Creepypastas/creepy poems

The lore of the secret bar

Every city claims to have them, and every city will tell you that theirs is the best. Most larger places will lay claim to having quite a few. I am of course speaking of secret bars, or, in some cases, secret clubs. They generally fall under a simple concept. A bar with no name out front, where a secret password is required to get in. This is what started my obsession, and may have cost me my soul.

The year was 2001. I had turned 21 earlier that year, and had already done up all the new freedoms that come with that age. I had done bars, strip clubs, casinos...you name it. At first it was so cool, because for years I had felt like a kid, like some wet behind the ears idiot that the rest of the world sort of just patted on the head. Even after turning 21, things remained annoying. People would hear that I was 21 and treat me not like an adult, but as a new adult, like a grown-up that still needed grown-ups. I was annoyed. I worked downtown in a dreary office job, inputting data. The nice thing about it though were my hours, 3pm to 11pm. For a single guy in his early 20s, it was perfect. I got to sleep in everyday, and I would get off of work just in time to take the quick walk from the New Orleans central business district, cross over Canal Street, and bam, I was in the French Quarter, land of booze and women. Lots of fun times were spent down there.

But as I said, even that began to get boring. Really boring. So, I began to research "secret bars." I found a few right away, and most of them were just as boring as the regular bars. One in particular, called Mythique, was located up a narrow stairwell, accessible only through a tiny door located under the bar downstairs. Once I got up there though, it was just another bar. The clientele was a bit more pretentious; most of them thought they were the second coming of Lestat, but in the end, it was the same thing—a bar, drinks, people and usually crappy music. I remember one night I was at home in my tiny apartment, using Metacrawler (remember, this was 2001) and searching for more secrets in my city that I was now old enough to exploit. I kept finding links to the same boring places I always went to. Then my email binged, or I should say, announced, "You've Got Mail!"

I clicked open my email and saw the heading for the message read "Secret Bar." Now, I was sure if I had asked anyone on my AOL buddy list for help, and I didn't recognize the sender. I figured maybe I was in a chat room one night and asked around, but I figured it was worth a check. The email was simple and short, and read something like this...

SECRET NEW ORLEANS BAR: Looking for a journey, not afraid of hell, not too shy for heaven, then come visit us. Be in Jackson Square tonight at 2am. Wear a black shirt and grey pants, and have a cup of coffee in your hand. Seat yourself in the 3rd bench. This is your only invitation, miss it and you will never be invited again. PS: Come alone, tell no one.

That was the end of the email. I was lucky that my job required me to wear a suit, because it just so happened that I had a pair of grey slacks. I pulled on a black t-shirt and realized that I actually looked pretty good. I figured this could be a prank, but even if it was, even it if turned out to be nothing, I would go out and have a few drinks anyway, maybe even get laid. I didn't have to go into work the next day, so this night could turn out to be fun anyway. However, I may have been a bored, idiotic 21 year old, but I wasn't totally stupid. This could also be a trick, a trap or something worse. So, I called my best friend Mike up. I told him that I was going out with some strangers from work, and that I wasn't sure about them. I told him I would call him by 4am, and if I didn't, for him to call and check up on me. I told him I would be in the Quarter. Mike had to be up for work at 4am, so it wouldn't put him out of his way to call me when he got up.

I left my apartment at around 1:30am. I only lived about 15 minutes from downtown, but I figured I would make sure I was on time. By 1:55am I was sitting on the third bench in Jackson Square, sipping my coffee, and waiting.