November 18, 2024
Brandon Gallagher leaned back in the creaky barstool, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw as he stared at the dimly lit Tiki Bar. It was 2:07 a.m., and the quiet was deafening. A far cry from the chaos that usually filled the place—clinking glasses, drunken laughter, the occasional off-key karaoke rendition of “Margaritaville.” Now it was just him and the faint smell of rum-soaked wood.
His car was in the shop, and Tracy, his girlfriend, wouldn’t be off her shift at Reno’s Whiskey Rose for another hour. So he waited, sipping water from a glass he’d filled before turning off the taps. Waiting wasn’t so bad, but the bar always felt different at this hour. Alive in a way that made his skin itch.
The security cameras confirmed what he’d suspected for years: things moved when no one was around. Glasses shifting a few inches, chairs scraping across the floor. Always subtle, always just enough to make him question what he’d seen. The footage was too grainy to prove anything, but it was enough to keep him from feeling entirely alone.
A sharp clink cut through the silence.
Brandon froze, the glass of water halfway to his lips. Slowly, he turned toward the sound. There, on the counter, was a cocktail glass he was certain hadn’t been there before. His eyes darted to the shelves behind the bar. All the other glasses were exactly where they should be.
“Okay,” he muttered, setting his water down. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”
He approached the bar cautiously, as though the glass might leap at him. When nothing happened, he exhaled a shaky laugh. “So, you’re here, huh? Thought you might be.”
The silence that followed was oppressive, heavy like the air before a thunderstorm.
“Can you do it again?” he asked, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Move something. Let me know I’m not losing my mind.”
Minutes passed. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the fridge in the back. Brandon shook his head, turning back toward his seat, when—scrape. The water glass he’d been drinking from slid across the table and dropped to the floor, shattering into glittering shards.
‘His heart thumped against his ribs as he grabbed the broom from the corner. “Alright,” he said, his voice tight. “Why’d you break the glass, huh? What do you want?”
No answer. Just the faint tinkling of broken glass underfoot as he swept.
Then it started. The glasses behind the bar began to chime, a soft, rhythmic tink-tink-tink that grew louder and faster. It wasn’t random—it was deliberate, like someone playing a macabre xylophone. The sound crawled into his ears, setting his teeth on edge.
“Stop it!” Brandon shouted, his voice cracking. “Cut it out!”
The sound ceased abruptly. The silence that followed was worse. As he approached the bar, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He leaned in, inspecting the glasses, and that’s when he saw them: tiny handprints smudged into the condensation on the nearest glass. Too small to belong to an adult.
“Jesus,” he whispered. “You…you’re a kid?”
The room stayed quiet, the air heavy and cold. He tried asking questions—What happened to you? Why are you here?—but nothing responded. Ten agonizing minutes passed. He grabbed his phone and texted Tracy. How much longer?
Her response came quickly: Soon.
Another clink drew his attention. He turned to see a glass in the middle of the floor. Heart pounding, he crouched beside it. “Move it again,” he said, his voice barely audible.
The glass rose into the air, levitating for a moment before it hurled itself at him. He ducked just in time, the glass shattering against the wall behind him.
“Not cool!” he shouted, backing away.
Another glass flew at him, then another. He dove behind a booth as glasses rained down, shards slicing through the air. The sound was deafening—smashing glass, splintering wood. It lasted only a minute, but it felt like hours.
When the barrage ended, Brandon dared to peek over the edge of the booth. The bar was a war zone. Broken glass covered every surface. He stepped out cautiously, his boots crunching against the debris.
Then he heard it. The faint crunch, crunch, crunch of footsteps in the glass. But no one was there.
His breath caught as the sound multiplied. More footsteps, coming from all directions. They moved toward him, deliberate and heavy, until they stopped just feet away. He could see impressions in the glass where invisible feet had landed. The air was so cold it hurt to breathe.
“What do you want?” he croaked.
Silence.
His hand trembled as he reached out, feeling the icy air above the footprints. It was unbearable, like the cold was sinking into his bones. Something brushed against his hand, soft and faint, like the touch of a child’s fingers. He recoiled, stumbling backward.
Then the glass began to shift. It didn’t just crunch underfoot—it slid, as though invisible hands were pushing it. The movement surrounded him, closing in, and then something else started: the faint, high-pitched giggle of a child. But it wasn’t joyful. It was mocking.
Brandon bolted for the emergency exit. As he ran, glasses flew at him, slicing his arms and back. He burst through the door, slamming it shut behind him. The night air hit him like a slap, and he leaned against the wall, gasping.
His phone buzzed. It was Tracy. Her car was out front.
Relief flooded through him. He hurried to the front, ready to spill everything that had just happened. But when he reached her car, it was empty. Did she go inside?
And then he heard it: a woman’s scream, shrill and desperate, coming from inside the bar. Glass shattered, the sound echoing into the night.
“Tracy!” he yelled, pounding on the locked door. The screaming stopped.
Dead silence.
“Tracy!” he screamed again, his voice breaking.
No answer. Just the faint tinkling of glass behind the door, like someone walking through the ruins of his bar. Then, the giggle.
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