Chapter 4
1392 Words
Hannah closed the bar the way she always did—methodically, efficiently, and with the emotional enthusiasm of someone who had already used up her allotted patience for the day.
Lights dimmed. Chairs flipped. Music off. Doors locked.
Normal.
She kept repeating that word in her head like it might stick.
Normal.
The last customers trickled out with slurred goodbyes and promises they wouldn’t regret tomorrow. Jessa clocked out, stretched, and gave Hannah a look that hovered somewhere between concern and curiosity.
“You sure you’re okay?” Jessa asked.
Hannah forced a smile. “Define okay.”
Jessa sighed. “You want company?”
The offer hit harder than Hannah expected. She almost said yes out of reflex—almost let someone else occupy the space so she wouldn’t have to feel it herself.
But that would mean admitting something was wrong.
And Hannah Mercer did not admit things were wrong unless they were actively on fire.
“I’m good,” she said. “Go home. Live your normal, non-ominous life.”
Jessa hesitated, then nodded. “Text me when you’re home.”
“Always do,” Hannah lied easily.
Jessa left through the back, the door closing with a solid, familiar thud.
The bar settled.
The quiet after closing was different than the quiet before opening. Heavier. Less hopeful. The kind that made every sound too loud and every shadow feel like it was doing more than standing still.
Hannah wiped down the counter, slower than necessary. Her mind kept replaying the evening—Adrian’s watchful calm, Sebastian’s infuriating smile, the coin humming like it had opinions.
I’m fine, she told herself. I’m just tired. And mildly cursed.
She snorted at her own thought and grabbed the trash, hauling it toward the back.
The moment she crossed behind the bar, the air changed.
Not sharply. Not violently.
Just enough.
Hannah stopped mid-step, trash bag dangling from her hand.
“Okay,” she said aloud, to no one. “If you’re about to do something weird, I would appreciate a heads-up.”
Nothing answered.
The silence stretched.
Hannah rolled her shoulders and kept moving, refusing to let nerves dictate her pace. She dumped the trash, tied the bag, and turned back toward the bar.
Halfway there, she felt it again.
Pressure.
Like the room had leaned in.
Her skin prickled. Not fear—recognition. Like that feeling when someone said your name in a crowded room and you hadn’t realized you were listening for it.
Hannah slowed.
Her gaze drifted—unwillingly—to the far-left seat.
Empty.
Of course it was.
The space around it felt… thicker now. Charged. Like the air was waiting for instruction.
She exhaled sharply. “This is ridiculous.”
The word barely left her mouth when the lights flickered.
Once.
Then steadied.
Hannah froze.
She stared at the overhead bulbs like they might apologize.
“Don’t,” she warned. “My insurance wont cover any additional therapy sessions.”
The bar remained stubbornly quiet.
Her heart thudded faster than she liked. She told herself it was old wiring. Old buildings flickered. That happened.
Still… she hadn’t touched anything.
She stepped closer to the bar.
The pressure intensified.
Not painful. Not aggressive.
Responsive.
Hannah frowned. “Why does it feel like you’re waiting for me to do something?”
The air shifted again.
Subtle. Almost curious.
Her mouth went dry.
She took a step back.
The pressure followed.
She stopped.
It stopped.
Hannah stared at the space in front of her, pulse pounding. “Okay. Nope. That’s new.”
She stepped forward again.
The pressure returned immediately, curling around her like invisible fingers brushing her ribs.
Her stomach flipped.
Oh. That’s… personal.
Hannah swallowed and laughed weakly. “I don’t know what you want, but I don’t have cash and I don’t give motivational speeches.”
The room did nothing.
Then, from somewhere deep in the bar—beneath the wood, beneath the stone—came a sound.
Not a noise.
A feeling.
Like something aligning.
Hannah’s breath hitched.
She pressed her palm to the bar.
The instant her skin touched the wood, the pressure surged—warm, electric, alive. The bar didn’t hum.
She did.
The sensation rolled through her chest, down her arms, buzzing under her skin like static searching for ground.
Hannah yanked her hand back. “Okay—nope. Absolutely not.”
Her heart raced. Her palms tingled.
She paced, rubbing her hands on her apron like friction might burn the feeling off.
“This is stress,” she told herself firmly. “This is what stress feels like when you ignore it for too long and drink too much caffeine.”
She laughed once, too loud in the empty bar.
Then the floor beneath her feet… shifted.
Not physically. Not enough to stumble.
Just enough to notice.
Hannah stilled.
Every instinct she had screamed at her to leave. To grab her bag, lock up, and pretend this night had never happened.
But another part of her—the stubborn, irritated part that hated unanswered questions—rooted her in place.
She glanced toward the back hallway.
The basement door.
She had avoided that door for years. Not out of superstition—out of common sense. It was narrow, steep, and smelled like damp stone and bad decisions. Nothing good lived down there except spare kegs and questionable wiring.
Tonight, the hallway felt… closer.
Not physically.
Invitingly.
Hannah groaned. “Oh no. No, no, no. This is where people in horror movies die.”
She took a step toward the hallway.
The pressure eased.
She stopped.
It returned.
Hannah stared at the door.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Her heart hammered as she argued with herself in rapid succession.
Do not go down there.
You are not curious.
You are tired and emotionally compromised.
She took another step.
The pressure softened again, almost… approving.
Hannah huffed a laugh. “That’s manipulative.”
She grabbed a flashlight from behind the bar, because she was not completely stupid, and marched toward the basement door like she could intimidate it into behaving.
The handle was cold.
She hesitated, hand hovering.
“Just looking,” she muttered. “I am just confirming that nothing supernatural is happening so I can go home and sleep like a normal person.”
She opened the door.
The stairwell yawned open—dark, narrow, stone walls slick with age. The smell of earth and metal drifted up, sharp and old.
Hannah took one step down.
The pressure vanished.
She froze.
That was worse.
Her flashlight beam jittered as her grip tightened.
The air down here felt… wrong in a different way. Not attentive. Not responsive.
Absent.
Like whatever had been reacting to her did not live here.
Hannah frowned. “So you don’t want me here.”
The pressure did not return.
She backed up one step.
It rushed back immediately, wrapping around her chest, warm and familiar now in a way that made her skin crawl.
She stood at the threshold, breathing hard.
Slow realization slid into place.
“It’s not the bar,” she whispered.
She stepped fully back upstairs.
The pressure settled.
Not on the room.
On her.
Hannah stood there, heart racing, the truth landing heavy and unwelcome.
Whatever Adrian and Sebastian had been reacting to—whatever made that coin hum and the air tighten and the night lean in—
It wasn’t under the bar.
It was her.
She laughed softly, hysterical. “That’s… that’s great. That’s just fantastic.”
Her phone buzzed suddenly in her pocket.
She nearly jumped out of her skin.
She yanked it out, breath ragged.
A text from Jessa.
Lock up. Text me when you’re in your car. Please.
Hannah stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then typed back:
On it. If I die, delete my browser history and water my plants.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared.
Then:
I hate you. Lock the door.
Hannah locked the door.
She stood alone in the quiet bar, pressure humming beneath her skin like a secret that had waited far too long to be noticed.
And for the first time since Adrian walked through her door, Hannah Mercer stopped joking long enough to admit one terrifying truth:
Something wasn’t wrong with the building.
Something was wrong with her.
- Writer
