Portal to Hell

One

They always said there were things that went bump in the Night–spooks, specters, Ghosts, Ghouls, goblins, all manner of evil. Some Nights of the Year were purported to be more active than others when it came to these things and more running rampant and terrorizing those who walked the Paths of the Light. There were said to be sacred objects–which some even called relics–that'd protect anyone who wore or otherwise wielded them, that'd stop these things from being able to do anything to them, their hearts, minds, and Souls.

Bobby Dall, bassist of Poison, wouldn't have necessarily called himself a naysayer, but he wasn't a total believer when it came to these kinda things, either. He was just skeptical enough to need unwavering proof of something's existence to fully believe it, but he was still open-minded enough that he knew there were things out there that he couldn't see, much less Begin to understand. After all, one of his closest friends outside his band happened to be a Witch, as much as said band hated knowing that since they thought she was pure evil on two legs. If there was but one thing she'd taught him, it was to keep an open mind, for appearances could be far more deceiving than he'd have ever thought.

However, his Pagan friend had taught him many other things in the few Years he'd known her–namely how to read the Energy around him to pick up on things that might be left unsaid. That was as much for his own Protection as it was for those around him, regardless of their religious beliefs, 'cuz she never wanted to get a phone call saying he'd gotten into trouble that'd ultimately led to his Death he coulda avoided.

On the Night of June second, 1993, his band finished up the show they'd been slated to play at a venue roughly ten miles Southeast of the heart of Cincinnati, Ohio. They'd a Day off the next Day, which'd prolly be spent driving to their next tour stop at the Blossom Music Center in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio. If they were gonna have a bit of Time to do something that didn't involve being cooped up on their buses, it'd have to be after tonight's show, but before bus call. Knowing them–even their chosen replacement for original guitarist CC DeVille–they'd prolly wind up finding a nearby bar to go drink at till none of them could walk anymore.

"Whew, what a show!" the band's drummer, Rikki Rockett, crowed as they headed backstage once they'd finished up their set.

"Awesome, as always," the other blonde–vocalist, Bret Michaels–agreed with a laugh.

"Yeah, I guess so," said new guitarist, Richie, muttered with a shrug. "I guess I'm just ready to drink myself into sleep now."

"Sounds about like what I wanna do," the bassist agreed with a chuckle.

"I kinda wanna go check out a fairly local place before we're stuck on a bus," Bret said.

"Guess it depends on what it is and why," the drummer told him, wiping off with the towel he was handed by his tech.

"The place's called Bobby Mackey's," the shorter of the blondes said. "I know ya guys hate country Music and prolly won't wanna go to a honky-tonk, but I wanna go more so for the Ghost tour than the Music."

"Ghost tour?" This apparently grabbed Richie's attention enough to make him rethink wanting to drink himself into a stupor for the Night.

"Yeah, apparently the place's haunted out the ass, and they actually give Ghost tours every Night."

Bobby listened as his best friend explained that back in the 1850s, there was apparently a slaughterhouse that served the Northwestern-most part of Kentucky and the Greater Cincinnati area. It'd been in operation till around the 1890s before it was inexplicably shut down, and one of the things that'd seemed to disturb anyone living nearby was how the Licking River that ran alongside it was almost constantly red. Apparently, that'd been due to the improper dumping of blood and other Animal waste produced by the slaughter of the beef Cows that were killed there.