I wandered between the cozy little high-walled booths with their stained-glass backs, porter in hand, past the cigar room with its overstuffed armchairs and roaring fire, to glimpse the wall above the bar counter, where, couched between some antique musical instruments, was a tarnished clock. It read 11:45–fifteen minutes to midnight.
…Fifteen minutes to Halloween.
I spent the evening before Halloween this year raising a pint at what is probably the most authentic Irish pub you’ll find outside of Ireland itself. That’s because the owner is an authentic Irish person, who had all the furnishings constructed in Ireland and shipped over. It felt ancient, even if it opened only three years before I started attending the college up the street.
Of course, the ancient feeling was assisted by the fact that it was located in the cellar of a historic 19th century mansion…that was purportedly haunted. The house had once been the home of the town’s mayor, though now it was compartmentalized into three floors of shops and businesses. The story I’d heard was that it was haunted by the ghost of a son of a former mayor, whose body, at least, had never returned from World War I. Judd, as he is purportedly is named, haunts what used to be the mansion’s billiard room, now known as the ‘cottage room,’ where the hewn wooden beams and stone floors that blend perfectly with the bar’s Irish character also happen to be original to the mansion. Ever the flirt, Judd supposedly makes his presence known to pretty ladies drinking in the cottage room from time to time.
…At least, that’s what I’d heard.
Over the years, I’d become something of a Tuesday night regular in the pub (the waitress knows my name, my order, and which table I’ll be sitting at) but, never having experienced anything there myself, I always wondered if the sensationalist story was true.
…Well, it was fifteen minutes to Halloween. It didn’t hurt to ask, and there would never be a more appropriate time.
The Tuesday night bartender is also an authentic Irishman: a gruff, middle-aged fellow with closely buzzed hair and a gravelly brogue.
For obvious reasons, it has always been my goal to become his friend.
He didn’t look too busy at the moment–all the customers seated at the bar had been served, and he was cleaning glasses.
“Brian,” I said, “I heard there’s a ghost here.”
“Oh, there is,” he replied immediately. “No one will stay here alone.”
I blinked. I’d honestly expected him to tell me it was nonsense.
“We all leave together at the end of the night,” he continued. “We’ve all heard things, we’ve felt things…strange noises and bumps. You don’t want to be in here in the dark.” He motioned the waitress over. “Would you stay here at night by yourself?”
She shook her head emphatically.
“Up in there?” I asked, pointing toward the cottage room.
“Yes,” he said, “especially down the hallway to the storage room.” I’d glanced down the little narrow hallway before, as they left the door propped open on busy nights; it looked pretty normal, just a cramped little passage that led to a little room full of shelves and other paraphernalia.
“Really?” I asked. “I heard the ghost is a World War I vet–”
Brian cut me off. “No, it’s a maid,” he said. “This was the old mayor’s house–one of the maids was killed, apparently.” Suddenly, he sprung energetically from behind the bar and headed back to the cottage room. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
I followed him back to the cottage room and found him standing expectantly by the hallway door, gesturing through to the storage room.
“That back there was the maid’s quarters,” he explained. “It’s nasty just to go in there. It just doesn’t feel right–whatever’s in there, you can feel it just by being in there. Like, if you stand even just inside, you’ll feel it.”
I peered inside. It looked pretty normal to me. I couldn’t tell if Brian was pulling my leg or not. It was always difficult to tell if or when he was smiling.
“Go ahead,” Brian said, motioning me forward, “try it.”
“I mean, it sure does look creepy,” I said.
“Do it. Go in there, shut the door behind you, and just stand there for a minute. See what you feel.”
I looked at him. “For real?”
“Yeah. Go ahead.” It was a congenial invitation to step into one of the employees-only areas of the pub, but I also detected a note of challenge in Brian’s gruff voice.
I shrugged. “Okay, as long as it’s all right,” I said. I set down my porter and stepped into the little hallway, pulling the heavy door shut behind me.
It was quite dark. To my right was a little room, a refrigeration room, I presumed, with two metal doors that each had a small square window in them. The light coming through them was the only light, stretching and meandering its way down the little hallway to faintly illuminate the cramped, low-ceilinged storage room, slashing across the metal shelves and disappearing into the dark. The din of the pub beyond the door was pretty well muffled.
I stood there in silence, in the dark, and felt the seconds tick. I was hoping I would feel…something, but I wasn’t. Everything felt pretty normal. The hum of appliance noises filtered through from the refrigeration room. The standard creaks and groans of a 19th century structure in cold, foul weather. A puff of air on the back of my neck. Drafty place. I must be standing under a vent.
I turned back to look at the door and the walls behind me. The door was closed, with no cracks of light filtering through from the other side. The walls were covered in paperwork–no vents there. The ceiling was low enough for me to reach up and touch: solid 19th century plaster. No vents there either.
I think I’m done here.
I opened the door and stepped out. “Yeah, no,” I told Brian, picking up my porter and taking a swig. “I didn’t like that.”
“You see?” He asked, propping the door open once again and stepping into the hallway. “It just doesn’t feel right. You don’t even need to get to far in, even right here–” he held his arms out experimentally. “I’ve got goosebumps.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “it’s pretty creepy.”
“No,” he said,” –look.” He held his arm into the light. I could see the goosebumps.
“Honestly, Brian,” I said as returned to the bar, “when I asked that I thought for sure you would tell me it was bull.”
Already behind the bar and reaching for a dishrag, Brian stopped what he was doing and looked me right in the eye. “It’s not bull,” he said sharply.
“I mean, you’re a pretty tough guy,” I said. “If you say it’s real, it’s gotta be real.”
“I’m not that tough,” he said. “And I don’t believe in all that stuff–but I believe in this.”
“Good enough for me,” I said, raising my glass.
I glanced at the tarnished clock above Brian’s head–ten minutes to Halloween.
Just for good measure, I raised my glass again–in the general direction of the cottage room and its little hallway.
Laura Writes 
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