The Other Side Read online

  Marvin’s Tavern

  By Heinrich von Wolfcastle

  1

  * * *

  Marvin’s Tavern stands somewhat crooked and has for about as long as anyone can remember. The plaque hanging near the front door says it was built sometime in the late 1800’s and, once you’re inside, it sounds every bit its age with all of its creaks and groans. It’s old—scenic, maybe—with a long lake at its back, but it’s not remarkable. If you didn’t know to look for it, you might not even find it. It’s kind of like a man pointed to a hill on a whim one day and thought to clear a space between the trees and build a bar there. I suppose that is what happened, and that man’s name was Marvin.

  Marvin was something of a local legend—fame or infamy, maybe a little bit of both. In its prime, Marvin’s Tavern was an evening fixture, a place to stop for a drink or to end your night. Marvin would serve as bartender while catching up with the local folk about the latest happenings. They hung a photograph of him in the bar from his younger days, candidly captured wiping down some glasses with his serious expression hidden behind a formidable mustache.

  He only had one child; a son named Maurice. From what I understand, Marvin’s wife, Beth, was killed in a horse and buggy accident some years into Maurice’s childhood. Some say it was a highway robbery and that she was targeted as Marvin’s wealthy wife. Others say that she was actually the one doing the robbing. Verdict was never really reached on that one. Either way, Marvin wouldn’t remarry or seek out other female company. He claimed that she was his one and only true love, and he seemed to bring up her smile at every opportunity that he could. He even commissioned an artist to paint a picture of her in mid-laugh—an uncommon practice for the time. He hung the picture behind the bar, where I imagine it still sits today—a bit dusty and a bit worn, maybe.

  Maurice didn’t have the charm that his father had. He was born mostly deaf, which made it hard for him to make friends. He could lip read and understand others well enough, but he had a real bad speech impediment. The town folk would talk about him behind his back and make their jokes, but no matter their gossip, he had a way with tools and carpentry that silenced even the cruelest of town critics.

  Thing about Maurice was, being unable to hear and all, Marvin learned to become real protective of him, making sure that no boy of his would be seen as a town fool. He would harass the boys and girls that came near the tavern, just assuming they were there to mock Maurice. So, eventually, some of the local boys thought to get a little payback at Marvin’s expense. They came into the bar one afternoon when Maurice was by himself and a few jokes turned into an all-out fight. From what legend says, the boys were making fun—earning their trouble that Marvin was giving them anyway—when Maurice tried to defend himself. He might’ve gotten a few good swings in, but he was outnumbered. They managed to get his arms behind his back and pinned him to the ground. While he was held down, the leader of the group took a knife from the bar and cut Maurice’s ears off. “You don’t use ’em anyway!” he cackled. A real sick bunch, these kids were.

  Well, when Marvin returned to the bar, the boys were standing over Maurice, laughing and holding his ears up to his head and taking them on and off again. Grasping the scene, Marvin took the claw side of a hammer and caught the leader in the back with it. While the rest of them were scuffling out of there, he also caught one of the slower ones by the hair. They say the boys’ faces were unrecognizable when they were found. Neither of them survived, and that changed public opinion of Marvin—not that it was too high to begin with.

  The dead boys’ fathers came back to the bar that night with a few other men and intended to kill Marvin, ‘eye for an eye’ kind of stuff. Something snapped in Marvin and, according to the survivors from that night, he wrestled two of them to the ground and strangled them to death one-handed each. He fought off another one of them, too, shattering the man’s face in different places, and he died from his injuries some days later.

  The boys may have started the fight, but Marvin sure finished it. Some suspected the police would arrest him but, for one reason or another, they hardly investigated the murders. Some said that Marvin had them all in his pocket, and others said that what Marvin did was justified—simple as that. Either way, it wasn’t good for business, and the toll it took on him seemed to accelerate his aging.

  In his last years, Marvin’s black mustache turned white along with his wild eyebrows. He would hobble around, hunched over, muttering about his body falling apart. Something in the bar would need repair, and despite his best efforts to attend to the issue, Maurice would ask him to step aside so he could do the fixing. Marvin spent his final years trading glances between his painting of his laughing Beth and his own wrinkled and shaking hands.

  After the controversy, there were no more customers for the bar, though it couldn’t have happened at a better time since prohibition was just getting started anyway. Some thought that would be the end of Marvin’s Tavern but, apparently, the two men managed to find a new line of revenue to keep the place afloat. No one could quite figure out what it was. Weekends and weeknights, out of town characters would show up, dressed to the nines, to close the place out. Everyone just assumed they were liquoring up the cops or paying forward political favors.

  At the same time, they say Marvin passed away after accidentally falling down the stairs into the bar’s cellar, and Maurice had something like a mental breakdown and became a recluse thereafter—seen less and less often outside the bar until he just disappeared altogether.

  Towards the end of those years, just about everyone in town had forgiven Marvin’s nefarious history and connection to the place—well, except for the last of those boys’ fathers. Just as business started rolling again, he threw a bottle bomb through a window and set the place on fire. He admitted his guilt and didn’t fight the charges, though he wouldn’t discuss what compelled him to do it. Some considerable damage was done, including handfuls of deaths, but nothing to wipe the place away completely.

  Marvin’s Tavern really is the best kept secret in town, and its complicated past splits public opinion; either the town folk frequent it, or they change the conversation when you talk about it.

  The first time I saw the place, my girlfriend and I had spent the night out drinking at the lake under the hill—just blowing off steam on spring break. We had this little wooden raft that we’d throw out into the water and drift around on until we returned to shore. It was the kind of thing we’d done a hundred times before, but that night we ended up in a spat. She told me that she got accepted into a program for teaching abroad, and she was talking about how she was going to live her dream of teaching English to kids from other countries and whatnot. I don’t know what happened, but something about the idea of her going off to another country while I waited for her to come home—failing out of my gen ed classes in the meantime—I guess I snapped.

  We were screaming at each other, and I was yelling that I wouldn’t let her leave me. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I had my hands on her. I was squeezing her neck and watching her change colors—starting to wonder if her head might pop off—when her knee came up and struck me in the groin. I rolled off of her so fast that I accidentally tipped the raft and knocked us into the water. While I was trying to right the thing, she swam her ass to shore—probably for the best. I could hardly stay afloat, so I gave up and headed to shore, too. But I was all turned around and I came out right at the base of the hill. Anyway, after I made it out of the water, I thought to go up and over the hill to the main road, rather than taking the long trek back around the lake. Sure enough, as I crept over the top of the hill, there was Marvin’s Tavern in all of her glory. And, God, did I need a drink.

  That night, and for the rest of my spring break, I drank and made a nook for myself amongst the locals, learning the sordid history of the place. But that bar, she’s a deceptive one; having a drink there was like having a drink in your own grandmother’s living room, if only your gran
dmother’s house were built over Satan’s den.

  2

  The funny thing about having a drinking problem is that the details—those little facts, the pieces of truth on wheels—seem to always be rolling away when you reach for them. When I look at the few details I managed to hang onto from my last night at Marvin’s, the picture they paint is a bleak one.

  I was thinking about calling Nicki—you know, trying to find a way to make things right—and I wanted to be sure I was in the right headspace for that kind of a conversation. I was parked at the wobbliest stool, just a little bit right of center at the bar, with my favorite bartender, Ellie. One lesson my foster dad taught me early on was that when you’re going for something, “Go all in and go in good company.” Ellie was about as good of company as you could find.

  She looked like she was in her late twenties, but she would tell you stories about what her twenties were like when she lived them more than twenty years ago. Some people hire a shrink to talk to. Me? I had Ellie. Like her drinks, her words of wisdom packed a punch. And, let me tell you, you don’t learn to swing like that until you’ve been around the block a bit.

  Next to me was my favorite new drinking buddy, Hank. Under that gruff beard of his was always a frown but, I swear, he meant it like a smile. He was the sort of guy you’d fear breaking into your house in the middle of the night with a shotgun or something. I liked to remind him that he would probably die alone for that reason; his goddamned grimace scared away the women. He’d thank me for the advice, calling me a “motherless son of a bitch” in return—but always with a pat on the back.

  So, there we were, finishing our first round of drinks, when Hank thought to ask Ellie for something special. After some consideration, Ellie poured him something she called, “Death in the Afternoon.”

  “Listen, absinthe gets a bad rap, but it makes for a nice night. You just enjoy the drink and don’t tell anyone who poured it,” Ellie explained. “Capeesh?”

  “Capeesh,” Hank said with a wink.

  “Hey Ellie, what if I wanted to try something a little less safe?” I asked.

  “I think a little ‘Death in the Afternoon’ would do you just fine, too,” she replied.

  “No, I mean, that’s good and all,” I began, “but you’ve made me that before. What would you be pouring for you, if you were me?”

  “You really want to know what I would make for me?”

  “Yeah, what would that be?” I asked.

  “You really want to go for it, huh?” Ellie asked. She paused, tilted her head, and let out a deep sigh.

  “Absolutely. Give me something ominous,” I said.

  “Listen, if you think you’re ready for it, I’ve got something for you. But I’m only making you one, and if you tell anyone about it, I’ll deny it.”

  “Shit, Ellie, what’s in it?” I asked.

  Without answering, Ellie grabbed a glass from the counter and took it behind a closed door in the back. I turned to Hank, “Is she serious?” I asked.

  “I’ve learned to not mess with her,” Hank chuckled.

  Ellie returned from the room with a miniscule amount of some kind of foaming liquid in the bottom of a glass. She proceeded to mix a few other bottles into it and then slid it across the counter to me.

  “Listen, Ryan, you drink this slow and just enjoy the ride,” she cautioned.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s a family secret,” she winked. “I only give it to my favorites, and it comes with a coffee at the end of the night so you can tell me all about it.”

  I held the glass in my hand and swirled the drink a couple of times, imagining that I knew what to do to appreciate it. It had a pungent odor to it; something was hiding under the smell of the other liquors—tequila and whiskey, I think they were. I put it to my lips and noticed nothing unusual, except for the taste. If drinking scotch had hints of smoke flavoring, then this was like drinking dirty rainwater out of a fire pit.

  “Wow, Ellie, this is awful! This is what you make for your favorites? I want my money back,” I joked.

  “Just take it slow, young blood,” she smiled.

  “Want a sip?” I asked Hank.

  He waved my offer off with his hand. “Ellie’s already made me one of those. One was enough,” he chuckled.

  Hank must’ve had five or six drinks before I finished my first. We played a game of chicken to see who’d be the first to have to get up to hit the John. I don’t remember the score that night, but Hank was the first to break the seal. By the time I had to go, I was a bit off balance, to say the least.

  I hobbled my way to the bathroom, cautiously bracing myself against the wall to not tear any of the fraying wallpaper. Once I got to the door, I kind of fell inside.

  I went in there to take a leak, but I couldn’t find the urinals. They were all taken off the wall or something and replaced with stalls. I don’t like to make a habit of sitting in public restrooms but settling for a stall didn’t seem like such a bad idea in my condition. It was only then, when I was already sitting down, that I realized I was in the women’s restroom. That was all right, though, I thought it would make for a funny story to remember the night by—something to add to a future catalogue of “Remember that time when…” But that was the last part of the night that resembled any kind of normalcy.

  I was considering leaving the stall to head to the men’s room, when the bathroom door swung open. A woman walked in, wearing a bright green dress that clung to the best curves on her body, and she carried a small bag with her. I peeked out from a crack between the stall and the door to see her remove some kind of black band and feather from her head. I didn’t mean to be watching her, but I couldn’t leave the stall, either. The last thing I wanted was for someone to call the cops about a pervert hanging out in the women’s bathroom. I tucked my legs onto the toilet and sat as quietly as I could while waiting for her to leave.

  Instead of leaving, two more women came in after her—each one just as stunning as the first, and each with her own cloth bag. The second woman wore a red dress with tassels and had multiple layers of white pearls hanging from her neck. The third woman wore a black dress with gold chains dangling from it. My first impression was that these women must have been celebrities or movie stars, but what would they be doing at Marvin’s Tavern?

  The three women watched themselves in the mirror while removing their ornate pieces of jewelry and headbands, placing them with care into the small bags that they had brought with them. They didn’t speak or even acknowledge one another as they removed pieces of their outfits.

  The woman in green reached to the bottom of her dress and pulled it up over her head, exposing her bare body, with exception to her underwear and bra. I wish I could say I had the decency to look away, but I did not. Aside from admiring her form, I was taken aback by the design of her undergarments. Believe me, I had seen enough women in different styles of underwear before to know that what she was wearing was strange; she was like a vintage model. The woman in red removed her dress next, revealing something like a tight nightgown. The woman in black also wore some kind of slip beneath her dress. Each of them removed those layers as well and placed them in their bags.

  The three women stood together silently, pausing to gaze at their naked reflections in the bathroom mirror. Next, the one that had been wearing the green dress brought her hand to her face and looked to be digging her nails into the skin under her jaw. I put my hand over my mouth to keep from gasping as I saw little trails of blood drip down her arms. I wanted to burst from the stall to stop her from hurting herself, but the other two women started doing the same thing. They each pulled the skin back from under their jaws and unraveled the flesh from their faces. They were muscle-tissued and red. Systematically, as if going through routine, each of them continued to skin their bodies with their nails. Each made her way down her neck and shoulders and arms and torsos and legs, leaving a puddle of blood at their feet.

  The room began to spin,
and I thought I was going to pass out or puke—maybe both. As much as I wished to look away, I was captivated by their grotesque bodies. After skinning themselves, the women reached into their bags for long black gowns and placed them over their bloodied masses, losing their form and figures under thick layers of robed cloth.

  Finally, the women brought out headpieces from their bags to complete their outfits. They appeared to be long and leathered beaks—the kind of thing doctors wore during the Black Plague. They placed the masks over their faces, obscuring their mouths and expressions, and then took turns securing them with laces and belt hooks. Without words, they stood in front of the mirror, lifted their hoods from their robes, and walked single file from the restroom.

  Once they left, I stumbled my way out of the stall and crashed into the bathroom sink, having slipped on the trails of blood that coagulated into one pool of crimson. I thought to look through their bags but began to gag on their iron-laden smell. Dizzied, I pushed the bathroom door open and became lost in the hall. The entire bar had gone silent—no music, no chatter, no nothing.

  I leaned on the wall for support and began to make my way in the dim hallway towards the bar. As I went, my hands traced the wall until it gave way with the weight of my body. Something like a secret door flew open from the hall, revealing a long set of wooden stairs, which I proceeded to tumble down, head over heels.