?”
“Short stack, when you’ve spent as many years on the road as I have, you are bound to see some unexplainable things.”
“But, wasn’t I with you a lot of that time?” she asked, remembering her childhood of constantly moving around, only spending about half the year at home in Arizona. However, she didn’t remember any ghostly experiences on the road.
She wouldn’t lie to herself, she had always loved a good horror movie. She and the rest of her band mates had weekly horror movie nights just because they loved to get scared and scream, but actually believing all of that stuff about ghosts was a different story.
“When you were born and your mom passed, I cut down on my travels quite a lot.” He picked up a fresh rag and tossed it at his daughter who caught it midair. “I could only go out riding during your breaks from school.”
“I remember,” she replied. She always had found school to be such a bore, and she knew her father disliked his part-time job at the hardware store. They looked forward to the trips they took each summer, and even the shorter ones during spring break. The road was in her blood as much as her father’s. However, her dream was to ride the roads in a tour bus with her two sisters of rock, sharing their love of metal music with fans all over the country.
Their band, The Pentagram Sisters (a name they had picked in honor of their love of horror movies) tried to recapture the style and essence of hair metal music from the eighties. So far, it hadn’t caught on in their tiny Arizona community.
“The point is,” Pork continued, “we did have a few strange experiences together. You just don’t remember them, is all.”
Betty strained to recall any times in her travels where she encountered what could feasibly pass as paranormal. Unfortunately, nothing readily came to mind.
A moment of cool air brushed her face and the quiet sound of a whistle echoed against the walls, like wind through a keyhole. She shivered, “I just can’t remember ever having any weird things happen like that,” she admitted, zipping up her leather jacket against the growing chill.
CHAPTER 7
* * *
The father and daughter team had gotten immediately down to work, buckets of soapy water nearby, scrubbing down everything in the basement. The plan was to get enough items done that they could start carrying them upstairs and setting up the bar. With any luck, they’d be ready to open as soon as the paperwork went through.
Already, Betty was looking forward to this. Maybe working with her father, running a bar and having a real job, wouldn’t be so bad. She’d decided she liked the idea of being part of a family business—just like Muddy and Foxy talked about.
She’d called them and asked if they could come help out later that day in moving things. Of course, being good sisters of rock, they’d agreed.
So far, the only downside she saw was how cold the building seemed to be. With no air conditioning, she could hardly believe it. However, she assumed that the lack of windows probably contributed, sort of acting like a cave. She figured, when the place was full of bodies, it would warm up fast.
“Anyway, who told you this place is haunted?” Pork asked his daughter while he sat on a chair, washing down shot glasses.
“Carlos,” she admitted.
“Carlos? When did you see him?”
“This morning. I dropped by on the way here to ask him for some tips on how to help run this place.”
“And to see if he was really okay with someone else opening a bar in town?” he asserted, knowing his daughter well.
Betty rolled her eyes. “Okay, you caught me.”
“So, you betrayed your old man and went and saw the enemy?” he teased her.
“What is it with you men?” she complained. “Carlos basically said the same thing when I was there.”
Pork chuckled. “Just some friendly sport, Betts. You know that.”
“Well, I’m only worried it’ll grow into a real competition and you two will be at each other’s throats.”<
br />
“I doubt that will happen,” he pointed out. “Carlos is a good man. I’m a little surprised you two never took a chance.”
“Whatever, Pop,” she groaned, unwilling to share the information that she and Carlos were dating.
“Anyway, what did he say? About us opening a bar, I mean.”
“He said he was thrilled to see you doing something and that it would be good for you.”
“Just what I thought,” Pork gloated. “And this is good for us. It gives you a job to do, a place to play your gigs, and something for me to leave with you when I’m gone.”
“Now, don’t start that,” she shot back.
He shrugged. “We all have to join the great feast someday.”
“Don’t you have to die in battle to join that feast? Or at least die on the road?”
“Oh, I will,” he asserted. “You just wait and see, short stack.”
“I don’t want to wait and see. No more talk about death,” she ordered.
“Hey, you were the one who brought up ghosts. The only way you get those things is if someone dies first.”
“I only brought it up because Carlos seemed so freaked out about you buying this joint.”
At this, Pork looked up at his daughter with a furrowed brow. “Freaked out? You mean he really believes this place is haunted?”
“Seems so,” she confessed. “He got all choked up and refused to talk more about it.”
“That doesn’t sound like him.”
“That’s what I thought,” she agreed. “I mean, how can a man like that really believe in ghosts or whatever?”
“Well,” he said, leaning on a nearby chair for support while he stood up, “Maybe there is more to this haunting business than we first thought.”
“I doubt it,” she shot back, still not willing to believe that ghosts existed.
“If Carlos thinks so, I’m inclined to believe him,” Pork admitted, walking across the room toward the stairs.
THE BIKER AND THE BOOGEYMAN (The Cracked Mirror Series Book 1) Page 3
