The Last Toast

In the autumn of my nineteenth year, I worked for my uncle, a grim man with paint-speckled overalls and a habit of humming off-key tunes. Most days we painted suburban kitchens, but occasionally we took on jobs in places with character, if you could call it that. The Crown and Anchor was one such place. It sat at the edge of Mosswood, a village so small it didn’t even have a shop, just a pub, a war memorial, and a sprawling churchyard that seemed to swallow the light.

The landlord, a fat man named Ned, told us we could start at midnight, after the last customers stumbled out. He gave us a key and said we’d be alone, which suited my uncle fine because he liked to nap while the paint dried. So at 11:30 PM, we drove over, set up our ladders and dust sheets, and waited for the drunks to leave.

The pub was old, with low beams and a fireplace so large you could roast an ox. The walls were covered in memorabilia: dusty horse brasses, faded photographs of men in flat caps holding enormous fish, and a pair of boxing gloves nailed to the wood. My uncle took one look at the clutter and sighed. ‘Don’t touch anything,’ he warned, though he didn’t need to. I’d learned my lesson years ago, after I knocked a glass collection off a shelf in a farmhouse and my uncle docked my pay.

As soon as Ned locked the door behind him with a cheerful ‘Don’t wreck the place,’ my uncle sprawled out on a bench and told me to wake him in an hour. ‘But if you hear anything, don’t investigate,’ he added, his eyes already closing. I laughed, thinking it was a joke. It wasn’t.

I wandered the pub, scrolling through my phone, but the signal was dead. So I did what I always did: I studied the walls. There were photographs of famous visitors — a cricketer with a waxed moustache, a comedian with a cigar, a poet with wild hair — all signed with inscriptions like ‘To the best little pub in Mosswood.’ I imagined them laughing by the fire, their voices muted by time.

Near the fireplace, there was a framed football shirt, yellowed with age. The name on the back was ‘Calloway,’ and the number had been peeled away. Below it hung a brass plaque that read: ‘In memory of the Mosswood Eleven.’ I had no idea what that meant, but something about the way the plaque reflected the dim light made me shiver.

Then I noticed a door I hadn’t seen before. It was tucked between the Gents and the back staircase, painted the same color as the wall, so it was nearly invisible. It had a small brass handle that looked polished, unlike everything else. Curiosity got the better of me, and I turned the handle.

It opened onto a narrow stone staircase that descended into darkness. There was no light switch, only a line of red button-like markers stuck to the wall, each emitting a faint glow. They looked like something you’d see in an old theater or a mine. I called down, ‘Hello?’ My voice echoed back, warped, like it had been soaked in water. I was about to close the door when I heard a faint sound from below: a clink of glasses, a low murmur, then a woman’s laugh that cut off suddenly.

My heart thumped. I should have woken my uncle, but I didn’t want to anger him. Instead, I took out my phone, switched on the torch, and started down the stairs. The stone steps were worn, slippery with damp, and the air grew colder with each step. The walls were covered in salt lines, like the tide had been there. The red markers continued, spaced out, leading me down.

At the bottom, there was a heavy door, slightly ajar. Beyond it, a room lit by candles that burned with steady flames, though there was no breeze. The room was a pub, but not the one I’d left behind. It had the same low beams, but the wood was darker, slick with age. The walls were lined with old bottles and rusted tools. In the center, a long table was set for a feast, with cracked plates and tarnished cutlery. Around the table sat a dozen men, all in old-fashioned working clothes — cloth caps, waistcoats, neckerchiefs. They were motionless, their heads bowed over their plate, as if they were either praying or asleep.

I stepped closer, shining my torch on their faces. Their skin was like leather, stretched tight over skulls. Their eyes were closed, but their lips were slightly parted, as if they were about to speak. Some had cigarettes in their fingers, long burned down to gray ash. One held a pocket watch, its face stopped at 11:11.

On the table, in the center, was a glass of beer, still frothy at the top, condensation sliding down the sides. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me, that the glass had been there for a long time, yet it hadn’t gone flat. And I knew, without knowing how, that the men were the Mosswood Eleven. And that they were waiting for something.

A voice spoke behind me, clear and sharp as a broken bottle: ‘You’re early.’ I spun around. A young woman stood in the doorway, a ghost of a smile on her pale lips. She wore a black dress, old-fashioned, and in her hand she held a goblet of something dark. ‘They’ve been waiting for a toast,’ she said. ‘Every year, on this night, one of them wakes for the last time. But you’re not of them.’

I tried to speak, but my tongue was thick. She gestured to the empty chair at the head of the table. ‘Sit,’ she said. ‘You’ll never find the way out if you don’t.’ And I knew she was right. The staircase behind her had become a wall of salt, crystallized, blocking the way.

I took a step back, but my foot knocked against a pint glass on the floor, and it rang like a bell. In an instant, the seated men began to stir. Their heads snapped up, their eyes open — but the eyes were milky, like those of a dead fish. They looked at me, then at the glass of beer in the center. And in a terrible chorus, they said, ‘A toast.’

I woke up on the floor of the real pub, my uncle shaking me. The light was gray, and the smell of stale beer was thick. ‘You must’ve fallen asleep on your feet,’ he said, his brow furrowed. I looked at my watch: it was 5 AM, and the pub was exactly as we’d left it. But on the floor near the fireplace, there was a froth of beer, still bubbling, as if someone had just poured it. And on the mantelpiece, where there had previously been an old carriage clock, there was a small brass plaque I’d never seen before. It read: ‘The Mosswood Eleven — We never leave.’

I never told my uncle what I saw. He’d have called me a fool. But I refused to ever paint that pub again, and I never entered another building that had a door leading down to nowhere. And to this day, every year on the same night, I set an extra glass at my table, and I toast to the Mosswood Eleven. Because I know they’re not finished with the living. And if I don’t drink to them, they’ll find a way to make me.

That’s why I don’t paint pubs anymore. That’s why I can’t stand the smell of stale beer. And that’s why, whenever I see a glass of beer that hasn’t gone flat after hours, I pour it down the drain and say a prayer. Because I know what it means. The last toast was for me.