Christmas Eve on Haunted Hill Read Free Page A

direction of the jukebox.  He stared at it for a long moment.  His gaze
shifted back to the bartender.  Stu had just picked up his old pulp paperback
and was about resume reading when he sensed Luke staring at him and glanced his
way.
              “Need another refill
already?”
              Luke shook his head. 
“Soon, probably.  But for the moment I’m a lot more curious about the current
musical selection.”
              Stu frowned.  “What?  You
got something against Bob Marley?”
              Luke took a contemplative
sip of Pabst before responding to this.  “Not at all.  Big fan, myself.”  In
reality, he had only a passing familiarity with the late reggae singer’s most
popular songs.  He thought they were okay, though the genre wasn’t really his
thing.  Neither was the shitkicker music that had been the norm here for as far
back as he could remember, but this was a blue collar dive in a small town. 
That stuff made sense here.  Bob Marley, maybe not so much.  “It’s just that
I’m pretty sure I never heard any reggae on the juke here back in the day.”
              Stu shrugged.  “I made
some minor changes to the music selection when I took over the run of the
place.  You’ll also hear some Grateful Dead and classic rock stuff now and
then.”
              The old guy to the right
of the fat guy said, “And thank Christ for that.  The rock and roll brings in
the babes.”
              Luke frowned.
              He took a look around the
place.  There were still no women present.
              He looked at the old
guy.  The guy was somewhere well north of seventy, Luke was pretty sure.  The
top of his head was shiny and bald.  His remaining hair was wispy and
snow-white.  His wrinkled hands were dotted with age spots.  If this guy was
scoring any “babes” on a regular basis, Luke would have to take it as final
confirmation that the universe was a strange and fucked-up place.
              “So where are all these
babes tonight?”
              The old guy snorted. 
“Hell, son.  It’s Christmas Eve.  They’re all at home with their regular fellas
or visiting with family.”
              The fat guy nodded. 
“It’s only us alcoholics here tonight.  The confirmed dipsomaniacs.”
              The old guy raised his
glass in a toast.  “To alcoholism!”
              The fat guy clinked his
beer bottle against the old man’s whiskey glass.  “To alcoholism!”
              At the far end of the bar
were two more gray-haired older gentlemen.  Both raised their glasses and
echoed the toast, albeit a bit less heartily than Fatso and Old Guy.
              What the hell ?
Luke thought.
              He raised his double
whiskey and said, “To alcoholism!”
              He drained the glass and
slammed it down on the bar.
              Stu arched an eyebrow. 
“Refill?”
              “Absolutely.”
              Luke sipped from his
Pabst while he waited for the next double whiskey to arrive.  He listened as
Fatso and Old Guy lapsed into a bit of sports talk.  They had differing
opinions on how the NFL playoffs picture was shaping up.  Years ago, Luke might
have held a reasonably well-informed opinion on that subject himself.  Like
with so many other things, though, he’d long ago stopped giving a damn.
              On a disconnected level,
he was aware of the bar’s front door opening again.  A gust of cold wind swept
into the place, making him shiver.  But rather than looking toward the door to
take in the new arrival, he sat there in silent imitation of the
don’t-give-a-shit stoicism evinced by the regulars.  In the next instant, the
influx of cold air was cut off as the door was eased back into the frame.
              Booted feet clomped
slowly across the hardwood