The neon lights flickered as I wiped down the bar counter, preparing for another Friday night at The Whispering Spirits. As the clock struck 9, the door chimed, announcing the arrival of the regulars. Among them, a man in his forties, wearing a worn-out leather jacket. He’d come in every Friday, order a single bottle of beer, and retreat to a corner, his eyes like two spotlights following me amidst the hustle.
I was used to the routine. He’d nurse that lone bottle for an hour, leaving a $10 tip behind, wrapped up in a note tucked into the empty vessel. At first, the notes were innocent compliments – “you’re beautiful” and the like. I welcomed the extra cash; the bar business was tough, and those bills paid my rent.
As the weeks passed, the notes began to morph into something unsettling. “Your smile is intoxicating,” one read. Another, “I can’t resist your charm.” The words started to crawl under my skin, but I pushed aside my discomfort, reminding myself of the importance of those tips.
Then came the nightmarish turn. The note left on the table one Friday was stark and menacing – “you’re mine now,” it read. A shiver crawled up my spine as I read those words, but I couldn’t afford to let fear interfere with my livelihood. I ignored the gut feeling telling me to speak up and focused on the bills in my pocket.
The following Friday, the man was absent. A mix of relief and disappointment flooded me. Was it finally over? I tried to shake off the unease and convinced myself that maybe he had found another place to haunt.
That illusion would soon be shattered. One night at home, the doorbell sounded. I opened the door, but there was no one there. There’s a lot of kids in the neighbourhood, so I assumed it was just another case of ding-dong-ditch. Stepping out on my porch to catch the perpetrators, my foot collided with glass, causing a nauseating echo.
There was a bottle. I cautiously approached it, heart pounding. A note protruded from the bottle’s neck, and as I unfolded it, I shuddered – “you’re mine now,” it read. I stumbled backward, my mind racing. How did he know where I lived?
On my way to work the following night, paranoia lingered in every darkened alley and quiet street. The bar buzzed with its usual Friday energy, but the man was conspicuously absent. I wondered if he was watching from the shadows, orchestrating his plan. I informed my manager about the situation, and when we had finished locking up, he insisted that he walk me home.
We both kept an eye out. The streets were eerily silent that night - we didn’t see a soul. My manager tried to console me as we approached the house, offering to spend the night on the sofa, but it was hardly a permanent solution. He told me to call him if another note came by.
I set about my usual post-work practices. I switched on the oven and went and got changed. Coming back into the kitchen, I grabbed a pizza out of the freezer and slid it into the pre-heated oven when a glint of light appeared in my eye - a reflection on glass.
There on the kitchen counter - a bottle. My hands trembled as I pulled out the message. There was no money this time, and the note was blank. I froze in terror, staring at the blank paper when I felt arms creeping around me from behind, gripping my waist.
“I’ve got another tip for you here,”
A menacing voice whispered into my ear. I gasped, terror seizing my senses. Without hesitation, I grabbed the bottle and swung it with desperate force. The glass collided with a sickening thud against the intruder’s head. He recoiled, stumbling back, and I seized the opportunity to flee.
I ran to my manager’s house, who lives a few blocks away from me, which is where I’ve been staying since. He’s been a rock throughout this, and even changed my shifts at work. The house is up for sale and I haven’t gone back yet. I need to at some point though to get my stuff, but every time I think about going back, I bottle it.