A beaten down ghost hunter drinks away his regrets. | Word Count: 3,924
The man dining in at the midnight bar sat precariously on the tilted stool hanging on to the bar for support while he guzzled his glass of beer trying to finish it as if it was the end of days. An excess of foam dripped off his burly beard. He had messy hair that was frayed and smelled of smoke. The bridge of his nose was flattened and misshaped from one too many blows, although was not at all concerned about the mess he had become. His trench coat and gloves were tattered with holes, dirty and damp with blood and unknown stains.
At one time it looked as if his button up and tie would have been 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. A large rip on his coat of right shoulder indicated he once had a patch sewn there, but it was no longer present.
The man thought he fit quite nicely in with the ambiance. This bar was in a seedy place by far. It was run-down, broken, cracked, and cached with mold. The air smelt of rotten wood which loose boards hung down from the walls from rusted nails. Garbage littered corners next to fallen roof tiles and rats nests were a dime a dozen in the walls.
Under the cobwebs of the ceiling, only one yellow light illuminated the bar counter, while the rest of the small room was drenched in shadows. The only light outside came from the full moon and 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, the man 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. He hunched himself over on the bar staring directly down.
“Another one sir?” asked the bartender knowing his patron was already intoxicated before entering his bar.
The man looked up, hiccupped, then rolled his head around the room before stopping and staring at the bartender. He gave a full intense examination of who had served him at this run down bar.
The average person would have screamed, the sane one would have ran, and the drunk one would vomited, then fainted from realizing the bartender was a ghost. Fortunately, the man was drunk and crazy. He had been accustomed to dealing with the dead for some time now and was unfazed.
The bartender was tall and had a curly goatee and mustache whitish in color to match his hair. His skin was a translucent blue that glowed, perpetually stuck in this current state having almost faded from this reality. His eyes were sunken; they were sucked inward and missing the iris. Where the whites of the eye were once was only blackness with two tiny white pupils. Most disturbing was the hole in his 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. He was a dead body frozen in time.
“Bah. Why not?! It’s mmmy birthday!” the man finally responded.
“Really? You don’t say.” the dead bartender exclaimed sarcastically as he polished an empty pint glass with a dirty rag.
Nah! I really don’t say. ” the drunk man cackled with open arms, “my birthday wasss four months ago. I wanna drink to drink – that’s all. What’s bad about thad!”
The bartender had a feeling exactly why he came to his bar. Lonely fools looking to vent don’t stumble into a place like this unless they had information to find or drink away their sorrows until their last breath. This drunken man gave a certain vibe of both – rich in regret, yet obscuring something dangerous about his mind.
The bartender smiled and placed the pint glass through the bar itself and into the cabinet below, pulling a new unpolished glass from beneath to keep his hands busy. A faint light shined whenever the ghost phased through solid objects.
“It’s better for both of us if you know what you drink for” the bartender explained, -“you will enjoy every sip and gulp to its very peak that way. Drinking with awareness is the best way to live. Tasting every flavor in its entirety and letting any emotions and sentimental memories soak into the experience is what makes alcohol magical.”
The drunk man cocked his head back up, “Better the experience sweeter the atmosphere right? It’s better I don’t die quickly and end up like you?”
The bartender kept a skilled poker face giving hints of his emotions 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.
“Better for my floor, so you don’t puke on the floor.”
Any tension that arose before was erased when they both laughed.
The drunk man got up, swayed a little from being light headed then pushed himself to the next barstool that wasn’t lopsided. He took a breath and forced his throat to clench, keeping everything down below where it should be, despite protests from his body. It was time to get a hold of himself – there was much to do tonight.
“I wouldn’t have puked anyway.” the drunk man exhaled, “I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning in fact. Just liquid down there.”
“Of course not. Not you. Not after you had a bottle of wine, five shots of tequila, an old fashion, two Moscow mules, a Manhattan, a Sazerac, an IPA, and three stouts from various bars. You are drunk my friend.”
The drunk man nodded knowing his memories were free game to the bartender. Mind reading would not be the accurate term for it; more so it was emotional scrying where thoughts and emotions are consumed. Ghosts with those types of abilities are considered higher level “specters”. They are quite strong and very smart.
“No – It was….mezcal!” he tried to argue.
The bartender made a clicking sound with his voice and chuckled.
“Fine! I didn’t even ask to find out which one it was – I just pointed….Whatever – What’s your name Specter?”
The bartender was about to roll up his sleeves, but halted mid action knowing better than to try. Many ghosts have the same dispositions and mannerisms from their previous days alive.
“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 in a sudden rush.
“Damn Specters.” said Micah, “it was difficult to find your new set up.”
“Specter bars tend to be – we are free roaming folk. Free that is from life; held captive in death. Quite odd how some die and others like me turn out like me. I refused to believe in ghosts and now I am one.”
“Perhaps I was always an odd one. I fail to see how everyone doesn’t turn out like you.” Micah answered, holding his dizzy head.
“Every memory I see of you so far – Micah – has been strange and hazy. I can’t pin down if you were damn drunk every waking hour or there is something else peculiar about you. What happened my friend? Why drink tonight?” 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 want an exchange. Ghosts were simple and almost mundane to deal with. They dwell for bloodlust, while specters want life energy. The cunning ones find ways to steal it. Bars were common.
“Regrets Bogdan.” Micah said, eyeing the scotch being poured into a rocks glass, “Like ghosts and specters – regrets are a hindrance to the mind.”
“Ah. Mixed emotions. A layered one.”
“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. I hate myself.”
“So you must have fallen short of a promise?” Bogdan said as he sat the glass of amber liquid in front of Micah.
“On the house.” he said with another sly smile.
Micah held the glass up to his eye. The bar light radiated an orange light from the glass sparkling like a far off star. He took a whiff filled with sweetness and a tad of nuttiness hinted with a woody note. A memory of the spring cabin trip with his son arose in him. Trying to not linger on the past too long, he toasted the air, tilted his head back, and let the expensive whisky flow down his throat. What a warm memorable burn it turned out to be.
“Thank you. What a treat. What a treat.” Micah said with a placid gratitude.
Micah felt the drink comfort him like a heated blanket wrapping around his mind. A bitterness stayed on his tongue long after swallowing. The back of his throat tingled, which ignited another memory. One that was connected with his regret.
“I lost a dear friend yesterday. A partner from my agency that I no longer work for. I broke a promise to keep him safe.” Micah said, giving the glass back.
Bogdan gave a sigh and leaned back on the counter behind him. His elbows floated right above his chest as if to cross his arms. He looked solemn and serious. Even dead, he was a good bartender and at least pretended to be empathetic.
“It’s always sad, even in your line of work. Specter hunters have short lives.” Bogdan admitted, knowing full well he was no ordinary drunk.
Micah folded his arms on the counter and let his head hang. He really was ragged and tired, but always ready to fight. Underneath his coat he had a gun holstered to his side. Spector hunters did not carry ordinary guns. Bewitched weapons can kill the supernatural.
“My friend’s death. It was worse than usual.” Micah explained, ” Everyone who joins that agency knows 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 and they pay damn well.”
“Oh. That agency.” Bogan’s eyebrows raised in a genuine surprise.
“Damn Specter Hunter Society hiked their fees forcing Excel to set the bar for higher targets. Their monopoly is killing us!” 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.”
“The SHS is supposed to send backup when dungeons are overrun. If it hurts the execs bottom line, they say even the best hunters are replaceable. I say the dead are easier to trust than shit-wipes who wager lives for an extra buck.”
Bogdan filled the glass with the same high end whisky, “I know your limits better than you do yourself. You are good for another drink.” Bogdan said persuasively.
“Very well.” Micah said with a snort.
“Tell me about your partner. It will keep you here a little while longer. Your body may be weary, but your soul is full of delicious moments.” Bogdan softly spoke with greater lust and greed.
Micah cracked his back and moved his neck around becoming restless, but knew he should always tip his bartender well.
“He was absolutely a great man. The opposite of me. I was arrogant and he was humble – a good balance which is why he was assigned to my unit. I suppose I was the leader who dreamed. Got seniority for my bold hunts. He was realistic and cautious, looking for ways to improve while hedging his bets. He always said, ‘Arrogance is excessive pride and pride is balanced confidence. A hunter needs confidence to make a living, but the longer one is in this line of work, the more prideful they get about their wins. Don’t be that kind of stupid Micah’ – BAH! And yet I was! ” Micah shouted, almost failing off the stool.
“Those that bring change need to be foolish. That was the conventional wisdom when I was alive. Got me into trouble, but brought a lot of fun too.”
“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. 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 of the century among us hunters and gain traction in the admin world. That kid – Cain – turned twenty-three a month ago. I got him killed yesterday. Thirty-three years I swore never to let a team-member die and I lived by it.” Micah said as rubbed his temples.
He cried all he could yesterday. No tears left for tonight.
“Mighty strong specter if they can’t kill you. I have been feeding off of you like a buffet and not once have you fallen over. Most hunters by now are crying on the ground and reliving their worst fears. Your mental stamina is glorious.” Bogdan uttered with glee.
“She is eternal – of course. I truly couldn’t kill her.” Micah said looking directly in the haunting eyes of Bogdan.
Bogdan’s mood shifted to sour. He knew who Micah was talking about and grew fearful at the thought of who.
“Did you really go to her dungeon?”
Micah tasted a burp filled with gastric juices.
“Every Specter hunter worth their pay 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, “The Chrysanthemum Gardens? You actually dared to go inside the Holy Mausoleum of the Dead. Your arrogance was understated.” Bogdan mocked.
To surprise a specter was a special thing to do, but mention one dungeon that has been known since ancient times and they will become agitated. The dead naturally want to avoid dying through purification and thus hate hunters. Yet, true fear for them was reserved not for mortals, but what lies inside the Chrysanthemum. Ghosts retained an instinct to that place and understood it was a forbidden area that leads only to pain.
“Yes. Now you understand. I was soaked in delusion! A place of riches and untold power from bewitched items. A place saturated with specters worse than you on your worst day. I could feel the cruelty and acrid bitterness floating in the air before I laid eyes on the oldest specter known – lady death incarnate.”
“The Recluse devoured him – your friend Cain.” Bogdan said not with pity, but dread.
“Yes. The Recluse ripped out his soul and toyed with him in a place beyond time. If humans don’t turn into specters there, the Recluse captures you for an eternity of torture. Cain is still in there, dying a thousand deaths a day. Reliving what must be his regret of my failure to heed his warning not to go because I was convinced I knew a way to kill her.”
“A horrid fate.” Bogdan, then paused on thought, “but did you know a way to do it? To kill The Recluse. I heard a tale of one hunter dealing a sizable blow.”
Micah squeezed his fist together and closed his eyes as his vision became more blurry. The extended conversation with Bogdan had accumulated a toll. The longer he stayed, the longer he was at risk of dying a slow and nasty death.
“That famous hunter was Cassandra Williams. First hunter on record to injure The Recluse. Only a few know exactly how it went down. The injury is not what mattered as much and the paralysis that resulted after. A strategy can be built around that effect to chip away the armor protecting her. But nobody can withstand a fight long enough to try. Cain had his own plan to sacrifice himself without knowing until I woke up outside the gardens floating like a pathetic piece of trash in the bog.”
“Cassandra sat high up on a pedestal that you envied. Never be the hero.” Bogdan advised.
“Fifty-five years old and yet I am idiot kid dressed up like an adult. Cassandra was a genius among all geniuses and died for that stunt – probably fully aware of the outcome of never winning.”
“So what now? Tell the same story over again while you keep drinking until you die? I would be delighted to feast on whatever shell of you is left over tonight, but even I considered that a waste of your talents.” Bogdan admitted in full truth.
“No worries my dear specter friend. I won’t die until I get Cain back.” Micah said, taking off his coat and tossing it to the floor where a rat scurried off to hide in a corner.
“Get him back!” Bogdan exclaimed, “He’s already a specter chained inside the stomach of a devil. You can’t bring him back from death – that would be beyond human and ghost!”
Micah stood up and shook off the nausea he had while drinking. Bogdan became sullen at his moment.
“There’s a way. Death in an unholy dungeon like that can be atoned by a holy action. Bodies 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. Cain was the last of what I consider family. The Recluse while hard to fathom is a specter and she deals in trades just as you do. You have been trading booze for my despair this whole night. It is easy to eat up every emotion I have when I am broken. You are the same as her – different form, same stare.” Micah said, unflinching from Bogdan’s torturous gaze.
At this moment, Bogdan lost his composure glowing brighter and wavering like mirage in the desert. Ice crystals appeared on the bar counter racing all the way to Micah’s arm as if the whole room dropped below freezing. Bogdan’s fists closed and his eyes turned faint red while his hair floated around like snakes. He reminded Micah that all specters however cordial they speak or attempt to be human again, they are not. The potential to kill is always 100%.
Micah pulled out his gun and pointed it forward. It was nothing but a simple revolver with intricate etchings inscribed all over it. In the chamber were bullets blessed with holy water from SHS bewitched in order to purify all manner of ghosts.
Bogdan hesitated looking at the unwavering demeanor of Micah and his glow dimmed back to normal. The air became warm again and the ice melted, evaporating into sparkles of light.
“Whatever I am now and whatever she truly is – we are not the same Micah. Dying would have been better for me, but I can’t relinquish my existence willingly just the same as when I was alive. Don’t lump me in with her machinations of hell. I kill people like you to eat and live another day.” Bogdan expressed the opinion every ghost has said when asked why they do what they do.
“If I could say sorry to you I would – but a specter is a specter and I am a hunter. At least you have a good selection of drinks – cheap ass specter in the town south of here had crap and tried to blindside me with his gang of friends.” Micah said, putting his gun back into the holster.
“Just tell me 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.”
Bogdan tried to stroke and twiddle his mustache, although his fingers simply went through hairs before commenting, “You know – it’s a first time feeling like this, but I actually like you more than I want to kill you. We would have been friends of sorts when I was alive. Got myself shot a few years too early.”
“It would be a first for me too. A specter as a friend. Now that’s a legend bigger than Cassandra.” Micah said, rolling up his sleeves, “By the way – how did you get that gunshot?”
“My wife.” he pointed merrily at his chest, almost proud of it.
“Cheating?”
“Yup. While a messy divorce it wasn’t that what set her off. I got spiteful when she took my whole collection of expensive alcohol. In retaliation, I decided not to return her cat, Cornelius – he liked me better anyways. She came back to the front door with a shotgun pointed right at my chest.”
“Sounds like I should make you a drink.” Micah said, honestly.
“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 tossed it across the bar to Micah who caught it, “Take it for later. You probably will need a good drink going down into that hellhole. I hear rumors that its worse seeing her a second time. She already has more than enough time to know your mind inside and out to break you faster.”
Micah held the bottle tight, “Dead or alive. It’s some kind of fated meeting me and you. Despite the soul sucking you did, something about our talk makes me feel better.”
“Hell if I know damn thing you crazy bastard! Maybe you can kill her from the inside out with your stupid-ass arrogance.” Bogdan said as a farewell.
Micah gave a half-hearted wave and exited the bar through the dented door he first stumbled inside from. Around the corner of the building he passed a couple shriveled bodies that must have had a bad run in with a nearby specter. They were all dried up with nothing left other than a nearly mummified husk. The SHS makes frequent rounds to pick up the bodies.
Micah walked under the moonlight heading towards the edge of the city. A short train ride and then a hike through a forest would lead straight to a dungeon gate that he needed to take. This night Micah would not sleep, nor would any other night thereafter, as he headed back to The Chrysanthemum. A dark realm where all hubris goes to die. One day perhaps a better world would come, one without The Recluse, but it was not tonight. Tonight he was determined to fulfill his promise. That’s the least he could do.
Off Beat Off Kilter 