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  BEERS AND FEARS:

  THE HAUNTED BREWERY

  Chuck Buda, Frank Edler, Tim Meyer, & Armand Rosamilia

  BEERS AND FEARS:

  THE HAUNTED BREWERY

  ebook edition

  Copyright © 2019 “The Last Taproom on the Edge of the World” Tim Meyer

  Copyright © 2019 “No Fortunate Son” Chuck Buda

  Copyright © 2019 “Have a Drink on Me” Frank Edler

  Copyright © 2019 “Alternative” Armand Rosamilia

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Evil Epoch Press

  Cover design by Najla Qamber Designs

  Images:

  Copyright © Shutterstock/Sam72

  Copyright © istock/nwbob

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BEERS AND FEARS:

  THE HAUNTED BREWERY

  THE LAST TAPROOM ON THE EDGE OF THE WORL D

  (I)

  As lightning began to crash around the small dive attached to the Ocean View Hotel, Paul McDaniel found a cozy spot in the corner all to himself. It wasn't difficult. Like most nights, the bar was lacking foot traffic. A few of the hotel's customers drifted in and out, looking for cheap beer specials and shit bar food, but fled immediately once they saw the beers on tap. Double IPAs and copper-colored saisons. Chocolate coffee stouts and coconut ales. But no light beer. Not in Paul McDaniel's place.

  He sipped slowly from his dark brown porter, enjoying the cool, refreshing taste that filled his mouth. As he mused over what renovations he should complete by next summer—brighten the décor, replace the knotty pine paneling with tile and drywall, hang some hipster art, give the place a contemporary look and abandon that God-awful 70s touch—the alarm on his cell phone sounded, alerting him that he had an appointment in five minutes, one he'd almost entirely forgotten.

  The writer.

  Last week, he'd received a call from Lance Nolan, a writer from New York who specialized in real-life haunted house stories, tales of the supernatural and all that wonderful spooky stuff that was so damn popular nowadays. Nolan was pretty well-known around these parts, as most of his story material came from the tri-state area, but the rest of the world had hardly heard of him. He'd published three books to date, all on famous hauntings, and he'd been a guest on a few of those television specials; ones that recounted ghost stories and had titles like “My Wife, The Demon” or “An Invader Took My Daughter to Hell.” The kind with terrible actors and actresses playing the parts of real people.

  Paul didn't think much of Nolan's writing, had hardly gotten through his first published piece and had never bothered with the other two, but he'd seemed nice enough on the phone. Sincere. Easy to talk to. A genuinely good guy who just wanted to tell a story.

  Of course, he had, Paul told himself. He just wants your stories. All the good stuff. Every strange tale.

  Thunder roared overhead, rattling the table, the walls, and the glassware behind the bar. Sylvester, the underpaid bartender from Romania, ducked when the god-like roar boomed over them.

  Paul snorted. “Easy there, hotshot. It's just a little storm.”

  The local weatherman had predicted a few short showers but nothing more. Paul was surprised to hear the torrential downpour slapping against the outside patio so furiously. Normally, he'd enjoy the evening out on the deck, looking across the beach and into the calm black ocean waters. But not tonight.

  Tonight, the sky had fallen on Ocean View, New Jersey.

  “I no like thunder,” Sylvester stated, returning to his duty of hand-washing the empty beer mugs. “Bad omen when it thunders like that.”

  The lights flickered in response.

  Paul waved his hand in the air and smiled. “Go back to work, you superstitious fuck.”

  The bartender did as he was told, indifferent to Paul's vulgarity. After all, Paul had called him worse. Hateful things he only said when he was angry and when business was slow, which was often now that the small breweries were taking over, popping up on every street corner and gobbling up his share of the market.

  Sylvester and the other bartenders weren't responsible for Paul's business woes, but he sure liked to blame them. You're not smiling enough, he'd tell them. No one wants their drinks served by a statue. Talk to the people! Have a conversation! Jesus, have you never worked in customer service?

  Now that he thought about it, he had been a little rough on his employees over the years. He paid them spit and often talked down to them—not the kind of leader his father had raised.

  “Sylvester,” Paul said, his voice tranquil. He cocked his head back and threw the rest of the beer down his gullet. He wiped away a foamy mustache with his wrist and raised his empty glass in the air. “Bring me another, please.”

  Sylvester hustled to the tap, poured a new glass, and brought over the refill at once.

  “Thank you kindly. Sylvester, have I told you how much I appreciate your work ethic?”

  Sylvester's bright blue eyes darted back and forth. Lightning flashed in the windows. Thunder rolled like the growl of some cosmic horror. “Sir?”

  “You know, I just wanted to say, that I, uh...” This was much harder than he had envisioned. “Well, you do a good job and I just wanted to let you know. No big deal or anything.”

  Sylvester nodded and kept his mouth closed. He returned to the bar and continued his nightly routine.

  “Jesus,” Paul said, sipping his beer. “Can't even give a guy a compliment nowadays.”

  As he looked down at his books, the sad numbers from the previous week looking slightly out of focus, two things happened, almost at once: firstly, a deafening boom of thunder shook the hotel bar, sounding much louder and closer than the first rumble. The noise was so forceful that two mugs fell off the shelf behind the bar and shattered on the floor next to Sylvester. The barkeep looked over at his boss, his skin noticeably losing its color. Before Paul could open his mouth and scold the tall, lanky bastard for keeping the glassware so close to the edge of the shelf, thing number two happened: the writer had entered the bar, pushing his wet mane of hair back, off his face.

  Great, Paul thought to himself, this is really happening. A part of him had wished the hack had never shown. Not like he had anything better going on, but this would be a complete waste of time. No one would believe the stories about that place, that brewery set on the edge of the world. The edge of time.

  The edge of Hell.

  “Good evening,” the man said, his voice small, barely audible over the rainfall.

  “Heya, sport,” Paul said, not bothering to rise to greet him.

  The writer took off his raincoat and hung it on the hook next to the door. “Sorry I'm late. The storm is getting out of control.”

  “No worries. Sylvester and I were just enjoying each other's company.” He nodded at the tall man. “Isn't that right, old friend?”

  Sylvester didn't reply and continued to sweep up the broken glass.

  Paul shrugged. “Eh. Why don't you have a seat.”

  Lance Nolan, notebook tucked under his arm, made his way across the bar and took the seat opposite of Paul. “Thank you for meeting with me. I really appreciate it.”

  Paul nodded, giving the man a once over. Man? he thought to himself. Hell, he's practically a kid. He looked to be about thirty, a guess that Paul was willing
to wager next month's profits on. He had long dark hair that was pulled back in a ponytail, colorful tattoos down both arms, and glasses that sat perfectly on his face. He didn't look like a writer, but, then again, Paul didn't really know what writers were supposed to look like. He had a preconceived notion that all male writers dressed in argyle sweaters and khakis, kept their short hair combed neatly back, and had noticeable symptoms of scoliosis from sitting in a chair and typing all day long.

  “You look a bit young to be a writer,” Paul said. “I mean, no offense.”

  “None taken,” Nolan said, getting himself situated. He opened his notebook to a blank page and set down his pen next to it. Pulling a tape recorder out of his breast pocket, the writer arched his brow. “Mind if I record?”

  Paul smiled. “Not at all.”

  “Thank you.” He put the recorder down next to the other items. The last thing he retrieved was a pocket-sized tin of home-rolled cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”

  Paul shook his head. “Not at all. Mi casa, es su casa.”

  “Appreciate it. It was a long drive and I don't like to smoke with the windows up.” He lit his black cigarette and shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. After he found his sweet spot, he rested his elbows on the table and stared directly at Paul. “So, first of all, thanks for taking the time to meet with me. Most people would disregard me as some sort of nutjob and hang up on me the second they heard my pitch.”

  “What can I say? I like to help when I can.”

  “Let's get right into it then.”

  “Sure.”

  “I'm here to talk about Bayberry Bluff.”

  Hearing the name spoken aloud, one he hadn't heard in many, many years, sent a sharp chill down his back. “Ah. That place.” He stared beyond Nolan, somewhere into the past. There were so many stories, so many strange tales. He didn't know where Nolan wanted to start, and he couldn't even think of a logical place to start. “Sorry. Haven't actually spoken about Bayberry in quite some time. It's weird even hearing the name out loud.”

  “I think it's safe to say the place has gone through some interesting iterations over the years. Wouldn't you say?”

  “Oh yes,” he said fondly. “Very interesting. Everything from an abandoned insane asylum to, most recently, over the past thirty-something years, a marginally successful local brewing company. Some tasty ales have come out of that place, that's for sure.”

  Along with other things, he wanted to say, but refrained.

  “Before we get into it, tell me a little about yourself. How do you fit into the legend of Bayberry Bluff?”

  A forced chuckle escaped Paul's lips. “How do I fit in? Well, my father was a local brewmaster in these parts for almost forty years before he passed almost a decade ago. He'd worked at Bayberry Bluff when the first brewery opened—that's where he started, where he perfected his craft. I worked there, too, in the eighties, off and on, during a low period when the two of us weren't speaking.”

  “Hm,” Paul said, jotting down notes. “Did you learn how to brew in that place?”

  “I learned mostly from my old man, but he learned at Bayberry, so in a way—yeah, yeah, I did.”

  “Interesting.”

  Paul didn't think it was all that interesting; the interesting stuff came later. The stories. The horrifying truths of that place.

  “You didn't come here to talk about that, though. Did you, Mr. Nolan?”

  Nolan froze, then settled back in his chair. “No, no, I did not.”

  “You came to talk about the spooky shit that goes on in that place. That went on there. The hauntings. The weird, unexplainable occurrences. The tall tales and local legends. After all, you're not writing a book on local craft beer or the sudden popularity of home-brewing. Are you?”

  Nolan's silence was answer enough.

  “I'll tell you what you came to hear. I have enough stories about that place to help fill your book—some things I've witnessed, some I've gathered from credible sources.”

  “Thought I'd get to know the storyteller a bit.” He tapped his notebook with the pen. “For the story.”

  “People won't care about me. I'm just an old man who's spent his entire life making beer. That's not why people will pick up your book. They'll pick up your book because the events that have taken place at Bayberry Bluff over the years will haunt them forever. The tales that have come from that place will infect their dreams, like a virus. They'll read your book because Bayberry Bluff is a place of evil. A site of sin. It's a place that doesn't quite exist in the same reality as the one we reside in.”

  Nolan swallowed. “So, you're saying the local legends are true?”

  The old brewmaster smiled. “I'm only telling you my opinion, Mr. Nolan. I guess you'll have to judge for yourself.”

  “Before we get started, I want your honest assessment—as someone who's been there, worked there, and has lived within twenty miles of the place all his life—plain and simple—is Bayberry Bluff exactly what people paint it to be? A haunted place? A place where demons dwell? There are some people on the Internet who claim Bayberry Bluff is actually a gateway to Hell. What do you say to that?”

  Paul's lips curled near the edges. “They are all wrong.” Then, casually, he shrugged. “And they're all right.”

  Just then, lightning sparked the skies, brightening the room. The power surged again but stayed on. Thunder crashed all around them, shaking the world with its fury.

  Sylvester cowered behind the bar again, ducking as if someone had chucked a bottle at his head.

  “That was timely,” Nolan said, smirking.

  Paul wondered if he'd still be smirking after the first story. He wondered if the young man's mind could handle more than one tale. He wondered how many it would take for him to believe. Or if he was the kind of guy who required proof—actual proof—that these things existed.

  By night's end, he would know.

  “Some say,” Paul said, running his finger along the edge of his glass, “that Bayberry Bluff was built on top of an ancient Indian burial ground.” He yawned. “Possible, I guess, but oh-so cliché. Others will have you believe that the place was once a brothel, owned by a witch in the late 1700s, that she placed a hex on the place, cursing all of her customers and everyone who ever stepped foot on her property.” Another non-caring twitch of his shoulders. “Not sure I'm on board with that one.”

  “What else do they say about it?” Nolan asked, leaning forward. “I mean, the only thing I can confirm is that it was an asylum in the early 1900s, a place for the criminally insane, and that it closed and reopened several times over the years and closed permanently in the early 1960s.” He licked his dry lips, nearly drooling over the legend of Bayberry Bluff. “I'd like to know more. I'd like to know everything. And I think you're the person who can do that, Mr. McDaniel.”

  The storyteller is hooked, Paul thought to himself. Let him in. Give him the secrets. Let him tell the story of Bayberry Bluff.

  Maybe the world needs to know the truth.

  “Some agree that Bayberry Bluff doesn't actually exist in our world. Some say it sits on the outskirts of Hell, a mystical place that resides between our world and the one veiled in shadows, where dark, dangerous things lurk. They say it's a place where anything can happen, and anything does.”

  Nolan paused so he could find his voice. “Is... is that what you believe, Mr. McDaniel?”

  “Doesn't matter what I believe.”

  “Will you tell me the stories of that place? What you've seen? What you've heard?”

  Paul considered it a moment, as if dragging the kid into this mess was still up for debate. It wasn't too late to stop this, but, once he started, there was no going back. He wouldn't be able to take back what was said, the stories; they'd be a part of him, as they had always been a part of Paul.

  They need to be told, urged a voice, surely not his own. It's time to tell the truth of what goes on there.

  “Will you?” Nolan asked again, ea
ger to hear the horrors. Suddenly, the thirty-ish man was just a young boy begging an old man to tell him one more story before bedtime. “Please tell me. I've traveled all this way.”

  Paul nodded slowly. “I'll tell you. I'll tell you stories, three of them. Three I believe to be the truest of any of the tales that have come out of that place.”

  Gripping his pen, Nolan nodded. He was ready.

  Or was he?

  Paul didn't know.

  “But to tell the tales, we'll first need beer.” He signaled Sylvester to bring over another round. “Lots and lots of beer.”

  Outside, lightning streaked across the cloud-cluttered sky. Thunder clapped. The rain continued to assault the small New Jersey town.

  Outside, something sinister braved the storm.

  NO FORTUNATE SON

  Blaze slammed down the keg. The ancient wood floor creaked under the heft of the beer. Brushing his calloused hands together, he scanned the brewery, worried his boss would catch a glimpse of the two men who stood in the doorway.

  Dougie and a slick-haired clown in a bourbon-colored leisure suit.

  The fading sunlight glowed around the shadowed shapes entering the brewery. Blaze nodded at the pair, signaling them to follow him. He stared at his scuffed boots as he made his way across the bar to the door marked for employees only.

  As the men slipped inside, Blaze closed the door behind him before they were noticed.

  “Why are you here?” Blaze asked Dougie, while he eyed the man in the suit. Cockiness dripped off the man’s haughty sneer. His face showed a dark shadow of whiskers, which crept up to the thick graying sideburns. Blaze ran a hand through his dark hair. It still felt strange to have his hair back, after living with a crew cut for the past several years.

  “It’s time we had a chat.” Dougie fidgeted with the tassels dangling from his rawhide leather jacket. Blaze knew Dougie was a bona fide hippie with his long hair and tie-dyed outfits. But Dougie looked like an Indian chief, leather moccasins matching the jacket.