Tavern of Terror Vol. 1: Tavern of Terror, #1

By Scare Street, David Longhorn, Sara Clancy and 3 more

Welcome to Hannigan's, where every drink is served with a double shot of terror....

 

A small-town carpenter exterminates a nest of ravenous insects, only to find them building a new home deep within his flesh. A brilliant doctor's medication unleashes supernatural vengeance upon a pair of remorseless killers. And a peaceful camping trip becomes a blood-soaked nightmare, when a local legend is unleashed….

 

Scare Street welcomes you to Hannigan's, a delightfully cozy Irish pub on the road just ahead. Everyone at Hannigan's has a story to tell. Tales of ghosts, ghouls, and other shadowy horrors. Whispered nightmares, guaranteed to make your skin crawl and keep you up at night.

 

So pull up a chair, order a drink, and try to relax. After all, these 12 bone-chilling tales are just local legends and drunken mutterings. They can't really hurt you, can they?

 

But as the bottles are emptied and the warm fire dies down, you can't help but wonder.

 

After all, every legend begins with a grain of truth….

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Jul 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215370995

Book preview

The Man Who Didn’t Kill Hitler

By David Longhorn

Hannigan’s is a quiet bar. Well, it is for quite a bit of the time. Of course, a bar that didn’t have any busy times would go out of business pretty quickly. But Hannigan’s is one of those places where the quiet times are predictable, more or less.

That suits people like me. I like a couple of beers after work. I like to chat with the bartender, maybe watch TV, or simply sit and think. Or sit and not think. Depends on how the day has gone.

It all happened on one such quiet night, I was just finishing my second lite beer and contemplating the short walk home. I just live a couple blocks away from Hannigan’s, and it’s on my way home. It was one of those damp, chilly nights we get down here close by the docks. I was unwilling to get off that stool and walk into the cold. But I had to go to work the next morning, so a third beer was not a good idea. I pondered ordering a small Scotch to keep the cold out instead.

That was when he walked in. Even if you’re not facing the door, you’d still know when someone out of the ordinary enters an old-fashioned kind of bar. There’d be nervous laughter, whispers, a sudden pause in conversations. There were only half a dozen other people in the place that night. But they were all either looking at the door behind me or not looking, in an obvious way.

I didn’t turn around. Instead, I raised my eyes from my empty glass to the big mirror behind the bar, the one emblazoned with ‘Guinness is good for you’ in fancy lettering. I didn’t mean to stare, but I did. The newcomer was tall—I mean, professional basketball player tall, maybe close to seven feet. It was hard to be sure. But he also seemed very skinny. He had a long, gray woolen coat dangling from broad shoulders. His hair was a shade of gray too, untidy and collar-length.

But his face was the strangest thing about him. It was almost painfully thin, with razor-sharp cheekbones, thin lips, and a jutting chin. And those eyes… I can see them now—very dark, and sunken deep in their sockets.

He looked back at me in that fake Victorian mirror, and I shuddered. Though not with fear. No, he wasn’t exactly a scary guy. But those eyes... Sometimes you just know that a person has seen things nobody should see. That was how I felt about the tall guy.

I looked down into my empty beer glass again. Then I glanced over at the bartender, Old Harry. He was polishing a glass, gazing evenly at the stranger. It took a lot to faze Harry. He gave his usual greeting.

Evening. What can I get you?

The stranger sat two stools up from me. He peered at Harry like the old guy had just set him a riddle. Then he looked at the beer pumps, the bottles, and croaked out a word.

Beer.

The voice was deep like you’d expect, given his stature. But it was faint. The voice of a weary man.

Any particular brand? Harry asked.

No, just any beer, the stranger said. Thank you.

The guy had just the trace of an accent, one I couldn’t place. Maybe British, or European at least. He spoke very precisely, but I got the sense he was choosing his words, pausing to think.

Harry gave him a glass of the cheapest American beer. The tall man gulped a couple of mouthfuls, then put the glass down. This normal behavior set conversation going again, albeit more subdued than before.

Cold night, said Harry, polishing the spotless bar near the stranger. Looks like that fog’s set in for the night.

The tall guy stared at Harry as if the older man had warned him of something and twisted round on his stool. I turned too and looked out of the big window with its Hannigan’s logo. Sure enough, the view was kind of blurry, like a dense mist had risen.

It had been a clear evening when I’d come in. But it was late September, and we’re not so far from the harbor. So there was nothing unusual. Certainly nothing to make the guy stare and then start to reach inside that big overcoat of his. I saw the movement—and how he quickly suppressed it. For a second, I thought he might be reaching for a gun. But that made no sense. Nobody shoots randomly into fog. Well, nobody I’d care to know.

The TV was on, with the sound turned off. The stranger gazed up at the screen, those deep-set eyes almost unblinking. It was just local news reports, followed by the weather. Harry set another beer in front of the tall guy, and he peered at it. Then he rummaged inside his coat and took out some money. That was when I really began to wonder.

The cash the guy dumped onto the bar was a fistful of notes and coins. None of the bills looked like American dollars. Some were blue, some purple, one seemed to be white. They were all crumpled up though, so I couldn’t be sure. The coins were a mixture of copper and silver, but there was also a glint of gold. I must have stared, but Harry didn’t raise an eyebrow.

Been doing some traveling, huh?

The tall man stared at Harry then laughed. It was a weak, hollow laugh, and there wasn’t any mirth in it.

Yes, the stranger said, I have been traveling. I am sorry if I do not have the correct currency. However, this is of value almost anywhere.

He picked up the coin that looked gold to me and turned it in the light. Harry regarded it for a moment then shrugged.

This ain’t a pawnshop, mister. We don’t value old coins.

It is a new coin, freshly minted only a few weeks ago, but not here, the stranger conceded. I am sorry I should not have ordered a drink.

He turned to me then, and those eyes seemed to bore right into my skull.

In some places, he said, it is customary to stand a traveler a drink in return for an interesting yarn. Perhaps that is the case here?

By this time, I had reached a few conclusions. I’ve traveled a little myself, and this man was what you’d call a character. He was interesting. Those eyes had seen a lot. And I felt sympathy too for another human being who had sought out light and warmth and company on a chilly night.

Sure, I said, turning to Harry. Put it on my tab.

Harry nodded and drifted away to polish more glasses. The stranger scooped up his money, except for the gold coin. He pushed that one over to me.

Thank you, he said. I have a story to tell that may be diverting. But first, please examine the ducat. I must drink, I am a little dehydrated.

While the guy took a long pull at his beer, I picked up the coin he’d called a ducat. It did look new, shiny and smooth, with a strongly milled edge. And it was heavy. No way was that some cheap alloy with a gold coating. It was solid metal all the way through. I decided that if it wasn’t pure gold, it must be lead. I took out my reading glasses to examine it more closely.

On one side, there was a symbol I was sure I’d seen somewhere before—a winged lion with one paw on an open book. There was also some writing—Latin, I think—around the edge. The other side had a picture of a saint apparently blessing a kneeling man.

Saint Mark, said the stranger, patron saint of the Venetian Republic.

I put the coin back down by his beer glass.

So it’s some kind of prop or replica? I asked.

He didn’t pick up the coin. Instead, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head.

No, it is new, as I said.

I began to wonder if this was some kind of scam. I couldn’t see how it would work, but this stranger had just gotten the price of an inferior domestic beer out of me. But, I reasoned, if the story he wanted to tell me involved a diamond mine or cryptocurrency, I could always say no and go home.

My story, he went on, is short, but it will last a lifetime. Many lifetimes, in fact. It is short because it can be summed up in a few words. He paused.

I glanced down at that gold coin again.

Then he said the words:

I am a time traveler.

I didn’t laugh. I nearly did, but those deep-sunken eyes kind of killed any mirth. I knew now that he was going to spin me a yarn, probably a crazy one. He probably wasn’t a scammer but, quite possibly, a lunatic. Harmless, I hoped. I felt my heart rate speed up at the thought that a crazy person—a very big one—was sitting on the next barstool. But at the same time, I wanted to hear what he’d say next.

You do not believe me, he went on. And that is quite right and proper. Time travel is impossible for any number of reasons. There is the famous Grandmother Paradox: What if I go back in time and kill my own grandmother before she met my grandfather? I would cease to exist, but then I could not kill her, so I do exist. Absurd. And there are more sophisticated arguments concerning entropy and other matters.

I nodded wisely, not sure what he was talking about but enjoying the game. If it were a con job, it was a clever one. If not, I had indeed met a genuine character, someone who took a very unorthodox view of things. And there was another reason I didn’t just wish him good night then and there. I’d have an anecdote for the guys at work the next day. We all liked to show off a little.

So, you do something that’s impossible, I said.

He took another swig of beer.

Yes, he said. "I did. It happened by accident. I was part of a group of researchers at a small institute that was studying quantum effects. We were trying to eliminate a minor problem in telecommunications for our military. Instead, we found a loophole in the laws of physics."

He paused again.

It was insane, of course. If time travel is logically impossible, how could nature permit it? But once the principle was established by some small-scale experiments, we were faced with a stunning reality. We could, in theory, go back in time, perhaps many years. We could change the past.

I waved at Harry and asked him for a large Scotch on the rocks. He obliged. I took a gulp of it as the tall guy continued his story.

My colleagues naturally wanted to use the invention to conduct research—perhaps solve some historical mysteries, recover precious works of art considered lost. Nothing too disturbing, nothing that would endanger the timeline. I, however, had a different agenda. I wanted to kill the greatest monster history had ever known.

You wanted to kill Hitler? I blurted out, a little too loud.

Heads turned. The stranger looked puzzled by my question.

I do not know the name, he admitted.

The guy was crazy, I decided. He was asking me to believe too many ridiculous things all at once. But those eyes held me, and I still wanted a story to tell at work. So I stayed sitting on my keister while that precise voice went on.

My target was Zelt, he said. Grodolak Zelt.

It was obvious that I didn’t react the way he’d expected. He shrugged those big shoulders.

You have not heard of him, of course. You have not heard the name of the most vicious tyrant in history. Architect of the One Generation Plan, Supreme Leader of the Northern Concordium, destroyer of much of the world. A name many use as an obscenity. And yet a man unknown to you.

It wasn’t a question, but I nodded.

Never heard of the guy, and from what you’ve told me, I’m kind of glad he’s not come my way. So, did you do it?

He smiled for the first time then. It was a sad, almost wistful smile. He finished his beer and put the glass down carefully.

Yes, he said. I appeared in his office when he was still a minor clerk at a shipping company and shot him between the eyes. He looked very surprised, and I felt a wonderful sense of catharsis. He had no political career, destroyed no lives, was forgotten by all but a few relatives and acquaintances. I removed him from history.

Job well done! I said, trying to sound hearty.

No, the stranger said. It was not well done. I returned to my own time to find that I had not made the world a better place. Merely a different one. Zelt’s crimes had been perpetrated by others, who founded a similar movement and pursued much the same policies. The forces of history had not been stemmed or diverted, it seemed. To do that, I would have to change far more than the life span of one man.

I sipped my Scotch and made a supportive noise. I still had no idea where this was going, but it was intriguing.

You went back in time again?

Yes, he said. Again and again. At first, to my shame, I resorted to more assassinations. A killer who can materialize in a locked room, shoot a man dead, and vanish instantly cannot be caught. But despite my best efforts, all I did was change the world, not improve it. I became obsessed, and I traveled again and again. Instead of merely negative action, I tried to create incentives for goodness. I visited noble individuals—scientists, doctors, reformers—and dropped hints, left clues on how to accelerate progress. But all my efforts were—

Something banged sharply against the big window behind me. The guy twisted round again, and other people looked. But there was nothing.

Kids messing around, I said. Out too late at night.

Possibly, he said. Possibly not.

He was staring into the fog, which was getting thicker. Hannigan’s isn’t one of those overlit, garish places. But at that moment, I shivered a little and wished the lighting inside wasn’t quite so subdued.

You were saying? I prompted.

Yes, he said. "Your payment. My story. As I said, it is simple. I invented time travel. And in doing so, I committed a crime against reality itself. That was what I realized too late. The world I had tried to save kept changing, every time I returned from my journeys into the past. But it never really changed for the better. All that happened was that everyone I knew disappeared completely or changed beyond all recognition. People I loved became strangers."

If this was a story, it was one with plenty of twists. I tried to take what he said at face value.

So you kept changing the present by changing the past? But once you’d started, you couldn’t stop, like you were...

I paused. I was about to say, like you were eating Pringles. But it seemed too flippant, for a start. And I had this genuine, growing conviction that the guy had never heard of Pringles. Not that he’d pretend not to know about them, no, but that he really never had. At some level, I was starting to believe him.

Of course, crazy people can be convincing, even if what they say is ridiculous. Spend enough time talking to a conspiracy theorist, and you may end up in a tinfoil hat yourself. But this was different. I’d literally met the guy ten minutes ago, and he’d made a huge impression. Whatever he was, he was not just some guy in a bar spinning a dumb yarn.

You are right, at least in part, said the stranger. I had misunderstood the fundamental nature of things. I had assumed from the start that there was one timeline and that it could be altered. I came to realize that, in fact, there must be an infinite number of timelines, all possible histories of the world, lying parallel to one another. All I had done was discover a way to travel diagonally, back and forth. I had cast myself adrift between continua. And there is no way home.

I felt a sudden urge to pat the guy on the arm and tell him it wasn’t so bad. He looked so forlorn at that moment, so tired. I wondered when he’d last eaten. Then I wondered what had stopped him from eating. Because he seemed more than lost. He looked haunted. Or maybe hunted.

As if to underline that point, he looked over his shoulder again. As he did so, his coat—which he’d partly unbuttoned to take out the money—fell open to the waist. I glimpsed something inside. It