Why does the player piano still roll out ragtime for patrons who left no money on the bar? Which gunfight replays every Saturday night though no one draws iron? What bootleg whiskey flows from taps that were sealed during Prohibition? And why do the brass spittoons ring with bullets that were never fired?
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He had ridden his horse into the saloon on a dare from a whore – his practice was always to accept dares; it spiced life up a little.
― Larry McMurtry, The Last Kind Words Saloon
As the new bartender at the Crazy Horse Saloon, I thought I’d seen it all. But ever since Bad Bill Murphy got himself strung up out back, an aura of unease crept over the old watering hole.
At night, when the last of the cowboys wandered off into the desert, I’d hear strange noises from the back rooms—scratching, whispering, dragging footsteps with no visible source. The old timers kept to themselves more than usual, eyes darting warily in the shadows.
One night, a tumbleweed blew in with a cold draft. A figure detached itself from the darkness at the end of the bar, eyes glowing an eerie yellow. Its face was skeletally thin, skin stretched tight like old leather.
It beckoned me with a bony finger, letting out a ghastly hissing sound. I backed away in terror, knocking over bottles that smashed on the floor. When I looked again, it had vanished. But I knew it was still there, watching.
Now the shadows seem alive after sundown. I barricade myself in my room, praying for the sunrise, but I can hear it shuffling closer each night. What cursed entity haunts the Crazy Horse Saloon? Soon it will come to drag me screaming into the darkness…
