Beers and Fears

by Tim Meyer

  As soon as she rounded the corner to the back, she saw the back door open and an older woman wearing jeans and a t-shirt waved at her. “You must be Alli.”

  “I am,” Alli said, confused.

  “We’ve been expecting you. Please, come in.”

  Alli got to the doorway and felt the intense presence behind her, barring her path.

  “I get her first, on the tarp,” Tina said.

  “No. A deal’s a deal. I eat her,” the demon standing behind Alli said.

  THE LAST TAPROOM ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

  (IV)

  Paul had just finished the story when Nolan realized they weren't heading back to the Ocean View Hotel. The thought that he should open the passenger's door and bail prevailed once again. They were going about fifty and, at this speed, he didn't think the fall and tumble across pavement would kill him. He was pretty sure he'd survive. Might land himself in a hospital bed for a day or two, but his confidence level was high. A few broken bones. Some scratches and bumps. But he'd live.

  Wouldn't kill me. No way.

  And the best part? He'd be away from Paul McDaniel and his stories.

  His hand went for the handle. Paul didn't see him, or, if he did, he kept his mouth closed. Maybe he wanted him to do it. Kill himself by throwing himself out of a moving vehicle.

  Nolan, at the last second, decided against the potentially suicidal maneuver. He still had a lot to live for. A loving wife. A baby on the way. A job he liked that paid fairly well. He got to travel, live in New York City. It was a cozy life, full of happiness and no regrets. Certainly not worth risking trying to escape from Paul McDaniel's wild ride.

  “Where are we going?” Nolan asked, lowering his hand to his side.

  “Well, I told you I'd take you back home, but that was a lie.”

  Nolan pounded the door with his fist.

  “Whoa! Easy with the merchandise there, friend. No need to act hateful.”

  “I went on this ride with you expecting you to show me something that I could use. So far, you've told me three stories I'll never be able to fact-check and you've made me dig up an empty casket in the middle of a goddamn Nor'easter. Tell me—am I supposed to be ecstatic about that?”

  “I think I've given you some A-plus material. And I have one more thing to show you.”

  “Oh, boy. Can't wait. What will it be this time? A palm reader who will tell me when I die? A dead body in the middle of the woods? Oh, I know. I bet it's a New Jersey diner that doesn't serve pork roll.”

  “Jesus Christ, you're wound tight. Here...”

  Paul reached down, under his seat. When his hand resurfaced from the darkness below, it was holding a sixteen ounce can of craft beer. He cracked the top and offered it to Nolan, who looked at him as if the old man had completely lost it.

  “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” shouted Nolan. “You can't open a container of alcohol in a moving vehicle! If we get pulled over, we're both going to jail.”

  “Stop being such a pussy.” He continued to hold the can between them. “Take it. Drink it. It'll loosen you up a little. Which might be good for where we're going.”

  Nolan reluctantly accepted the can. He read the label. Lost Demon Brewing. Blood-Orange IPA. Satan's Pour was written in bold white lettering under the brewery's logo, an open door leading into a fiery abyss.

  “Been saving that one for a rainy day,” Paul said, smiling at himself in the rearview.

  “Lost Demon?”

  “Yeah, figured I'd resurrect the brand. We plan on launching some new beers next month. What do you think of the label?”

  Nolan rotated the can. The label showed a vision of Hell—towers of fire, demons walking across molten rivers, thrones made of human skulls—and Nolan felt his skin move.

  “Drink it,” Paul urged.

  “No.”

  “Drink it.” This time he spoke with venom. When Nolan didn't react, Paul reached under the seat again.

  When his hand returned from the darkness, Nolan nearly jumped through the window. “What the fuck, man!” He found himself staring down the barrel of a .45.

  “I said drink the goddamn beer,” Paul said, the gun in his hand unwavering. “Or so help me God, I'll blow your fucking brains out all over the goddamn place. And I don't want to do that because of the mess. Understand?”

  Nolan's hand trembled so much that a splash of beer danced up from the mouth of the can, spilled over the rim.

  “Drink it!”

  Nolan flinched. He reached for the door, pulled the lever, and braced himself for his meeting with the unforgiving pavement.

  But the door didn't open.

  “Don't be a fool,” Paul said. “You're not going anywhere. Now, drink the goddamn beer or kiss your goddamn life good-fucking-bye.”

  Slowly, Nolan brought the can to his mouth. He sipped the blood-orange IPA. It was quite good, fruity and hoppy. He took another sip, and not because Paul McDaniel and his gun told him to, but because he actually enjoyed the flavor, the bold combination of orange and grapefruit and the bitter bite of the hops.

  “Taste good?” Paul asked.

  “Yes. Very.”

  “Hm. Maybe we're ready to launch after all.”

  “We? Who else is involved?”

  Paul took his eyes off the empty road and stared at him. Then, he lowered his gun before stashing it on the dashboard behind the steering wheel, close enough in case he had to use it again. Nolan decided it was best not to provoke that scenario and to listen to everything the man told him to do. At least that way he might make it through this alive.

  “Don't worry about it,” Paul told him. With his eyes back on the wet road, he nodded. “We're almost there.”

  The wipers cleared away the obscured view outside. Paul turned the car down another dark street, this one stocked with empty buildings and rundown establishments. Stores that used to be thriving businesses now sat in ruin, casualties of the cancerous economy and hard times had by all. In the near distance, at the end of the road, Nolan finally saw where Paul was taking him.

  Bayberry Bluff.

  Nolan had never felt so terrified in all his life.

  * * *

  Paul stabbed Nolan in the back with the barrel of his .45, pushing him along. Nolan had dragged his feet since they had left the car. He didn't want to go anywhere near Bayberry Bluff. Not because of the stories he'd been told, but because the building had been abandoned since Jackson tried reopening the brewery in the nineties. Who knew what was inside? Rats, bums.

  Monsters.

  Ghosts.

  Demons.

  No, Nolan knew better than that. Even though he'd investigated the paranormal his entire adult life, the stories always ended the same—never enough proof or corroboration to prove anything. Monsters and demons were just figments of people's imaginations, mirages that hid the truth behind it all. Excuses for things that sometimes had no obvious explanation. Nothing more than stories, lies people told each other to entertain.

  Nolan felt weird when Paul walked him inside the abandoned facility, like he'd stepped through a portal into another world. Huge cracks zigged and zagged up the walls, coupled with an excessive amount of graffiti. He couldn't tell what the colorful collection of spray paint was supposed to embody, but he figured they were gang symbols and coded messages not meant for him. The tiled floor was also cracked, almost every single tile chipped or broken in some obscene way. Piles of trash, splintered lumber and leftover construction materials occupied the corners. Some garbage spilled over to common walking areas, making it impossible for them to shuffle about without paying attention to each step. The last thing Nolan wanted was a rusty nail through his foot. There was so much dust in the place it seemed like they were walking in a fog. The only light was provided by the pre-dawn glow that infiltrated the windows.

  He tried to run through the night's events, figure out why Paul had brought him here. He didn't buy into his story, the whole “I want to help you with your book�
�� angle. There had to be something else, something he'd missed.

  What does he want with me?

  And furthermore, why was he holding a gun to his back? It didn't add up. Paul McDaniel, who'd seemed like a fairly nice guy, if a little quirky, had turned into quite the asshole.

  He should have known when he saw that vision back at the hotel, the one of the bloodied girl. He still didn't believe what he'd seen was real, but maybe it had been his mind's way of warning him. Telling him to get the hell out of there.

  He should have listened.

  Just steady the course. Get out of this alive. And then sue this motherfucker for all he's worth.

  Paul walked him into the next room. What was left of the bar remained in the corner. Dust blanketed the countertop. Cobwebs infested the ceiling. An old television, bulky and twenty times the size of a modern flat screen, rested on the shelf above the bar. Someone had taken a bat to its face, smashed in the screen. A mess of wires hung out of it, spools of electric noodles dangling freely. Nolan expected his allergies to kick in, his nose to fill with garbage and for the sneezing attacks to overcome him. Somehow, his body managed to keep it together.

  “Head to the back. See that door?”

  Nolan faced the door his captor referenced. It was closed, and, for some reason, not ridden with dust and dirt and grime like the rest of the derelict facility.

  “You know in 1926, back when this was a prison for the criminally insane, they tested electroshock therapy on patients back there. Just beyond that door. Rumors have it they killed a few. Cranked the machine up too high, scrambled their brains. Not that their brains weren't already scrambled, if you know what I mean.”

  Nolan had come across the same rumors while researching the place. There was no validity to these claims. Just rumors. Conjecture. There was evidence that such experimental procedures had taken place, but that they had resulted in deaths was never confirmed.

  “A whole slew of crazies were executed. Some believe it was because they were incurable. Cancers to society. They were killed because the facility had no further use for them. They couldn't cure them, couldn't learn from them, so what was the alternative? Let them live out their days, taking up space for those who could benefit from treatments? No, they couldn't have that. So, the insane, the really bad ones, they killed. Murdered.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “Believe me or don't,” Paul said, and Nolan could picture him shrugging. “I don't give a shit.”

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  “To show you the truth, of course. So, you can write about it in your fancy little book. I hope it makes millions. I hope Netflix does a docu-drama on it. That would be real nice.”

  The way Paul laughed suggested he didn't truly wish those things. In fact, Nolan got the sense he didn't want him to write his book at all.

  “You're lying.”

  “Am I?”

  The gun pressed harder against his spine.

  “You don't want me to write about Bayberry Bluff. About Lost Demon Brewing. That's what this is all about, isn't it?”

  Silence. No words. Somewhere in the building, a board creaked. He swore he heard a pipe groan.

  “You brought me here to kill me.”

  Nolan turned to him. Paul didn't stop him. He let them face each other, keeping the gun aimed ahead, finger on the trigger.

  “That's it, isn't it? I told you about the book, my plans on bringing its history to the masses, and you thought that meeting with me, taking me on this trip down memory lane so to speak, would be the perfect opportunity to stop me.”

  “It's nothing personal, Mr. Nolan. We just can't have the truth about this place out there. It wouldn't do well.”

  Nolan sneered. “You son of a bitch. I should have known.”

  Paul yawned. “Listen, friend. It's a messed-up world we live in. It can be harsh sometimes.”

  “You'll never get away with it. My wife... she'll look for me. She knows where I was tonight, and she'll ask questions. So will the police. Especially if there's a bullet hole in me.”

  That smile again, sinister and savage. “Who said anything about a bullet hole? I was thinking suicide. See, come morning, my handyman will call the police, tell them a man hung himself in that old brewery. He'll be here at the crack of dawn to start fixing up the place, and not a second sooner. You wouldn't imagine the things that happen come nightfall. In fact, we probably shouldn't stick around too long.” He checked his watch. “We're close enough to morning. Maybe it won't matter.”

  “Fix it up? You're going to fix it up?”

  “I think it's a great spot to open a new brewery. The renovations shouldn't take long, not once we get a demo crew in here to clean out the joint.”

  Nolan shook his head. “Why the theatrics? Why take me to the cemetery? Tell me the stories?”

  Paul cocked his head back and laughed. “Oh, man. You're right. Well, truth is, I didn't know if Dusty's grave would be empty or not. But I suspected. See, even in death, the fucker couldn't stay away from this place.” He nodded to the door.

  Nolan rotated toward the far wall, where the demon door stood looking clean, in pristine condition, as if it had just been installed earlier that night. “Are you trying to tell me that Dusty rose from the grave just to walk through that door?”

  “I'm saying there're a great many possibilities. But yes, I had to know what had become of my old friend. I had to know what I was dealing with. This place will need to be cleansed in more ways than one. Can't have all the same mistakes happening all over again.”

  Nolan rubbed his eyes. He felt unusually tired. The road beer was clearly having its effect on him. “Madness.”

  “Oh yes. That word again.”

  “The stories. Why tell me if you just planned on killing me?”

  “Stories pass the time. Plus, I think it's important to know what you died for. You wanted your book? Well, you got it. Shame you won't live long enough to write it.”

  “That's what you think.”

  Nolan turned and sped toward the door. He reached the handle in almost no time at all. He'd expected Paul to shoot him, but he knew the bastard couldn't risk it. A body being discovered in a building with his name attached to it, one riddled with bullet holes—that would raise one too many questions. He wasn't going to shoot him. Never planned on it.

  Nolan turned the doorknob, then glanced over his shoulder, back at Paul. “I'll do it. I'll open it. I'll let the demons out.” He hoped to God Paul believed in the nonsense he'd told him that night. If he did, then maybe he'd be scared, frightened to release whatever lived on the other side. But if he didn't believe... if he thought the stories were bullshit... then Nolan had no more tricks up his sleeve.

  I'm not gonna die like this.

  Paul was smiling. Behind him, Nolan saw the bloodied girl again. She shook her head “no.” Another warning. She was naked, every inch of flesh showered in red. No skin. Just blood. Animated, she whipped her head back and forth.

  Don't do it, he almost heard her say. Don't you dare.

  “You gonna let me go now, McDaniel?” Nolan asked. “Huh?”

  No answer. Paul stood there, watching on. His eyes slimmed.

  “Answer me!”

  “You know I can't let you live,” Paul told him. “Not when so much is at stake. I thought, after telling you the history of this place, you'd understand.”

  “Fuck you, asshole!”

  Nolan ripped open the door. A void, infinitely dark and endless, greeted him. There was nothing there except an opaque wall. He waited for his eyes to adjust, to show him details, a deeper level of the lair he'd just revealed... but there was nothing. A black world beyond the door, cold and lifeless.

  “What were you expecting?” Paul asked. “Hellfire and brimstone? A horde of demons?”

  A picture of the Lost Demon Brewing can flashed in his mind, the logo. Hellfire. Brimstone. It had been there. But not here. Here, only darkness.

  Nol
an felt a presence in the dark, some unknown entity making its rounds. When he turned back to Paul, he felt a chill brush against his neck, gentle as a feather. There was something behind him all right, lurking about the dark, biding its time, waiting for the opportunity to strike. He couldn't look. Didn't dare to.

  “What's... what's down there?”

  Paul chuckled, his smirk widening. The bloodied woman behind him had vanished, fled once the doorway had been opened. Nolan could still hear her warning echoing through his thoughts. Those words never left him.

  Don't do it.

  Don't do it.

  DON'T DO IT.

  Paul took a deep breath. “Some doors should never be opened, friend.”

  Two arms, covered in an ashen, powdery substance, cracked and split like blistered earth, reached out from the dark chasm and grabbed hold of Nolan around his waist. His breath was immediately squeezed from his chest. He felt his ribs crack inward, puncturing his lungs. Pain settled in, covering him from head to toe. There was a split second when he tried to escape, use all the strength he had to break free. But that moment came and went in a blink. Next, he was stolen from the room, the dark of the mystery room swallowing him whole.

  He fell.

  The luminance from the doorway shrank, became nothing but a small square light. Then it became nothing. All dark, all the time.

  Then he felt hands all over him. Groping him. Feeling him. Digging into him. He heard people moaning; the language of the dead. The mentally ill. Their ghosts. They surrounded him. Down there, in the dark, they ripped him apart.

  Feasted on his soul.

  Soon the pain stopped.

  And all he saw and felt was perpetual darkness.

  * * *

  Outside, Paul walked to his car, which was parked along the curb. Another vehicle approached, stopped right behind his sedan. Sylvester, the bartender, got out. It had stopped raining and the crack of dawn was beginning to wedge its way over the horizon. Purple light spilled across the street, forming shadows on the long row of empty, cracked buildings.