The Milkwood Lounge - Tales from the Milkwood Lounge

The Milkwood Lounge

                My name is Milton Blair and I am not important. I want to get that out of the way now so there’s no confusion. I’m 27 years old, childless, loveless, and very much alone. I work a small-time position as a data analyst for a big firm in Annapolis, MD. The job is about as exciting as the meager wages I pick up from it.

                I worked the graveyard shift from 8pm to 4am, so my ride home on the bus was always pretty quiet. I typically put in my head-set and listened to music, but this time I had foolishly forgotten to pack it.

                The bus was a grimy tin can, bloated with bacteria, with foggy windows, and driven by bus drivers making under minimum wage. I was on my way home at around five in the morning when I heard some people talking in the back of the bus.

                “You hear about that thing in the news yesterday?”

                “Whaddya talkin’ about? The movie star thing? I hear that was just a publicity stunt…”

                “Nah, I’m talking about over here. The deaths.”

                “Deaths?”

                “Yeah, deaths. Yesterday police reported the third mysterious death in the past two months.”

                “Holy shit! When did this happen? How did I not hear about this?”

                “Probably too much sports, man. You really should read the regular news too, dude. Nobody gets hired being clueless…”

                “Hey that’s not true. What about that chick in human resources?”

                “Bro, think about it: the babe is hot, single, and works in friggin’ human resources. When you meet those requirements, you don’t have to be intelligent.”

                The two in the back went on for a while about that, but the deaths were a new thing to me. I pulled out my phone and did a little research. It might have been a bunch of hot air, but at the very least it would help make the time go by on my bus ride.

                After trying a couple of searches, I found a news report on the Daily Crow. Word was that people would go to bed healthy and happy, only to wake up dead with no biological explanation as to why. The Centers for Disease Control and prevention were thinking it was some type of virus, police thought it might be terrorists, and some online commenter’s grandmother thought it was signs of the apocalypse.

                I yanked my gaze from my phone and shut my eyes tight, while clutching the bridge of my nose. I forgot how queasy riding on the bus while reading made me. Damn motion sickness…

                “Stop 4: FHF Apartments.” The bus driver announced.

                I live in Holbrook Heights on the Eastern Shore. It’s a quaint college town across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. The apartment complex was sort of a combination between blue collar and white collar, with a predisposition to the lower-middle class. The building was around 4 stories high with a U-shape design that encircled a parking garage I had absolutely no use for. I lived on the top floor by choice. I liked the view, and I didn’t need to deal with bugs in the summer as much. It also helped that it was much more difficult for them to sneak into my place if I lived on the tenth floor as compared to the first floor.

                I walked over to the entrance access-way of the garage and used my electronic key to get through. Security was the main reason why I paid for living at this place. It was expensive, but I wanted every counter-measure possible in case they came for me.

                My apartment was my fortress and bastion against the outside. It had a kitchen I rarely used, a living room with an outdated television, and a small bedroom. I double-checked I had secured the three locks on my front door in place, before undressing. I switched the television on and poured myself a drink of the good stuff.

                The news was talking about some football team I didn’t care about, but it was nice to hear another person’s voice. I checked my phone for the twenty-seventh time for messages, missed calls, or texts and saw nothing.

                I contemplated texting Megan, but thankfully had the capability to resist the urge. I’d been in love with that woman since we’d started working together a year ago. She had recently gotten engaged to my long-time friend, Howard. The thought of attending their wedding out of social obligations made me cringe every time and I dreaded the arrival of that day. They both knew I was in love with her, but oh well, the world needs losers too, right?

                The news thankfully pulled me out of my dark thoughts. They were running a story on the mystery deaths. I was surprised there’d been no mention of “murder” as I’d thought the media types would love to sensationalize this even.

                “The police and medical staff, investigating this case, have yet to release any new information, however anonymous sources inside the Holbrook Heights Police Department have provided a bone-chilling detail earlier tonight!” The attractive reporter, with too much makeup, announced with a proud grin. “Apparently all of the victims had been suffering from nightmares. Some of them lived alone, but reported their issues to friends or colleagues, while others confided with their significant others. In all cases, the dreamers revealed the name ‘Milkwood Lounge’ shortly prior to their deaths. Many of the victims had written the name down to better understand their nightmares, while others said it in their sleep, which was overheard by their sleeping partner.”

                My blood froze and I stared at the gorgeous reporter. The Milkwood Lounge? Were these “victims” all dreaming of the same place I was? It was a little fuzzy, but I’d been having strange dreams too that involved such a place. It was a drinking establishment with the name of the bar burned atop a large metal sign that loomed over the front entrance. I couldn’t remember much of the interior or exterior at the moment, but I definitely remembered the name. I shuddered as I attempted to recall the memory before giving up. It had to be a coincidence or possibly my subconscious recalling the name from a news broadcast I had forgotten.

                I popped a couple Motrin and prepared for bed. I went about the normal routine of barricading the front door with the two chairs I kept in my living room. They wouldn’t really stop them from getting in, but at least the chairs would fall over and wake me up if they came for me. I also systematically locked the doors to the living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom as I made my way to bed. Lastly, I placed my extendable baton under my pillow with the .22. I frequently worried the .22 might jam up, so the baton made me feel a little safer.

                My room was pitch-black with the exception of the moonlight coming in through the cracks of the blinds. I heard a police siren go off in the far distance as I laid my head down. I thought about who would go to my funeral if I were to die like one of the others on television. Would Megan or Howard come? I wondered if my death would warrant news coverage by the pretty reporter lady on the television…

                My eyes snapped open and I found myself standing in bleak darkness. Everywhere I looked there was nothing but overwhelming blackness. I heard the click of a lock behind me and whipped around to see a large three-story tavern that had apparently just spawned right in front of me. The words “Milkwood Lounge” towered above me as I was somehow standing directly in front of the bar. It had a large flat bay window next to the front door. I could see lights on inside and possibly movement. I’d dreamt of this place before, but I’d never noticed movement, nor had I actually been inside the bar.

                My trembling hand reached out at the golden door-handle and turned it open. The door swung open effortlessly. Tranquil jazz music emanated from the back of the bar. I stepped through the threshold and the door closed quietly behind me.

                A series of small, dark wooden tables and stools lined up along the right of me, next to the bay window, which showed nothing but complete blackness outside. Across from the bay window were a smattering of chairs and tables that appeared oaken and old. To my left was a wall of portraits of various people. The pictures were black and white, but appeared to have been taken at the Milkwood Lounge. None of the people in the portraits seemed to be smiling. Along the left wall was a small hall that led to restrooms. To my far right was another exit with a vibrantly violet colored door with a silver doorknob. In the center of the room was a large serving bar made of the same aged oak that the tables were made of. Black stools neatly lined up along the bar, while an open kitchen stood in the far back. Nothing was cooking in the kitchen, although culinary utensils were out. They were all spotless and shiny. Directly behind the bar was a pyramid of various drinks I had never heard of and –

                “Good evening, Mr. Blair,” A deep voice called out.

                I don’t know how I missed him, but a man in a purple suit with deep blue leather gloves had been standing behind the bar. He was exceptionally tall with rather dark skin. His head was small and his content smile seemed to stretch from one side of his face to the other. His eyes were onyx and ebony while his posture was rigid yet relaxed at the same time. His limbs appeared strangely skinny in a manner that didn’t really seem all that human as well.

                “It’s impolite to not return a greeting, sir.”

                “Uh – hello. Who are you? What am I doing here?”

                The dark spindly man quietly nodded with an amused look and gestured to a bar stool. I walked over to the bar and sat down without even realizing it.

                “My name is Sutherland.” He said with an extended hand.

                I shook his hand without taking my gaze off of him. His handshake was tight and strong, but not painful. He released my hand after a couple of shakes and then placed both of his palms atop the bar.

                “So…what’ll it be?” He asked.

                “E-excuse me?” I shook my head in bewilderment. I still couldn’t get over the circumstances.

                “What would you like to drink, sir?”

                “Oh, um, I guess club soda and lemon please.”

                “Coming right up.”

                Sutherland turned around and quickly prepared the drink in silence. I watched him work in silence. The jazz music continued to play. After a few moments, Sutherland returned with a tumbler of bubbling seltzer with a wedge of lemon perched along the edge.

                “This one’s on the house.”

                I drank, but it did not taste like club soda, nor lemon. It tasted wonderful. The taste flooded my senses and sent waves through my body. I closed my eyes for a moment before re-opening them.

                “What is this?” I asked as I pointed at the seemingly boring tumbler of soda water.

                “Only what you ordered, sir. I’m afraid we have more important matters to discuss though.”

                “We do?”

                “Oh yes, sir. Most certainly. I don’t get many patrons these days, but I have had three others in the past few months and they’ve all been rather disappointing to say the least.”

                Sutherland gestured toward the portraits along the wall and I made out the picture of a blonde woman that I had seen in the news. My heart sank as any hope of coincidence went out the window.

                “What happened to them?” I asked as I forgot my perfect drink for a moment.

                “You know what happened to them.”

                I turned to face Sutherland and saw he wasn’t smiling anymore. He had a frown and a stern stare fixed on me.

                “What do you mean?”

                “They came for them.”

                “’They?’”

                “There’s no need to play dumb, Mr. Blair. We both know who they are.”

                Sutherland continued to stare. I looked down and saw my drink was gone. Instead of the club soda, my baton and .22 were there. I reached out to grab the .22 and Sutherland’s hand slammed down atop mine and pinned it to the bar. I looked up at him and saw his face was barely an inch from mine. Strangely enough, he had no smell whatsoever.

                “You know what you need to do.” He whispered ever-so-softly. “You must survive! It is imperative, Mr. Blair. Please, do not let me down.”

                He released my hand and walked around the bar. My hand grasped the handgun as I watched him walk toward the purple door. Sutherland opened the door with ease to reveal a silvery glare from whatever was inside. He turned to face me and smiled again before bowing.

                “It has been a pleasure to serve, sir.”

                He stepped through the doorway and the door immediately closed behind him. I pocketed the extended baton and walked over to the purple door. I tried the handle and it immediately burned my hand. The door handle felt as though it were on fire! I grabbed several napkins from a nearby table and used them as a buffer from the heat. The door handle was still intensely hot, but I was able to grip the door handle. I attempted to turn it and saw that it was locked. I didn’t know what to do…

                Whump!

                I turned around slowly after hearing the noise and could hear the sound of flesh pressing and rubbing against glass. It was a faint and sickening squeak. The sound was terrible, but it didn’t hold a candle to the true horrors of what I was seeing.

                Three apparently naked faceless “people” stood outside the lounge. They were pale and fleshy with exceptionally long fingers and bubbly-looking joints. They seemed to have no eyes, but small slits stood close together on the center of their “faces” along with small fanged mouths that dripped with saliva and greenish diseased ooze. They were genderless, hairless, and revolting. Two of them stood quietly in the darkness outside the shop while a third had pressed its face up against the bay window. It had stopped rubbing up against the window after a few seconds.

                It pulled its face away from the window, leaving a gross smear. Its head turned toward me as I turned to it. It angled its head slightly as it presumably stared at me. My hand squeezed the .22 so tight it hurt. I had just noticed the jazz music had stopped playing when the creature shrieked in a terrifying and bone-chilling rendition.

                In a matter of seconds, all three creatures banged upon the bay window and door in attempts to get in. I pocketed the handgun and grabbed two stools to barricade the entrance and buy time. Perhaps I could escape, although I had no idea where I might escape to. The glass of the bay window was surprisingly strong. As I neared the door, the small eye-level window of the door shattered and a groping claw with long fingers shot through it to grope at me.

                I wedged the two stools up against the door and pulled out the handgun again. I shot at the pale arm. Another shriek emanated from the creature and it yanked back its hand as though it were stung. The gun could hurt them, but it felt like attacking a polar bear with a fly swatter.

                Within a matter of moments, the door was blasted open and the creature loomed in the entrance. I fired three more rounds at it. Each bullet sliced small holes in its chest causing revolting greenish-yellow puss to seep from them. I tried to keep firing but the gun jammed, just as I feared.

                The creature lunged at me, but I dove over the bar. The other two creatures slowly shambled in while the first one attempted to claw me from behind the bar. I grabbed the extended baton and swung at its face. The baton shattered upon impact and the creature stared back unfeeling. It reached across the bar and grabbed me by the shoulder. I screamed a hysterical shriek and struggled against its grasp. I dropped my jammed handgun as I attempted to break free. I felt as though I began to drown in its putrid breath as its odor filled my nostrils. I flailed and grabbed a liquor bottle. I smashed it over the creature’s arm and it let me go with an ear-splitting cry.

                I feebly screamed for help and hopped over the bar to the men’s restroom. The door was unlocked and I flung it open. I attempted to close it behind me, but a set of long fingers shot around the door. The creatures pushed on the other side. We began a sort of wrestling contest over either closing the door or opening it. Fear had long set in, but so had determination. I would not let these beasts win without a fight! I would not give up. With an extra shove, I slammed the door closed. Four maggot-like snips of fingers flopped to the floor with a sickening squelch.

                I locked the door and looked around. I was in a regular men’s restroom with a maintenance closet. I immediately went to the closet and found a flashlight and broom handle. The broom handle was thin and flimsy. It wouldn’t even serve as a good grave marker.

                I switched on the flashlight and gave the locked door a second glance. The banging was louder and I knew the moment the door broke they would be upon me. The flashlight shined bright and revealed something small in the back of the closet. I dropped to my knees on the tiled floor and spied a small ventilation duct with an intricate covering.

                Using the flimsy broom handle as a lever, I popped the covering off and crawled inside. Just as my body passed the dark entrance of the vent, I heard the door smash apart with a terrible bang! I crawled as quickly as I could. I could hear them snuffling around behind me. I could not tell if they were looking for me or if they were sniffing for me, but I did not intend to stay to find out.

                A screech and the sight of one of their faces in the duct behind me told me I had been discovered. I squirmed and twisted as quickly as I could down the narrow vent. My elbows and arms were covered in foul dust and oily grease, but I could not tarry, for I could hear them snaking behind me. I could hear their jaws snapping and smell the acrid stench of their breath.

                I came across an open vent that must’ve returned to the main parlor of the lounge. Thankfully, there was no covering, so I crawled out as quickly as I could. Just as I thought I was free I felt a claw on my right ankle. Ugly brown talons clung to my leg like the vice-grip of a madman. I hollered in horror and stamped on the arm in a desperate bid for freedom. The grip loosened to reveal a bleeding black scratch along my leg. I did not wait for further assaults however, as I ran for the front door. I didn’t know where I was going to run to, or what I could do to escape, but I did not stop sprinting into the darkness. Behind me, all I could hear were their shrieks of rage.

                My eyes snapped awake and I found myself in bed covered in a cold sweat. Had it all been a dream? Was I truly alive? I stumbled from bed and splashed water on face in the bathroom. I looked down at my ankle for the scar the creature had left and saw only pale flesh. The clock chimed and I saw it was only eight in the morning. The cracks in my blinds shown a slight sunrise developing in the horizon.

                I returned to my bed after a short time. My arm grazed the nightstand as I got into bed though, and I heard the clink sound of a fallen glass. I got back up and looked down to see a small puddle of club soda with a glass tumbler and a small lemon wedge. On my night stand was a napkin that read the words “Till we meet again…”

                The napkin bared an elaborate sign atop its right corner that made me queasy with unease. The sign was none other than “The Milkwood Lounge.”