Murder on the Crown Floor

Watchtower

"There must be some kind of way out of here, said the joker to the thief..." Jimi Hendrix crooned, upon entering the bar. It was a public house like no other, or none that sprung to mind.

The place had caught her eye on more than one occasion during her morning commute; what with its dark black, wooden framed windows and opposing three story structure. Granted it wasn't the largest building in the Holborn area but it was certainly one of the most eye catching. It held a mysterious air, with its crooked windows and old-fashioned swinging, sign; that one couldn't quite place.

If the Old Crowns opulent chandeliers didn't draw you in, the crimson paint adorning the walls certainly would; that along with the ceiling that looked as though it had been painted by Michelangelo himself, with its intricate patterns and damask design.

Yes, there was something here.

Something about this place.

She knew it the moment she stepped over the threshold. Clutching her themed party invitation for the night. 'Murder on The Crown's Floor' a simple but effective play on the dance floor cult classic.

The chill of the night air and pain from the seemingly never-ending walk faded into the background; lost as the scenery and flamboyant patrons enveloped her. The atmosphere was tantalizing, setting the soul alight like a famed Winehouse blue's number but, with the added opulence and flair that accompanied a Baz Lehrman epic.

A place she'd never ventured; this darkened Victorian public house on the corner. Now, she never wanted to leave. It had drawn her in from the street over, like a fawn being stalked by wolves and bewitched by the night. But she was no victim- she desired to be its prey.

Fingertips caressed the tall mahogany pillars as she weaved her way in and out of the crowd; her desire to explore overwhelming her desire for alcohol.

"Where are you going pretty woman?"

"Really?! You got Julia Roberts from THIS?!" she turned to her friends and gestured to her long fitted, silk black dress and thigh high boots. She was sure the shining leather choker around her neck wasn't 1980's chic either.

"It's the thigh highs that are doing it!" one of them called, before pushing closer to the bar.

"True!" shouted another, a brunette beauty dressed in the smallest of devil costumes; as she moved over to one of the last empty tables that littered the floor "Soo where are you going? You ditching us already Julia?" the little devil taunted.

"I'm sating my desire to explore. And it's the Queen of the Damned to you!" she winked, shooting a smirk over her shoulder and moving towards the stairway.

Her friends knew how she thirsted for history and this quirky pub oozed it from every corner and crack. Shadows of dancing figures, past and present flickered across the walls; echoes of a life forgotten and celebrated with each step higher that she took up the slanting staircase.

Heat emanated from a doorway to her right along with an inviting orange glow. She hovered in the entrance. Pausing as though entering this room would change something. Cause and effect; upsetting the balance or opening the gateway as that famed ghost adventures show would say. Be it heaven or hell, she wasn't sure yet? It was Hallows eve after all. The barriers between spiritual worlds were at their weakest.

Her desire to know more roared within the pit of her stomach and as she crossed the threshold, she wasn't disappointed. The room opened, showcasing yet another bar. This time it was smaller, and the decadent mirrored back carried what appeared to be only the most expensive of whiskeys. The walls were lined with brickwork and separated by shelves of books that looked older than her entire family lineage. A roaring open, wood fire a blaze and heating the room to almost uncomfortable temperature. So, it would appear to be a mixture between heaven and hell, she thought to herself.