The Haunted Tavern
Tarven owners are the reason for all the killing and stabbing in taverns. Hi, I am a former tavern owner. I quit because the tavern I bought had too many spirits living in it. I bought it from the children of a very old man after he died. The tavern was in a good place and always full of people. I wondered why they sold it, but my greed made me hurry to buy it. They sold it very cheap, and I thought I was smart. I was wrong. The joke was on me.
Three months after I took over, my workers started hearing strange sounds in the cold room. They also saw shadows moving. Sometimes, they would fall asleep while counting stock or cashing money after closing. They woke up the next morning as if nothing had happened.
It started small. Whispers, cold wind, glasses breaking for no reason. Chairs fell over. Blood appeared in places it should not be. One night, I stayed late in the storeroom. I felt eyes on me, even though I was alone. Shadows moved in the corners of the room.
Then came the screams. They were deep and scary, not like a human. I ran to check, but the hallways were empty. When I returned, a chair was on the floor and a trail of dark liquid led to the kitchen. I never went there alone again.
Many workers quit. Some left in a week, saying they “could not stay.” The worst part was the feeling that someone was watching me. I saw strange reflections in mirrors. I heard whispers in languages I didn’t know. Sometimes, I saw figures in the corners, looking at me.
Then the killings started. People fought for no reason. Knives appeared in hands that should not have had them. Blood was on the floor, but sometimes it disappeared by morning. It was as if the tavern itself made people hurt each other. Sometimes, I found messages written in blood on the walls. They seemed to blame me.
One night, my phone rang. It was the old man’s daughter. Her voice was calm. She said, “You did well to take the tavern, but remember… some places are never yours. They belong to those who never leave.” I never called her back. I could not.
After six months, I had to leave. I sold the tavern at a loss to someone who did not know its history. But I knew the spirits stayed. They waited for the next owner.
Months later, I drove past the tavern. The lights were on and I could hear people laughing. Shadows moved in the windows. I saw my own face in the shadows—hollow and silent. I knew then that the tavern was alive. It watched and waited. It would haunt anyone who tried to own it.
I have never stepped inside another tavern again.
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