Beers and Fears

by Tim Meyer

  As it had always been. And like it would always be.

  It moved throughout the room, pecking at the remains like a buzzard on a hare in the desert. The feeding would only satiate the hunger temporarily. The demons willed more souls to enter, beginning the arduous task of drawing fresh prey to its talons. It hoped the next meal would come sooner rather than later. The feedings needed to increase in size and frequency if the beast was to continue its development.

  ***

  Autumn had begun to take hold, caressing the town with a brisk wind. Mahogany and amber leaves crinkled along the sidewalks in a mindless search for a place to rest. The town grew quiet as daylight hours gave way to darkness. While the seasons churned around it, one thing remained constant, defying the progression of life.

  The brewery.

  The brick façade braved the silence that had fallen on the old building. Legends of murders had bolstered the brewery’s reputation as a den of evil. The owner struggled to keep the doors open once the public fervor and looky-loos died down. The lore had been dark enough to frighten away not only customers but also prospective buyers. Eventually, Matt had to walk away, a balance sheet in ruin and a bank account smaller than the critters that roamed the walls, free of distraction.

  Travelers drove past with hardly a glance at the haunted building. Children chose to walk on the opposite side of the street lest they fall prey to the spirits left behind. Rumors of apparitions in windows and shadows along walls provided incentive for avoidance, and fodder for local authors. Teens brave enough to face dares from their peers had scrawled satanic symbols and macabre words to reinforce the building’s reputation. One wisecracker had attached a bright yellow crime scene tape across the main entrance. A frayed and loose end waved at passersby.

  THE LAST TAPROOM ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

  (II)

  Demons.

  “I'm sorry, Mr. McDaniel,” Nolan said, dropping his pen on the pad and looking up from his notes. “I don't think the ramblings of a heroin-addicted Vietnam hero are really going to convince my readership of what took place there.”

  Paul grinned, then put the glass to his lips. He sipped slowly as he studied the young writer.

  Nolan sighed. He'd come here for something more than tall tales and cheap ghost stories. Irrefutable proof that the remains of Bayberry Bluff were haunted. That the bones of that place were still alive. What McDaniel had given him so far was a story about demons and visions of Hell from someone who had clearly been going through a rough time, battling his inner demons.

  Perfect if this were a Hollywood movie, Nolan thought, and not a book on true-life hauntings. He checked his watch. An hour had passed. No one else had entered Paul's bar, not a single customer. Outside, the storm continued to rage on, the rainfall showing no signs of slowing down. Behind the bar, Sylvester washed the same ten glasses over and over, pretending to keep himself busy. The small television in the corner played a local college basketball game, but the signal kept getting scrambled, freezing every ten minutes or so.

  “Are you saying that you're not buying into the legend, Mr. Nolan?”

  Nolan hated the way the man was smiling. His lips were crooked, all wrong. Like they weren't attached to his face. He also acted like he knew the story was bullshit, subterfuge, a method of toying with him. Putting him on. Trying to make a fool out of him by feeding him a bunch of bogus stories, stuff his publisher would balk at. He supposed the story of Blaze was partially true—maybe there was a man who had gone by that name, who'd worked in the place that had once housed the criminally insane. The mob aspect also could have checked out. During his limited research, Nolan had discovered the Italian mafia had sunk its roots in the area surrounding Bayberry Bluff. Drugs and prostitution rings. It was conceivable they were shooting underground pornography too.

  Maybe it's not all bullshit. Like that old adage—every fable comes from a shred of truth.

  “No, not at all,” Nolan said, taking a sip of beer. It had a sweet, fruity flavor, though the beverage was full and hazy. Paul had called it a New England IPA, though—not being a big-time beer drinker—Nolan hadn't the slightest idea what that meant. Beer was usually beer, but this—this tasted excellent. “I think most of it will check out, but—”

  “Check out?”

  Nolan frowned. “Yes, well, these stories are good and all, but they need to be credible. Reliable. Can't be pure fiction.”

  “So, you're calling me a liar?”

  “No,” Nolan chuckled. “Not at all. Just, in journalism, we need to verify the facts, nail down the details. Everything needs to check out. Be corroborated. I suppose you don't have references I can check with, do you? People who were there in the seventies? Someone who worked with Blaze? Knew him?”

  Paul leaned across the table. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Nolan. Not everything in this world can be truly explained. Verified, like you said. Sometimes, you just gotta believe.”

  Again, Nolan tittered behind a breath. “Yes, that's all well and good, but what I'm writing can be classified as non-fiction. Meaning, it actually happened.”

  Paul eyed him. Nolan wasn't sure if the man would explode with laughter or flip the table. He knew he'd insulted him, and he couldn't blame the guy for having hurt feelings. But still—facts were facts, and stories were stories, and, if he wanted to hit the best-sellers list, he needed to be as factual as possible. Stretching the truth a little wouldn't hurt, but telling stories that had never happened, flat-out tall tales, well, that would bury him behind the towering, competitive wall of literary fiction in Barnes and Noble. He'd be lucky to sell a hundred books that way, worldwide. No, his publisher wanted real-life accounts. Expected it. That stuff sold like the newest iPhone. Hell, his first two books were already on their fifth printing.

  Paul twiddled his thumbs. “Didn't you write a book on the Denver Demons? About that little boy in Colorado who claimed he was possessed by a hundred spirits?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “And you're gonna sit there and tell me that was a hundred-percent factual?”

  Nolan nodded, squinted in well-you-got-me-there fashion. “I see your point, but we had witnesses other than the boy himself, and his friends provided reasonable accounts. Family members. Third-party witnesses, doctors and schoolteachers, none of whom stood any chance of financial gain, provided testimonies. Swore they saw the boy levitate above his bed. Heard him speak dead languages. You know, stuff like that.”

  “Hm.” Paul considered this. “Well, I don't believe I have any such witnesses. Except, maybe old Dusty.”

  “Old Dusty?” He wasn't sure where he was going with this, but it sounded like he was shoveling more manure. Nolan could almost smell the fodder. How much more do I listen to before I say thanks, but no thanks?

  Just then, thunder crashed and the lights flickered, buzzing with the threat of darkness. Things were still scary outside, but it seemed like the worst was yet to come. He figured he'd wait out the storm. Listen to a few made-up stories, even if he couldn't use them. Maybe, just maybe, Paul McDaniel could tip him off to some useful information, stuff he could include in the new book.

  The new book.

  His dream project.

  Every time he thought about holding that new manuscript, he instantly saw his name on the New York Times Best-sellers list. The vision was so real he could almost smell the fresh ink.

  “Did you hear me?” Paul asked.

  Nolan shook his head. “I'm sorry, what?” Paul had been speaking, but Nolan hadn't heard a word. His delusions of grandeur had stolen him away from the bar.

  “We can go visit him if you like.” Paul swigged the last mouthful in his glass, dropped the empty on the table. “It'll be good to see my old friend again.”

  “Um? Now?” He glanced outside again. The storm was in full force. Wind and water dominated the outdoors. He supposed they could drive in it, but it was probably safer if they stayed in. Especially since they had a few beers in them.


  “Sure. Now is as good a time as any.”

  “But... the storm?”

  Paul waved off his concern. “It'll pass. Storms always do.”

  Nolan shrugged. “Well, all right. I'm game if you are.” He wasn't sure, but the beers were probably responsible for his being so agreeable.

  The old man laughed at that, which, for some reason, made Nolan uncomfortable. A part of him couldn't wait to get out of Ocean View. Hit the road. Do some real research for his future moneymaker. The other part—the smarter half—knew staying inside was the safer, better option.

  “I gotta hit the head before we bounce,” Nolan said, pushing himself up from the table. His legs felt a bit wobblier than he had anticipated. Goddamn lightweight.

  After two beers, he should have been fine. Good enough to drive. Good enough to walk a straight fucking line. But, then again, this wasn't some light beer, something that tasted like carbonated water. It was a little more potent. More delicious too.

  He made for the bathroom in the corner of the bar, Paul's snickers following him the entire way. He still didn't trust the guy. He half figured he was putting him on, but he'd come all the way from New York, already had his hotel booked in town, so what else was there to do? He had committed this much time and energy already, why not hear what the guy had to tell him?

  He closed the bathroom door behind him, locked it, unzipped his jeans, and pissed freely into the cloudy water of the toilet. A yellow circle stained the toilet's porcelain throat, and he figured cleanliness was the least of Paul McDaniel's concerns, which suddenly made him second guess those beers. If this was the condition of what was visible to the customers, Nolan didn't want to think about the status of the rest of the place, specifically, the area where the beer was brewed. He wasn't an expert, but Nolan knew sanitation was a huge part of the process. Any bacteria that got into a batch of brew could get someone seriously sick.

  He debated whether to throw up the beer Paul had given him.

  After he was finished, he made sure to thoroughly wash his hands, slathering his hands with soap, thankful the old brewmaster had at least provided some.

  Just then, the lights flickered in unison with another thunderous crash from the clouds. When they came back on, a woman was standing behind him. Her hair was matted with blood. Red streaks dissected her face, crisscross patterns of crusty crimson. Her eyes were missing. Bruises peppered her face, shaped like rows of knuckles. She was wearing a shirt that had Lost Demon Brewing written across it. Blood flecked her entire body, every visible inch. She mouthed something, her lips working like a puppet without a master. No words were spoken aloud, and Nolan had always been terrible at reading lips.

  He was too frightened to try anyway.

  The lights flickered again, and she was gone.

  He jumped, his back smacking against the wall. He folded to the floor, fear causing his entire body to shake. Even though he'd just emptied it, his bladder filled again.

  A knock on the door.

  Nolan's heart skipped, rattled around in his chest.

  “You all right in there, writer dude?” he heard Paul ask.

  Nolan was too scared to reply. He opened his mouth, but there were no words. No words for what he'd just seen. What he'd just witnessed.

  Since writing about the supernatural, he'd never experienced anything that could be considered as such. Until now.

  He didn't want to rise from the floor. He felt comfortable down there. Safe.

  “Hey, Nolan? You fall in or what?”

  “J-just a minute!” He closed his eyes, gathered himself. His thoughts swam.

  It couldn't have been real. It was my imagination. The story, it got to me. It wasn't real, but it got to me.

  He used the wall to pull himself up. Walking over to the mirror, he made sure the woman's reflection was gone.

  It was.

  He washed his face with cold water, dried it with the available paper towels. Once he felt good enough to walk, he opened the door and stepped back into the bar.

  Paul was waiting for him, his rain slicker already on, the hood pulled up over his head.

  “Jesus,” the old man said. “You look like you've seen a ghost, huh?”

  Nolan didn't find that very comical. Paul flashed him a knowing smile, and Nolan wanted to accuse him of something—what exactly, he didn't know. Harboring ghosts? That sounded ridiculous. Spiking the beer with some sort of hallucinogen? That was more likely, but he had no proof. And, like the good journalist he was, he wasn't about to accuse anybody of anything without the evidence to back it up. That would be irresponsible.

  He'd do his work, though. He'd go with Paul to see Dusty, whoever he was. He'd listen to his story, gather all the information.

  He'd write his fucking book on Bayberry Bluff, the legend of that place.

  He'd make his million. TV deals. Movie stars. That walk up the red carpet. He could see it now, as clear as he'd seen the dead girl in the mirror.

  “Yeah, you don't look so good, all right,” Paul told him. “Guess I'm driving.”

  Nolan agreed and took a step toward the coat rack.

  “On the way I'll tell you all about Dusty and what that son of a bitch did. It was the 80s... and boy, you should have seen the place...”

  HAVE A DRINK ON ME

  I take the corner stool. It's early yet and I have my pick of seats around the bar, but I always pick the corner stool if it’s open. It's the perfect position in any bar and I mean any bar.

  Doesn’t matter if it's an L-shaped bar and you had the outside corner or a straight bar and you’re tucked in to the last stool between the bar and the wall, the corner stool always offered the best vantage point. If the place is hopping, the corner always has all the action. If the place is seedy, the corner always offers the best vantage point to spot trouble early.

  This is my first time in the bar. I’m not sure if it’s a dive or alive but I’ve got the corner stool, so it doesn’t matter which way the night goes. There is plenty of night left seeing as it's not even prime time yet.

  I’ve had a bad time of things for a while now, long enough not to remember exactly how long things haven’t been good. I’d been driving east for quite some time, headed for the shore, before I realized I needed a drink. This place grabbed my attention. The ‘BAR’ sign out front looked out of place on a building that otherwise looked like it could have been a busy factory in the industrial age or one of those crazy mental facilities you always see them frequent on those stupid ghost shows.

  I like a bar with character, and this had character in spades. And it was a good thing too because it didn’t offer much else. Inside it’s a big open space. A concrete room with a bar built into it as an afterthought. It echoes inside and reminds me of the sound of the dead calling from beyond. There isn’t enough action to fill the big space. I kind of hope things will change for the better soon because, despite its shortcomings, there was something about the atmosphere that I found attractive.

  “Lemme get a Bud. Draft.” I call to the bartender who only looks my way to acknowledge my patronage.

  The bartender wrinkles his nose, “No Bud here.” He nods to a chalkboard hung up over the bar.

  I glance up and see a tap list on a slab of black slate. Indeed, there was no Bud to be found. There was no Miller, Michelob, not even a Pabst. Instead there are names like Salty Serpent Pale Ale and Sand Dooms IPA and Men In Black N’ Tan.

  I’m not sure what the hell is going on at this bar, but I know I’m thirsty. I tell the bartender: “I dunno, just gimme a beer. Whatever ya got that’s beer.”

  The bartender’s shoulders lift with a silent chuckle and a nod. He grabs a glass, places it under one of the taps, tilting it at a 45-degree angle. As the liquid gold dispenses from the tap, the bartender maneuvers the glass straight up and down until the creamy head crests the top. He places the glass in front of me, a rivulet from the foamy head slithers down the frosted glass. The perfect pour.

  I ask the ba
rtender if I can run a tab, placing a few dollars on the bar top as a tip for pouring the first beer of the day so perfectly. The bar may be a bit run down looking but what it lacks in decor it makes up for in professionalism.

  “Haven’t seen you around here before.” The bartender says, “Can I trust ya with a tab?”

  It's an odd question; it says he doesn’t trust me but is leaving the question of my creditworthiness in my corner.

  I add a twenty to the tip. “Yeah, I’m good for it.”

  The bartender nods. He scoops up his tip and down payment on the tab and sticks it in an envelope next to his cash register. Then he says the weirdest thing, “It’s not the alcohol I have to worry about you handling here.”

  I have no fucking idea what he’s talking about, so I raise my glass, toasting his oddball statement and pulling a refreshing sip from my mug. The shit isn’t half bad. I’m feeling better already.

  ***

  Sitting at the corner stool, enjoying my whatever-the-fuck-it-is cold beer, I notice a detail I hadn’t immediately observed when I walked into this odd place. It is quiet. There aren’t any TV’s on, and a jukebox stands in the corner, screaming only in light and not sound. I realize this once the cold suds sink into my gut and trips my Pavlovian instinct to want to watch a baseball game on the tube or bop my head along to something from AC/DC’s Back in Black album.

  Chances are the Yanks are getting ready to play. Willie Randolph is probably taking B.P. while Phil Rizzuto is prattling on about where he and the grandkids went for dinner in the Hamptons over the weekend.

  “Ho-lee cow!” he would be saying to Bill White who would be laughing half-heartedly at his jokes while waiting for an opening to turn the talk back to baseball and the game at hand.

  “TV broken?” I call to the bartender.

  He shrugs. “Might be. There’s a jukebox.”

  I pull another gulp of beer and get up to browse the jukebox. I plunk in four quarters that are jingling around among other change in my pocket. I pick out some Hall and Oates, Men at Work, Duran Duran and, of course, Toto. I love that Africa song, it’s been a constant earworm ever since I heard Casey Kasem play it on American Top 40 a few weeks ago.