A beaten down ghost hunter drinks away his regrets. | Word Count: 4,105
The bearded man sat precariously on a tilted stool hanging on to the bar for support while he guzzled his glass pint of beer down, trying to finish it as if it was the end of days. The foam splashed and dripped off his face. His messy dark hair was frayed like it caught fire. His nose was a little flat and misshaped perhaps from it being smashed recently. He was not at all concerned about the mess he had become. His coat was tattered with holes, dirty and stained with blood and dirt.
His gloves had holes and had crusted over with dried blood, but it was not his own. At lone time it looked as if his button up and tie were fitting of a salaryman. Whatever happened, his dress code went down the drain, wrinkled and soiled to the point where one could see his smell from afar.
The man thought he fit quite nicely in with the ambiance. This bar was in a seedy place. It was run-down, broken, stained and the air smelt of mold and rotten wood hung down from the walls from rusted nails. Garbage littered corners and rats nests were a dime a dozen in the walls.
There was only one yellow light that illuminated the bar counter, while the rest of the small room was drenched in shadows. The only light outside came from the moon, which with a full moon gave this night a pearly tint. This was a place for the abandoned and the despaired, a midnight bar for the broken and soon to be dead.
With an uncaring loudness, he slurped up the last drop and let his arms go soft so that he let his glass fall down with thud, not too hard to crack it, but enough to give a loud thud to an empty bar.
“Another one sir?” asked the bartender after a few seconds had passed.
The man with the coat looked up, then hiccuped.
A normal person would have screamed, a sane one would have ran, and a drunk one would have been induced to vomit from the terror of seeing the bartender being dead, yet talking as if all was right with the world. Clearly the bartender was a ghost.
“Bah. Why not?! It’s mmmy birthday!” said the drunk man.
“Really?” the bartender exclaimed sarcastically as he polished an empty pint glass.
Nah!” the drunk man cackled, “my birthday was four months ago. I am just making excuses to drink.”
“It’s better for both of us if you know what you drink for.”
The drunk man glanced back up to get a good look at the bartender.
He was tall and had a curly goatee and mustache. As ghosts were, they were almost transparent. His skin was a faded translucent blue that glowed. His eyes were sunken like having his insides sucked inward. Where the whites of the eye were once were, were replaced with blackness, blending in with his dark iris. His hair was pure white. Most notable, being the feature of intrigue and macabre answer to how he became a ghost was the hole in the bartender’s chest, right below the neck. His tie and vest were torn from what could be attributed to a bullet wound. There was a red splotch soaked into his white shirt and silver vest.
The bartender finished polishing the glass and then did something spectacular. The constant glow of the ghost surrounded the glass and with no resistance it passed through the bar counter. It was normal for a ghost to phase objects at will through other objects. It was one of their powers.
“Better so I – so I don’t end up like you?”
“Better for my floor, so you don’t puke on it.”
This caused them both to laugh.
The bartender carefully picked up the man’s empty glass and placed it in the grimed filled sink and turned the knob of the faucet. In a series of pressurized screeches a rush of water banged through the pipes until shaking the end of the faucet and pouring a dark liquid that smelled vague of sewage. There were no health inspectors in this area, at least no living ones. Fortunately, this ghost was content with no vengeance.
The man noticed that while he was drinking here, the bartender most often had a resting face equal to that of a skilled poker player. He only gave hints of his emotion only when necessary. At this moment he gave a smirk, one full of authority and laced with a little witty curve on the side of his mouth, like he knew things others did not. Whatever personality that ghost had while alive was trouble hiding in plain sight, but the drunk man knew that he was perfect for this job, even in death. The best bartenders were always cheeky and could think on their feet, offering life advice to unsolicited troubles as quick as whipping up drinks for people who forgot they were even ordered.
The drunk man swayed a little from being light headed then pushed himself fully onto the lopsided barstool. He took a breath and forced his throat to clench, keeping everything down below where it should have, despite protests from his body. It was time to get a hold of himself.
“I wouldn’t have puked anyway.” the drunk man held his breath, then exhaled, “I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning in fact. Just liquid down there.”
“My, my. It tells. A shot of tequila, an old fashion, a Moscow mule, a Manhattan, a Sazerac, an IPA, and a stout. You are drinking pretty heavily my friend.”
“Yeah, yeah. What’s your name Specter? I can’t forgo courtesy to the one who serves me drinks just because you are dead.”
The bartender tried to roll up his sleeves, but it did not work. Many ghosts have the same dispositions and mannerisms, going about their days in the same way when they were alive. Old habits die hard, that the drunk man knew.
“Bogdan.” he said, nodding his head, “and yours sir?”
“Micah.”
“Pleased to serve you, Micah.” Bogdan held out his hand.
With no hesitation Micah grasped the ghost’s hand. Instantly he felt a chill down his spine as a part of him seemed to flow into Bogdan.
“Damn Specters”, thought Micah.
“Likewise, Bogdan. Finding your bar was hard.” Micah lied.
“Specter bars tend to be – we are all fleeting, free roaming folk. Free from life, but held captive in death. Quite odd is it not?”
“Quite so.”
“So Micah. What happened? Why drink so much when it’s only midnight? Shouldn’t you get some sleep?” Bogdan asked, taking down a glass of scotch from the top of the liquor lined shelves.
The thing about Specters to remember was that they always wanted something. If they didn’t immediately kill you for your life energy, then they were cunning enough to find a way to steal it. Specter bars were a commonality ever since the age of Specters began really. It became more in fashion to see them in cities for the past a hundred rather than out in a hidden obscure place. There was an unofficial agreement between the Specter hunters and some savvy Specters for a mutual trade. Besides the offer of alcohol which few turned down, even from their enemies, there was the gift of information, which the hunters desired most of all. There were two options for these longer existing Specters: either consumed by madness and be marked as a rogue or inundated by obsessive cleverness and be named as an informant. Only the naïve would think of them as a business partner and only the foolish would be so careless as to be fond of them.
“Regrets Bogdan. Sooo many regrets. Why live any life without integrity? What is the point of being a person if you can’t live as you say, do as you say? I hate liars and con men.”
“So you fell short of a promise?” Bogdan said as he tipped the amber liquid into a short rocks glass, slid in an ice cube from a tray beneath the bar, and pushed it in front of Micah.
“On the house.” he said with a sly smile.
Micah took the glass and eyed its simple form. It glowed orange radiated under the bar light and was scented with sweetness and nuttiness from one whiff. He toasted the air and tilted his head back, letting the whisky rain down into his throat with a warm memorable burn.
“Thanks. What a treat. What a treat.” Micah said with a placid gratitude.
Micah did feel the whisky comfort him like a heated blanket wrapping around his mind, however, there was no high accompanying the drink as it used to be when he drank for fun. It was all empty.
“Yeah – I lost a dear friend today. A partner from my agency. I broke a promise to keep him safe.”
Bogdan gave a sigh and leaned down on the counter. His elbows floated right above the cracked counter so that he came face to face with Micah. He looked solemn and serious. Even dead, he was a good bartender, who at least pretended to be empathetic.
“It’s always sad, even in your line of work. Spector hunters have short lives.”
Micah folded his arms and let his head hang. He really was ragged; his clothes were full of holes, tears, rips, all stitched or patched. Underneath the coat, he had a gun holstered to his side. This made Bogdan uneasy for more than one reason, although he said nothing of it, as he was both a Specter and a well-experienced bartender who knew enough about brawls. Being a Specter meant having some amount of power compared to the still living.
Micah’s face bandages began to slip and he pressed them back up to his face, giving Bogdan a view of his arm where a few stray ends of medical tape hung out from his sleeves.
“It was worse than usual.” Micah explained, focusing on his speaking without slurring, “everyone – everyone – knows – absolutely, knows that when they join our agency that they will die sooner or later a very painful death. Specter hunting is ain’t fun. The Excel Agency takes on the worst shit out there.”
“Oh. That agency.” Bogan’s eyebrows raised in a genuine surprise.
“Everyone should know us by now. I joined them for a paycheck. Damn Specter Hunter Society hiked their fees again and then pulled shady corrupt shit at their acquisition halls. Excel may have the best pay rates, but the SHS is killing us with their monopoly!” Micah’s fist hit the table with the last word.
Micah’s face puffed out as if was going to finally rid his stomach of excess alcohol, but again he clenched , took a breath. If he threw up now he would have more putrid breath than he currently already did.
“Even when I was alive I knew most Spector related dealings were the most cut-throat. I suppose an organization that hunts the dead is not going to be the most moral. At least not one that began at the very beginning of Specters.”
Micah extended his hand with the glass and gestured for more high end whisky.
“No. I know your limits better than you do yourself. I would like you to remain alive.” Bogdan warned.
Bogdan took the glass from him and placed it in the sink all while eying Micah with an intense interest. There was a story to every customer and the ones the bartender preferred to hear most were the ones where a lesson was learned.
“Very well.” Micah said with a snort.
“Tell me about your partner. I want to know more. It will keep you here a little while longer.”
Micah cracked his back and moved his neck around. He hated repeating stories, but he was indebted to Bogdan and had to cash out at some point.
“I was quite arrogant, you see. I suppose the dreamer has to be. Arrogance is excessive pride, and pride is balanced confidence. A fool has just arrogance and a false sense of pride, and that was me. Delusional.” Micah said, with a horrible remembrance to a few hours ago.
“Those that bring change need to be. That was the conventional wisdom when I was alive.” Bogdan commented.
“Aye. But that is for the ones who can actually bring change. Most of us in life are paltry offerings for the benefit of the powerful. There are no geniuses out there who deserve to be god-kings, only ones willing to ride the backs of others with or without gratitude. If you aren’t lucky to rise to the top of all this shit in life, then you are stuck where you are born and die there. I thought I could do it – I thought I could be the hero. And Bogdan – I couldn’t do it. All I did was get Cain killed tonight.”
Micah shook his head and rubbed his temples. All this time he was gritting his teeth in raw recollection of his friend dying in front of him causing him to have a massive migraine.
“Can’t what? I assume Excel sent you on your worst extermination job to date.”
“I couldn’t kill her.” Micah uttered, looking directly in the eyes of Bogdan.
Bogdan then knew who Micah was talking about, yet still had to ask.
“Did you really go to her dungeon?”
Micah chuckled and tasted a burp filled with gastric juices.
“Every Specter Hunter goes to take up that challenge at some point or hopes they do before they succumb to death. Why not meet the merry lady of the dead herself?”
The bartender raised his eyes and shook his head, tossing his long strands of hair around.
“The ancient Chrysanthemum? You actually dared to go inside the Royal Dungeon Gardens.” You were arrogant, aright. Bogdan mocked.
To surprise a ghost was a hard thing to do, but mention one innocuous sounding word – the name of a flower no less – and they will become agitated. Ghosts hated Specter hunters and did fear the pain terrors that came when being attacked with a purification weapon, but only the Chrysanthemum was one thing they truly feared. A well known observation was that upon being one, they had a sense of what was inside that place without ever entering.
“A place of riches. More wealth hoarded there than all the oil Princes combined. A place saturated with Specters, and not kind ones like you. Cruel and wicked bitterness so acrid you can feel it in the air before you even come to the bog surrounding it. Not to mention, the Original One. The oldest Specter around – lady death incarnate.”
“The Recluse got him – your friend Cain.” Bogdan said and shook his head with pity.
“Exactly right!” Micah spat, “The Recluse rips out the soul but that kind of death there is no rest. It’s a place beyond time. She tortures you for as long as that place still exists. Cain is still in there, dying a thousand deaths over again because I convinced him I knew a way to kill her.”
“What a horrid fate for any.” Bogdan, then paused on thought, “but did you know a way to do it? To kill The Recluse. I heard of some famous Specter hunter hurting her once.”
Micah squeezed his fist together, closed his eyes, and took a breath to keep the lurching away.
“I had a plan. I won’t say how. I will not give that secret away, but I will tell you I did temporarily kill her. The thing I underestimated was how The Recluse can reform and come back from a mortal blow. That famous hunter was Cassandra Williams. First hunter in generations to injure The Recluse and the first to render her paralyzed for a brief time. That is where I learned that secret from when I was a teenager sneaking peeks at horrors far beyond my experience.”
“You were trying to imitate. She sat on a pedestal and you wanted to be like her.” Bogdan reckoned.
“I was a willful idiot kid dressed up like an adult. Cassandra died for that stunt and I would too if Cain had not saved my life.”
“So what now? Keep drinking until you die? Just don’t do it in my bar tonight. Drop dead outside. Last thing I need is a Specter Detective dead tonight.” Bogdan growled.
“No worries my friend. Not planning on dying until I get Cain back.”
“Get him back! He’s basically a Specter chained in the belly of a greater one. You can’t bring him back from death.”
“There’s a way. Death in an unholy dungeon like that can be atoned by a holy action. His body will not decay there. His soul only needs to be returned.”
“She will never give you the chance.”
“Oh. I think she will. That’s the only certainty I have left and I have nothing to lose anymore. Cain was the last of what I consider family nowadays. Anyway, the Recluse deals in trades just as you do – Bogdan. You have been trading booze for my despair this whole night. You are the same as her.” Micah said, staring down Bogdan.
For the first time Bogdan lost his composure for a second, glowing brighter and wavering like mirage in the desert. The air became cold and ice crystals appeared on the bar counter racing all the way to Micah’s arm. Bogdan’s fists closed and his eye sockets glowed faint red while his bangs floated around like snakes. He reminded Micah that all Specters however nice at first had the potential to kill very easily. But before recovering and calming down, waiting for him to finish.
“Whatever I am now and whatever she truly is – we are not the same Micah. I live on as a Specter just as I lived on as a human. Dying would have been better, but I can’t relinquish my existence willingly. She chained me to this fate. Don’t lump me in with her machinations.” Bogdan
“Sorry. I spoke out of line. A Specter’s got to eat and at least you make good drinks.” Micah apologized looking down at the rotten part of the countertop.
This time he meant what he said.
Bogdan fell into a silence then fell into the realization of how stupid Micah was being – if not for the implicit trade of life energy that a Specter’s Bar required to sustain a Specter’s form, then he would kill Micah out of sheer frustration. But that was one aspect Micah knew about them. When a Specter made a deal it was ironclad. They had integrity, unlike when they were human.
“You’re crazy! Going back to that place.! he said, raising his arms, “and I am the dead one, here. Listen to me if there is anyone left you would listen too – what’s the point?”
“The point is the promise to Cain. I told him I would take care of him. Sure, he chose to save me. But I live and will die for what I stand for. Cain’s soul will suffer there for eternity unless I can trade places with him.” he said not looking up.
He was too tied to his plan. For the first time in the whole night Micah placed his hand in his coat pocket where his pistol lay. It was inscribed and blessed by the Specter Hunter Association. One of many weapons that could be used to kill a Specter. There was no going back on his intentions now.
Bogdan tried to stroke and twiddle his mustache, although his fingers simply went through hairs.
Micah tilted his head up and glared with an impassable coldness for a human. It was packed with a dense and unflinching determination. Bogdan understood why this man was so confident beforehand as his demeanor said it all, in no uncertain terms: I will win even if I die.
Bogdan had been eying his pocket closely. A Specter will kill when they know a promise is about to be broken and they always were on edge when they were making deals with a Specter Hunter.
“I bet you really want to kill me right now, don’t ya? I hear the bloodlust is hard for a lot of Specters to control. That’s what separates you from the other ghostly evils I hunt – control.” Micah said as if it was a challenge, not taking his hand out of his pocket.
In an instant the ice crystallized everywhere in the room appearing like a blast of arctic wind. The feeling grasped Micah’s nerves and held him in a restrictive tension akin to being surrounded by a hundred wolves on the edge of a forest waiting for the moment to strike him.
But it did not come and the cold air receded and the ice slowly melted.
“Yes – every Specter feels that hunger to feed on the living. But – I will remain professional. I have some special clientele arriving later on – some foreign ambassador or some equally political tightwad. Going to have a terribly antsy security detail of Specter Hunters with him. It’s best not to stir things up tonight.” Bogdan said calmly.
“I should be the one to pity you.” Micah laughed.
“You know. I actually like you more than I want to kill you. That’s more than on account of your delicious despair. I think we would have been friends of sorts when I was alive. Got myself shot a few years too late to have met you when I worked at an actual bar.”
“Buddy. I have been friends with all the bartenders since moving here. So that makes a second regret of the night.” Micah said, getting to his feet.
His feet planted down on the creaking boards with a waiver then he stood up straight. He was a functioning alcoholic. He could look sober while being drunk off his ass and no one would suspect a thing.
“By the way – how did you get that gunshot?” Micah asked.
“My wife.” he pointed merrily at his chest, almost proud of it.
“Cheating?” Micah said, cocking his head.
“Yup. Although it was a messy divorce. I got spiteful when she took my whole collection of expensive alcohol. In retaliation, I decided to steal her cat, Cornelius. That’s what did me in: a shotgun to the chest.”
“Sounds like I should make you a drink.” Micah said as they both laughed.
“I would say come back anytime, but we both know that’s not the case.” Bogdan said took the same bottle of scotch he served him before and held it out to Micah, “Take it for later. You probably will need a good drink going down into that hellhole. I hear it’s worse seeing her a second time. She already has more than enough time to know your mind inside and out.”
Micah took the bottle and placed it in his coat pocket.
“Dead or alive. It’s some kind of virtue meeting a person like you.” Micah said.
“Give her hell. Maybe you can kill her from the inside out with your stupid-ness” Bogdan said as a farewell.
Micah gave a wave like he was departing a good friend and exited the bar through the half open door. Around the corner of the building he passed a couple shriveled bodies that must have had a bad run in with a Specter. They were all dried up with nothing left other than a nearly mummified husk.
Micah walked under the moonlight city heading towards the edge of the city where all who were smart knew never to wander near. The bog where the Royal Gardens had appeared since ancient times on certain moonlit nights like this one. It was only about a hundred twenty years since the first Specter came outside the Chrysanthemum. Since that time hundreds of Specter Dungeons have appeared all over the world. When a Specter kills a person or is near when someone dies, there’s a chance they will also become a Specter. Like a disease, it spreads. It all began with the home of The Recluse. It would only end there.
This night Micah would not sleep, nor would any other night thereafter, as he headed straight for The Chrysanthemum. It was a nightmare-land where all hubris filled people go to die when their dreams fade. One day perhaps a better world would come, one without The Recluse, but not tonight. Tonight he will fulfill his promise. That’s the least he could do.
Off Beat Off Kilter 