Mystery Bar Hillsboro
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The mystery bar Hillsboro is one of those old, run-down bars that you find in the backcountry. It’s a low-class joint where the local drunks go to drink their sorrows away on weeknights and to get drunk for free on weekends.
The only thing they don’t charge for at this dump is the barmaid’s smiles—they’re too tired from working their asses off all day dealing with their drunken customers.
During the week, it usually has one or two people sitting around drinking beer and eating peanuts; but on weekends, it gets busy as hell because that’s when the bar starts handing out free shots of whiskey to anyone who walks through its doors.
As soon as I walked into the place on a Saturday night after dinner, I knew something was wrong. Sure enough, there were no locals here—just some college kids from Portland State University who had come up to the party, along with a bunch of tourists who probably didn’t know any better.
They must have been on spring break because it seemed like every single person in this bar was between eighteen and twenty-five years old, except me. I felt so out of place, I wanted to hide under my trench coat until the middle of next week.
“Hey man! What do you want?” asked a young dude wearing a backward baseball cap and a high-school letterman jacket. He looked to be about nineteen or twenty years old, with blond hair that reminded me of that cartoon character Homer Simpson. I could tell he was a jock by the way his eyes bulged whenever he spoke. “You look lost—you new to town? Or are you a student here at PSU?”
I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not, so I played dumb. “Yeah, I’m a student just visiting the city.”
“Well, welcome to Hillsboro, man!” He nodded his head toward an open door at the end of the long room. “Come check out our video games!”
The place was packed wall-to-wall with young folks playing Pac-Man and pinball machines. A small TV was mounted above them on the ceiling, showing a porno movie in black and white. There were three girls sitting at a booth near the front window, giggling and watching the screen.
One of them looked like she might have been a cheerleader—she had short red hair and big tits that stuck straight out. The other two were smoking cigarettes while they took turns placing bets on which girl would win the race. All of them were pretty hot and made me wish I hadn’t worn my raincoat.
But the one thing that really caught my attention was the large wooden cabinet behind the bar. It was surrounded by glass bottles and decanters and looked expensive as hell. It was probably one of those antique bartop arcade games that older folks love to collect. Only the game wasn’t hooked up anymore; instead, it was filled with liquor bottles.
“What can I get you?” asked the bartender, a young woman with bright green eyes. She wore a tight red dress that hugged her curves perfectly. Her breasts weren’t huge, but they seemed more than adequate considering how tall and thin she was.
“A Bud Light,” I said.
She smiled and poured my beer without saying anything else. For the rest of the evening, we didn’t say much to each other. We exchanged pleasantries and went about our business. She never bothered asking what school I attended, and I didn’t ask her either. When I finally finished my beer, she handed me a coaster with the name of the bar written across it in gold letters.
After making another round, she turned to me again. “Can I pour you another one?”
I shook my head. “No thanks, I’ll drive home.”
“Okay, well… see ya around then!” She laughed, trying to sound friendly but coming across as rude as hell. Then, she walked away.
For the next hour or so, I sat alone in the middle of the bar, nursing the last sip of my beer. In the background, I could hear the porno movie getting louder and louder. My mind wandered and I started thinking about sex. Maybe it was the booze-talking, but I decided to try to pick up one of the girls at the table. The problem was, none of them looked all that interested in me.
So, I got up and walked over to the side of the bar where the beer bottle rack was located. Of course, the bottles had all been emptied and the racks were bare. I guess nobody drinks beer here, I thought. But I did notice a wooden box at the bottom of the rack that had been pushed to the side. It was like a miniature refrigerator, only smaller.
It was kind of funny because when I opened the door, I expected to find the same beer that I’d seen upstairs—probably a Pabst Blue Ribbon or something like that. Instead, I found myself looking at a different type of liquid altogether.
Trying to act casual, I pulled out a bottle and studied it closely. It was amber-colored, and when I smelled it, I couldn’t believe my nose. I recognized its familiar smell right away: whiskey!
As soon as I picked it up, it became obvious that this was no ordinary bottle of booze. At first glance, it appeared to be a standard Kentucky bourbon. But as I tilted the bottle back, the dark liquid inside swirled for a moment. Then it came to rest and settled into perfect stillness.
The label read “Old No. 7,” and there was a signature below it—though I couldn’t make out who it belonged to. Something about the way the liquid moved, the way it felt in my hand, told me that this was special stuff.
When I heard the door open behind me, I quickly replaced the bottle in the box and closed the door. The bartender must have come back—but from where? I glanced behind me, and it was clear that the counter had been empty a few moments ago.
My heart pounded as I tried to think of some excuse for being here. But before I could say anything, the bartender approached. She didn’t seem drunk at all, though she had apparently been drinking.
“Hey, do you know who owns that box?” she asked.
“Huh?” I said, feigning ignorance. “Oh yeah, don’t worry about it. I’m sure somebody will take care of it eventually.”
“Well… they better,” she said. “Because if they don’t…”
Her words trailed off, but I knew what she meant. If someone doesn’t claim the box, it’s going to end up in the trash. And I suddenly realized that a lot of people would want to throw it in the garbage.
Then, I remembered that the box was made of wood, which is probably why it hadn’t gone unnoticed. I also noticed that the logo on the top of the box had a similar pattern to the name of the bar. I wondered whether this might be a relic from the old days.
“You know, I think I saw something like that once before,” I said. “At an antique shop in Atlanta.”
“Really? Where?” she asked.
“Well, it was kind of weird, actually. They had two of these boxes stacked together. Each one had a different name on it. One was called ‘Old No. 7,’ and the other one was simply ‘7.’”
“Is that what it said?” She nodded. “Were they both whiskey?”
“Yeah, though I can’t tell you how good either tasted.”
She chuckled at that. “That’s the thing about whiskey—the older the taste, the more expensive and rare it becomes. But this one is different, I bet; it was made by the distillery, not bought secondhand. This one has real value.”
“I really don’t care about any of that,” I said. “But I do like the design of the box—it’s very unique. Like it belonged to a famous person or something. So, maybe I’ll just put it back. You don’t mind, right?”
“Not at all,” she said. “What are friends for?”
We chatted a bit longer, but then I excused myself to go outside and get into my car. As I drove away, I was thinking about the whiskey. It was definitely worth more than the $5 I’d paid for it. That’s why I decided to drive out of town to see if I could find the antique store that I’d mentioned earlier.
For the next hour, I searched for signs of the antique shop I’d seen. There were a couple of places with antiques, but nothing like what I was looking for.
Finally, I spotted a sign that said “Antique Shop.” When I turned onto the street, I found myself driving down a gravel lane that led to a small, brick building.
A large front porch shaded the entrance to the shop. A woman wearing overalls and a faded T-shirt was sitting on the steps. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her eyes seemed to follow me as I parked my car and stepped out.
“Howdy!” she said. “Welcome to my place! Are you here for an item, or are you just browsing?”
“Neither,” I replied. “Actually, I’m doing a little research. I’ve heard stories about this area, and I wanted to get some firsthand information.”
“Oh? Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for. What did you hear?”
“I heard that you used to have a guest house here and that you sometimes took in people who needed a place to stay.”
“Me?” she laughed. “Nah, we never offered anybody any lodging at all. People were always welcome to visit, though.”
“Well, there’s no sign of that now,” I said. “But I guess I figured that if the guest house ever existed, it must have been around here somewhere.”
The woman stared at me for a moment. Then, she stood up. “Come on in and look around. I’ll tell you everything I know about the guest house.”
***
Once inside the shop, I looked at the items neatly arranged on the tables. The walls were lined with shelves, and the ceiling was supported by wooden beams.
“All of this stuff belonged to my grandfather,” the woman said, as she pointed out various objects. “He had a passion for collecting. He liked to collect things that he could use, too. I grew up here, so I remember a lot of the early visitors. Some of them were pretty wild, but most were okay.
Let’s see… there was Reverend Atkins, who lived down the road. And there was Mr. Moore, who owned the local hardware store. And Miss Bowers and her husband, who ran the mill across the river. They came here every year, and they brought their dogs with them. My grandmother hated the dogs, though. I think they chased chickens.”
“Dogs,” I repeated. “Does that mean there was a dog cemetery here?”
“Yes, there was, though I don’t know where it is anymore. I haven’t seen it in years. It was right over there,” she said, pointing toward a corner of the room. “And there’s another one behind the barn.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “They were buried in a pet cemetery?”
“Yep.” She smiled. “Everyone loved those dogs. We lost a few from time to time, though; especially when the kids played tag around the farm. Those kids knew how to run fast, and one of the dogs would lose his head and chase after them. Every summer we’d get new dogs to replace the ones we lost.”
“So, did you bury them yourself?”
“No, we hired somebody to do it. But the point is, they were buried somewhere nearby. Perhaps even on the property.”
I paused for a moment to consider the possibilities. “This means that the guest house might still be here somewhere,” I said. “It’s possible that the old graves were moved—or perhaps even dug up. If that happened, we could probably find the bones. Or the skeletons, anyway. I can’t imagine anyone putting a coffin in a pet cemetery.”
She nodded. “You’re right. I’ll bet they were relocated long ago. Come along, let’s take a look.”
We walked through the shop, examining each item carefully. Most of the merchandise was handmade. There were quilts, crocheted tablecloths, dolls, and other knickknacks. I tried to remember the names of the people who’d stayed in the guest house.
I couldn’t recall anyone named Bowers or Moore, but I did remember a couple of women who were friends of my grandmother’s. One was Mrs. Bellows, and the other was Miss Brown. Both of them were elderly ladies, and both of them died before I was born.
The woman and I began walking slowly around the side of the building, heading toward the back of the property. Just as we passed under the big oak tree, something caught my attention.
“What is this?” I asked.
“That?” she replied. “Nothing much, really. That’s just a mailbox.”
“Except for the fact that it’s leaning against the wall.”
“Yes, well…” she shrugged. “A rock fell off it once. I didn’t bother to fix it up, since nobody uses mailboxes anymore.”
“Yes, I guess not. You know, I’m wondering why you had a mailbox in the first place.”
“Well, we used to have an office here, and a postal clerk who worked for us. When the office closed and the clerk retired, I thought it would be nice to leave the mailbox in case someone ever needs one.”
“Was that your grandfather’s idea?”
“Not exactly. Grandpa didn’t like the way the post office took over the town. He always felt that small towns should operate more independently. So, he decided to start doing business without any kind of government assistance.”
“Does that mean you got rid of the tax collector, too?”
“No, the taxes are collected by the county. As far as I know, they still send the forms here every year. They never come, though. I guess nobody wants to pay their taxes anymore.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said. “Your grandfather was a free thinker, wasn’t he? He always spoke out against the government, and he wouldn’t allow anything to happen here unless he approved it. That must have made life interesting, huh?”
Her smile faded slightly. “Yeah, well… it was fun at first, but then it became tedious. I got tired of defending myself and answering questions all the time. I suppose my grandfather was right about a lot of things, but he also had a tendency to be hardheaded.”
“Which was worse?” I asked.
“The government taking over everything or having your own mind taken away?” She laughed. “I think they’re both bad in their own way.”
The old woman and I continued our search. The area around the main house was empty except for the old black stove which had been converted into a barbecue grill. Several large picnic tables and benches were scattered throughout the yard, including one near the edge of the woods.
A great old swing hung from a giant maple tree, and several lawn chairs were positioned beneath its shade. We walked down a slight incline toward the woods, and the woman stopped to examine a flower bed that had recently been planted.
“These little roses will be beautiful next spring,” she commented. “They don’t get much sun here, so they won’t bloom this year. But I expect they’ll be spectacular next spring.”
As we approached the fence line, I noticed a wooden sign nailed to the wood. It read: ‘DILLON LAKE PARK.’ Below this was a smaller sign with two arrows pointing toward each other. The larger arrow pointed north, while the smaller arrow pointed south.
“Have you ever visited Dillon Lake?” I asked.
“No, not yet. Why?”
“There’s supposed to be a lake here. Supposedly, there’s an old mill pond or something similar.”
“Really? Well, maybe we’ll visit it someday. In the meantime, I want to see what else we can find.”
We walked past the fire pit and onto the grassy hillside. Above us, the trees grew thicker, creating a canopy of green leaves overhead. The woman stepped forward and looked out over the property, looking down on the old road winding through the property.
“It’s a shame your grandfather isn’t around to enjoy this place,” she finally said. “He’s missed quite a bit these last few years.”
“Is that true?” I asked. “Did your grandfather die?”
She shook her head. “No, he’s not dead. My mother says he’s waiting somewhere for someone to join him.”
“What do you think he means by joining him?”
“You’d have to ask him yourself. I’ve tried asking him, but he doesn’t seem to care if I talk to him or not. He just sits there staring at nothing.”
“But you say he’s alive?”
“Yes, he’s alive, but he’s probably pretty sick. I think he’s dying.”
“Do you know where he’s staying?”
“No, I don’t. He used to stay in the cabin when the weather was warm, but he hasn’t done that lately. Now he stays inside most of the time. He seems to prefer that to being outside.”
“So how did he wind up here?”
“That’s a long story. But let me tell you what happened. Grandpa was a political activist, and he built his own private island in the middle of the lake.”
“Why?”
“To protest the government, I suppose. Anyway, one day the government found out about it, and they shut him down. They confiscated the island, and Grandpa had to move back into town.”
“How did your mom end up living here?”
“Apparently, Grandpa wanted to leave some kind of legacy for my mother, and he decided to give her this place. She agreed to help him keep the house running until he died, and then she took over.”
“I’m sorry I interrupted your nap, but I thought you might like to take a look at this.” I held the sheet of paper in my hand, and I could see the old woman eyeing it curiously. I handed it to her, and she examined the letter carefully. After a moment, she handed it back.
“I saw this same handwriting on the note left for you earlier. It belongs to your grandfather, I assume. Where does he live?”
“Not far. He’s probably still on the island. I mean, he’s always been there since he built it. And I guess he just never moved. If he gets too sick to run the house, he might need medical attention. He’ll come back, I imagine, once he sees he’s needed.”
“Well, let’s hope the note wasn’t accurate. Let’s go find him, shall we?”
We started walking. We picked our way past the picnic table and the barbecue grill, heading toward the woods. As we walked, I studied the path ahead of us, trying to memorize every twist and turn. I knew we would eventually reach the dirt road that led to the main house, but I had no idea how long it would take.
In addition to the flowers planted in front of the house, there were several small gardens along the side of the driveway leading to the road. One garden contained the remains of a vegetable patch, with a few remaining tomato plants and some other vegetables growing under plastic sheets.
Another garden contained a host of freshly dug potatoes. A third garden was filled with rows of corn. The fourth and final garden was filled with pumpkins and gourds of all shapes and sizes.
The woman stopped at the edge of the woods and pulled off her straw hat, tossing it aside. She ran a hand through her hair before smiling at me.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s take a walk.”
We headed deeper into the forest, following a path I hadn’t noticed before. Finally, we came to a clearing, and standing at the center, wearing his usual shirt, jeans, and sneakers, stood the old man. His eyes were closed, and his arms hung at his sides as if he were asleep.
“Grandfather?” the woman called out.
He didn’t respond immediately, but he opened his eyes after a few moments and smiled at her.
“I thought I heard voices. Who is it?”
“It’s me, dear. Your granddaughter. How are you feeling today?”
“Very well, thank you. You shouldn’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
“I know you’re getting older. That’s why I want to help. I don’t really think you should be left alone anymore. Something bad might happen. I’ve already seen enough to know you mustn’t be left alone.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? What have you seen? What do you mean, something bad might happen?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, grandfather. I know you better than that. I know you can hear me. I’m talking to you. Answer me!”
Her voice got louder, and it sounded angry. I could tell she was upset by what she had seen.
“Calm down, sweetie,” the old man said soothingly, reaching out to touch her arm. “It’s okay. The police are looking for him. No one will hurt you. I promise you’ll be safe.”
“But you promised you’d protect me, and I won’t be safe. Not until this creature is caught. You can’t deny it. Why are you defending him?”
“Because I love you, darling. I’ve loved you since the day you were born. I gave you life, and I wish only the best for you. You’re going to have a wonderful future, and so is your daughter. I’m proud of you both. I wouldn’t let anyone hurt either one of you. Not even this person who’s been threatening you.”
She looked up at the sky, and it seemed to rain on her face, although it didn’t actually fall from above. Instead, the drops appeared to be coming directly from the ground. I watched them hit her cheeks and lips, and they made a gentle patter against her skin.
“You’ve done well raising your daughter. She’s lovely, and she has such a bright future ahead of her. It breaks my heart when we’re not together, and I can hardly wait until you agree to leave here with me. I know you’ll see things differently then.”
“Why should I listen to you? You never wanted to talk to me about anything. All you ever did was criticize me. You tried to make me feel like a failure, a loser because I chose to stay on the island, rather than move to New York with you.”
“That’s not true. We talked about everything. But we always agreed it was best to do what was right instead of what was convenient.”
“Island living isn’t easy. People don’t understand where I come from. They think I’m strange because I want to live in a place where there aren’t any neighbors. Is that too much to ask for? Do you know how lonely it gets sometimes?”
“No, I don’t know. Maybe you should move to a big city for a while. You’ll find people who share your interests, and you’ll meet someone special.”
“How many times do I have to say no? This is home. There’s nowhere else I want to go. And besides, I wouldn’t be able to afford to live anywhere else. My apartment is paid off. I love it here. I can’t imagine leaving and working in a bar or restaurant somewhere.”
“I don’t believe you. You can live wherever you choose. I’ll pay for everything, just as we planned. If I give you money, you’ll get an education, and then you can decide what you want to do next. College, maybe. Or law school. You deserve more opportunities than this.”
The old man turned away from her, and it looked as though he would have preferred to be alone. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
“Yes. I want to tell you what happened last night. I know you won’t believe me, but I want to tell you anyway, so please listen.”
“Of course. Tell me about it.”
She told him all the details—the mysterious footprints, the broken window, the blood on the wall. He listened intently, and when she finished telling her story, he stood up and walked over to the window.
“Tell me, what’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you okay? Did you see anything unusual in the yard this morning?”
He shook his head, and his eyes were locked on the spot of blood that remained on the floor. “Nothing, dear. Nothing at all.”
The End