The sky's relentless pouring sent patrons stumbling inside with a new urgency.  As if they weren't already hurrying to fill themselves with drinks to wash their thoughts away.  I kept myself busy with serving those at the bar but made sure to glance at each new customer that came crashing through the doors.  Most of them had the same look: shaggy, windswept, and soaked.

I was very familiar with our regulars.  In a small rural bar like this one, we didn't see many newcomers.  It was the same unkempt beards and leather jackets matted with dirt and stained with that lingering cigarette smell.  Each night until close, they drank and mingled over the speakers pouring out garbled classics.  It was rough, but tips were good and most wouldn’t dare to mess with me anymore after they saw me handle that shotgun under the bar.

I went to grab another beer from under the counter when a chilled breeze crawled across my spine.  I jerked upright, ready to yell at the drunk who had left the door open enough for the cold air to rush in, but it was dead shut.  

Did the crowd quiet down a little, or was I just imagining it?

I had other things to deal with, like thirsty men who would skimp on the cash if I didn't get their drink quickly enough.  I popped the cap and slid it down the counter like usual, but it caught on something and it toppled over.  I rushed to clean the beer before the guys at the bar got pissed.  I flipped around to grab a rag when I saw him at a barstool.

Something about his look cleared every thought from my mind.  Was it that black suit that was probably worth more than this whole trash building?  The hair and beard that had clearly been freshly styled?  The way that everyone seemed to move away from him?  Or was it those jet black pits that looked through me with such intensity I felt for my back pocket to make sure my knife was still there?    

Did I see him come in?  

"I'd like a drink, please."  The sound of his voice snaked smoothly through the air, cutting through the much louder conversations nearby.  Were those goosebumps?

"Of course, but I've got a spill to clean up first," I yelled, turning back to the mess.  

"What spill?" His slithering voice asked me.

What spill?  Where was the overturned bottle?  Had I imagined it?  Maybe I was tired.

“I’d love a martini.”  The intensity in his voice grew.  

I was still trying to figure out what happened to the mess as I approached him.

"A martini," he insisted again, his eyes holding mine.  

This one was pushier than most.  I wasn't looking for trouble, but I didn't tolerate entitled men like him who thought they were better just because they wore a nice suit.  

"You're not from around here, are you?" I crossed my arms.  "You're not gonna get served if you talk to me like that."

"Oh, certainly not," he chuckled deeply.  "Not from around here at all…"

"So you better fix that attitude." I tried to hold his intense gaze.

His face changed from smugness to deep vexation.  He placed an angry fist on the bar.  As if an important wire had been cut inside, a numbness started to cloud my mind.  My thoughts were distorted, like they were coming from the terrible bar speakers.  All voices in the room ceased.  Heads turned to stare at me with blank eyes.  What was happening?  Did I take my meds?  A sinister pressure built in my chest, and a phantom hand clasped around my neck. 

“A martini, please.”  His terrible voice like a thousand screaming souls far, far away, found my ringing ears.

I blinked.  Like a flipped switch, his angry fist was unclasped and sat calmly on the counter.  The room was normal.  No eyes on me.  Music played and my patrons laughed.  I could breathe.  I snapped into action and made the martini with lightning speed, quickly serving him and moving away to assist anyone else.  But I could not get far enough away.  His eyes stayed on me.  They burnt holes into my back.

10:52 on the clock.  When had so many people left?  I didn’t even hear the door open.  I didn’t even make the announcement.  

“Hey lady, he needs you,” someone said and pointed behind me.  

It was him.  He motioned at me with his empty glass and a smile that made my chest burn.  I glared at him, at his dark suit, at his dark eyes, at his dark aura.  Not a single soul sat near him.  Everyone around him had left.  I did not speak to him, but made him another drink and slammed it on the sticky counter.  I turned around to help anyone else.

Everyone had vanished.  But one.  But him.  What was going on?  The eerie quiet swallowed everything.  A deadly blackness filled the room.  The speakers were reduced to a low static.  My jaw quivered, and my shaking hand reached for the shotgun below the counter.  

“Everything okay?  You look like you’ve seen the devil,” he suggested sinisterly.

My hand grasped the cold handle of the shotgun.  I ripped it from its spot and aimed it at him, every part of me quaking.  

“What are you,” I growled through my tightly clenched jaw.  

He did not answer.  I was no longer in control.  My index finger caressed the trigger with a hunger I did not know.  The barrel pointed straight to his head.  Those dead eyes flickered with excitement.  And the bullet blasted from the barrel and met his face with a mighty explosion.

Blood painted the walls and furniture.  His headless body fell to the floor with a resounding thud.

I blinked tears from my eyes.  He was back on the barstool.  As if it never happened.  

Back, on the stool.  He was fine.  Blood poured from his black eyes.  It dripped into his mouth, plastered with a devilish smile.

A terrible sob escaped from my chest.

The blood was gone.  He was just a man holding a martini.  Just a man.  Just— just a...

I felt the cold shotgun barrel in my mouth.  

He just smiled and raised his glass.