The Last Call at the Rusty Nail

I’d been tending bar at the Rusty Nail for almost two years, and I’d learned the boss’s golden rule the hard way: never refuse a drink. It was a small, dimly lit joint on the edge of town, where the regulars knew your name and the beer was always cold. My shift usually started at noon, and by the time I clocked out at eight, I’d have taken my fair share of shots with the lunch crowd and the early birds. I’d gotten good at pacing myself, but there were nights when the line between work and play blurred.

One particular evening, the rain had been hammering the windows since late afternoon, turning the streets into rivers of black glass. The place was nearly empty, just old man Hestor nursing his whiskey in the corner and a couple of travelers waiting out the storm. I was wiping down the counter when the front door creaked open, and a woman walked in. She was tall, with hair the color of wet straw, and she wore a long coat that dripped water onto the floor. Her eyes were pale, almost colorless, and they swept the room like she was looking for something she’d lost.

She sat at the bar, right in front of me, and ordered a tequila. I poured her a shot of Casamigos, and she downed it in one go, then slid the glass back. ‘Another,’ she said, her voice low and rough. I obliged, and she didn’t blink. After the third, she finally spoke. ‘You drink with your customers, right?’ I hesitated, but the boss’s rule was drilled into me. I poured myself a shot, clinked it against hers, and downed it. She smiled, a thin, sharp smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I hate drinking alone.’

We must have gone through half a bottle of tequila that night. She talked little, but when she did, it was about the rain, about how it never seemed to stop, about how it had been raining for years now, ever since she came to this town. I didn’t think much of it; people said strange things when they were drunk. But the more I drank, the more I noticed something off about her. Her reflection in the mirror behind the bar was wrong—slightly delayed, like a bad signal. And when she raised her glass, the liquid inside didn’t slosh quite right.

I tried to focus on my work, but the room started to spin. The storm outside grew louder, the wind howling like a living thing. The old man in the corner had fallen asleep, and the travelers had left earlier. It was just me and her. She leaned forward, her face inches from mine, and whispered, ‘You’ve been very kind. But it’s time for you to close up.’

I blinked, and the bar was empty. The bottle of tequila was gone, and the glass in front of me was dry. I shook my head, trying to clear it, and looked at the clock. It was 2 a.m., long past closing time. But I hadn’t heard the door open or close. I locked up and drove home, the rain still pounding, my head throbbing.

The next day, I came in to find a note on the bar from my boss. ‘You closed up fine last night, but there was a strange smell in the morning. Like wet earth and rot. Check the back room.’ I went into the back, and there, tucked behind the boxes of glasses, was a single, half-empty bottle of tequila—the same brand I’d been drinking. But the label was soaked, as if it had been underwater for years, and the liquid inside was cloudy, like milk. I picked it up, and the glass was cold to the touch.

I dumped it out in the sink, and as the liquid went down the drain, I heard a faint, echoing laugh from the front of the bar. I spun around, but the place was empty. The storm had cleared, and sunlight streamed through the windows. I told myself it was a prank, a trick of the night. But that evening, as I was wiping down the counter, the door creaked open again, and a man in a soaked coat walked in, his hair the color of wet straw, his eyes pale. He ordered a tequila, and I poured him a shot of Casamigos. He downed it and slid the glass back. ‘Another,’ he said, his voice low and rough.

I served him all night, and I didn’t drink a drop. But when I closed up, I found the bottle in the back room again, full, cloudy, and cold. The next night, a woman came in, and it started all over again. It’s been three years now, and I still work at the Rusty Nail. I never refuse a drink, but I never accept one either. The regulars think I’m a teetotaler, but it’s not that. I’m just afraid of what might come out of the bottle if I take a sip—and what might walk in the door if I do.