Why do the drinks never run out? What causes the music to play from empty corners? How do the shadows dance when the band isn't there? Why do the regulars all know the same forgotten songs? What secrets lie behind the false wall?
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When the lights are dim and the cigarettes are lit, the dames look like ladies and the mugs look like gentlemen and nobody sees the blood in your shoes at The Bow Tie.
― Heather Babcock, Filthy Sugar
The Gilded Flask stood on the corner of Harrow and Pine, its unassuming façade betraying nothing of what transpired inside. During prohibition, it was merely another speakeasy, but for those who knew the right password, it offered far more than illegal spirits.
Zoya Blackwood first stumbled upon the place through whispers overheard at her father’s funeral. Grief-stricken and seeking escape, she found herself knocking three times on a nondescript door, muttering “nightshade blooms at midnight” to a square-jawed doorman who responded with only the slightest nod.
Inside, crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across velvet drapes and polished mahogany. Jazz wafted through cigarette smoke while patrons in fine attire sipped amber liquids from ornate glasses. The barkeep, a tall woman with unnaturally pale skin and eyes like polished onyx, smiled too widely when Zoya approached.
“First visit deserves our special reserve,” she said, producing a bottle with no label, containing liquid that seemed to move of its own accord. “On the house.”
The drink tasted of cinnamon and ocean depths, warming Zoya’s throat before settling into a pleasant numbness that spread throughout her body. The music grew sweeter, the lights more enchanting. Only then did she notice the patrons’ shadows moving independently, stretching toward a door behind the bar that no one seemed to use.
Each night Zoya returned, drinking deeper from the special reserve, losing hours she couldn’t account for. Strange dreams plagued her---underwater ballrooms where dancers’ faces occasionally slipped to reveal something glistening beneath. She began noticing how certain patrons would be escorted through that mysterious door after their fifth drink, never to return.
On her seventh visit, the barkeep held her gaze longer than comfortable. “You’ve developed quite the taste for our reserve, haven’t you? Perhaps you’re ready to meet our benefactor. He’s quite taken with your essence.”
Only then did Zoya notice the slight webbing between the barkeep’s fingers as she reached for her hand, and the way all music had stopped though musicians still moved their instruments in perfect silence. The door behind the bar swung open of its own accord, revealing not storage but a long staircase descending into darkness that smelled of salt and decay.
Too late, Zoya realized the special reserve hadn’t been given freely---it had been an investment. And now, the entity that owned The Gilded Flask was ready to collect its return.
