Creepy - Secret Bar

Episode Date: December 3, 2018

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Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents Secret Bar Written by Kay Bannon Kellam. with guest narrations courtesy of Alicia Atkins, Nate Dufort, Molly Langford, and Steve Blizzin. War of secret bars.

Every city claims to have them, and every city will tell you that theirs is the best. Most larger places will lay claim to have quite a few. I am, of course, speaking of secret bars, or, in some cases, secret clubs. it generally fall under a simple concept, a bar with no name out front where a secret password is required to get in. That's what started my obsession, and may have cost me my soul.

The year was 2001. I'd just turned 21 earlier that year. I had already done up all the new freedoms that come with that age. I'd done bars, strip clubs, casinos, you name it. At first it was so cool because for years I felt like a kid, like some wet behind the ears idiot that the rest of the world sort of just patted on the head. Even after turning 21, things remained annoying. People would hear that I was 21 and treat me not like an adult, but as a new adult,

like a grown-up that still needed grown-ups. I was annoyed. I worked downtown in a dreary office job, been putting data. The nice thing about it, though, in my hours, 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. For a single guy in his early 20s, it was perfect. I had to sleep in every day.

And I'd get off work just in time to take a quick walk from the New Orleans Central Business District, cross over Canal Street, and bam. I was in the French Quarter, land of booze and women. Lots of fun times were spent down there. What is I said? Even that began to get boring.

Really boring. So I began to research secret bars. I found a few right away, and most of them were just as boring as the regular bars. One in particular called Mythic was located up a narrow stairwell, accessible only through a tiny door located under the bar downstairs. As I got up there, though, It was just another bar. The clientele was a bit more pretentious.

Most of them thought they were the second coming of the stat. But in the end, it was the same thing. A bar, drinks, people, and usually crappy music. I remember one night I was at home in my tiny apartment using Metacrawler. Remember, this was 2001. and searching for more secrets in my city that I was now old enough to exploit. I kept finding links to the same boring places I always went to. Then my email banged, I should as I said I announced,

You've got mail. I clicked open my email and saw the heading for the message read, Secret Bar. Now, I was sure if I had asked anyone on my AOL buddy list for help. and I didn't recognize the sender. I figured maybe I was in a chat room one night and asked around when I figured it was worth a check. The email was simple and short.

Read something like this. Secret New Orleans bar. Looking for her journey? Not afraid of hell? Not too shy of heaven. Then come visit us. He and Jackson Square tonight at 2 a.m. wear a black shirt and gray pants and have a cup of coffee in your hand.

Sit yourself in this third bench. This is your only invitation. Visit and you will never be invited again. P.S. Come alone. Tell no one. That was the end of the email. I was lucky that my job required me to wear a suit

because it just so happened that I had a pair of gray slacks. I pulled down my black t-shirt and realized that I actually looked pretty good. I figured that it could be a prank, but even if it was, even if it turned out to be nothing, I go out and have a few drinks anyway, maybe even get laid. I didn't have to go into work the next day, so this night could turn out to be fun anyway. However, I may have been a bored, idiotic 21-year-old, but I wasn't totally stupid. This could also be a trick, a trap, something worse. So I called my best friend Mike up. I told him that I was going out with some

strangers from work, that I wasn't sure about them. I told him I'd call him by 4 a.m., and if I didn't, for him to call and check up on me. I told him I would be in the quarter. Mike had to be up for work at 4 a.m., so it wouldn't put him out of his way to call me when he got up. I left my apartment at around 1.30 a.m. I only lived about 15 minutes from downtown, but I figured that you I'd make sure I was on time. By 155, I was sitting on the third bench in Jackson Square, sipping my coffee and waiting, Jody. At 2 a.m., the cathedral bells rang out twice,

and I received a tap on the shoulder. A gorgeous woman was sitting next to me, and I thought to myself, this is a little too cliche to be real. To me, she seemed like the walking cliche for a hidden bar. goth girl mid-20s really hot yeah

she was from the bar knew it from the start I'm Jody Well at least you're now a raven or death or Lilith or some other stereotypical goth name I replied but I did so with a smile

She returned my smile with one of her own Nope. Always been Jody. And you must be Kurt, right? She knew my name. Very cool. Of course, my name was on my AOL profile where the email was sent, so if this was her attempt at a cool trick, that was one step ahead. Yes, Kurt. That's me. I guess you're here to show me to the secret bar?

Only if you're ready to journey to hell or heaven. Depending on your taste, we like to consider this to be the first backout point for new clients. You can decline the invitation now and go home or to some other bar or wherever you'd like. Only be warned that no other invitation will ever come to you again. I considered this, and decided that it was already after 2 a.m. I was out, dressed, and full of coffee. I wanted to see this place. Lead on, Miss Jody.

She stood up and began to walk ahead of me at a rapid pace, I might add. We walked in silence for some time, leaving deep into the quarter, past Bourbon Street, past all the loud and drunk tourists, past the warm and safe lights, cop cars, the music from the bars. Before long, we were in the dark part of the quarter, also residential, and very few people were on the streets this way. She suddenly stopped and walked up the stoop to a private residence. She fiddled with keys, opened the door, and gestured for me to enter. Wait, is this someone's house? This is the house where the dead scream in silence, where the walls rot, where pain becomes pleasure,

where pleasure becomes death. This is the house of din, he who dwells on the black star, Enter. I thought it was the coolest pitch for a bar I'd ever heard. I figured it was rehearsed. But she said that whole little phrase with a lot of conviction. I had no idea who Dien was. Certainly didn't know about black stars.

But I did have the desire to push on. She walked me into the house, which was empty, no furniture, no nothing. Now, French Quarter real estate isn't cheap. So if this place was renting a house, just to serve as a cover for a bar, they clearly took themselves seriously. This might not be so boring after all. What happened next was strange. She turned me towards a small hallway with an elevator. Now I know that some houses back in the day had elevators, however, this one was a little hallway.

one only appeared to go down. New Orleans isn't exactly known for having basements, especially in homes. As I went to step in, she stopped me once more. This is your second back-out chance. Same as before, you can turn around and leave. No harm, no foul. Push the button. I replied, pointing at the down button, and stepped in. The elevator, a ride felt long, really long. At first I was thinking that this was impossible. No one builds down in the city. Hell, we even have to bury our dead above the ground. As far as I could see though, we were going down. This is one of those older elevators with just a metal great door. I could see wood and metal going past us. This eventually gave way to stone.

I was about to question this when it occurred to me. Cool trick. Trick? Yeah. The elevator is rumbling and plays where the rolling graphic goes by outside to look like we're going down, right? Because while I'm no expert on elevators, I would say that we'd have to be at least 20 stories below the city right now. And I know that just isn't possible. You're right.

We aren't 20 stories below the city We are by now At least 2,000 stories below If you're using stories as measurement She replied grinning I had to say something back About how that was a lie Had to be a lie

We hadn't been riding that long And that amount of depth was impossible On a tiny elevator like this However I figured this was all part of the act like her old speech about the house of din and all that crap. I didn't want to become too obnoxious or pushy. She might end up asking me to leave,

figuring I would ruin the scene for other patrons. Instead, I just smiled and decided to play along with a really cool and elaborate bar scene. Fake or not, this was by far the most ambitious effort I'd ever seen put forward for a drinking establishment. Shortly after the elevator stopped. Jody stepped in front of the doors, but before she opened them, she turned back to me. This is your final chance to back out.

If you wish, I will take you back. However, once I open these doors, you will be in hell. You may find your way back to the surface tonight, but some find that leaving is just impossible. Some stay forever. In the interest of free will and fair play, I am bound by the Council of Nod to offer you this final chance return to your life. Choose now. Amazing speech, Jody.

Really, great. You guys clearly put some thought into this. Yes, I want to go to this bar. She smiled and opened the doors. A small door set at the end of a wooden hallway that looked like it may have been built around the time of the pyramids. There were no lights. I can only see by the small electric light in the elevator.

and the light coming from the door ahead. I walk forward, and as soon as I stepped off the elevator, the heat hit me. It wasn't so hot that I couldn't take it, but if anyone's ever experienced being in an attic on a really hot day with no ventilation, then you'll have an idea of how this felt.

The air was thick beyond description. I instantly was covered in sweat, and I knew that if I stayed in this hallway for too long, I pass out. I turned to look back. It's how the elevator already heading back up. From what I could see,

there was no button to call it back down either. I guess Jody wasn't kidding when she said that it was my last chance to back out. I crossed my fingers at the bar would be air conditioned and walked forward. Into the light. It happened over the next couple hours

is largely a blur. I will tell it as best I can. I entered that bar. It was small, very small, about the size of a bedroom. There was a single wooden bar. Three bar stools pushed up to it, three small tables in the corner area. The room was poorly lit. Only a small light ball hanging from a cord was providing the light.

However, it was well lit enough to see everything. and sitting right on the bulb seemed the most logical. There was a small shelf behind the bar, typical setup, liquor bottles in front of a mirror. There are five others in this room, plus the bartender. I saw a gothic girl sitting in one of the tables, sipping a drink with a rather plain-dressed man. There were two gentlemen at the other table. One was wearing a business suit.

The other was wearing that awful cowboy attest. that was popular in almost all walks of life, even secret bars. There was another woman, average in appearance, probably in our mid-30s, smoking at the other side of the bar. Of course, there was me too, so that completed our little circle. There was no music playing. The walls were old wood, oak, maybe. The bartender? Now he was a classic.

white shirt, black pants, suspenders and bowtie, something like out of the roaring 20s. It was still hot too. Not as bad as the hallway, but pretty awful. Liquor would only make me hotter. But I was here now. I figured I could test the waters. Now as for liquor, I saw no bottles that I could recognize. none were labeled.

There was no beer either. No name brands, no cash register, no bar mat. This place was as simple as you could want. After a moment, the bartender spoke to me. Welcome to hell. He announced, smiling. Cool name. Sort of expected it, though. I tried not to sound rude or pretentious.

they had put on a great show tonight. But calling the place hell? Really? Too predictable. Well, it translates differently in lots of places. Hell is just the way you know it. Shall I call it something else? No. Hell's fine.

How about a drink? Jack and Coke, please. No Jack here. No Coke either. He answered it once. What do you have, then? Well, most people down here have a drink we call regret. I can also serve you loneliness, or if you're feeling particularly bold, or how special is damnation. Wow.

You guys are really playing up the hell thing. Okay. Serve me some regret, please. He handed me a drink poured from a brown bottle. It tasted amazing, too. I figured it to be of bourbon and wished I had some coke to mix it with. Apparently there was no ice here. I chuckled.

Of course not. Ice in hell. What am I thinking? The drink was tasty though, and the buzz hit me quick. I ordered up a loneliness and began to look around at my fellow patrons. None of them seemed to even notice me. The goth girl was cute, though. So I picked up my drink and decided to walk over to her.

When suddenly the woman sitting at the bar began to whimper. I am so thirsty. Can I please have some water? She seemed to be pleading this to the bartender. No ma'am. He replied with the same stupid grin. No water in hell, not even a small amount. Have another cigarette, though.

Wash it down with some hard liquor. No more smoking. My mouth is too dry. No more liquor. Water, please. She continued. And to me, it began to sound a lot like begging. Instead of handing her water, he held out an unlit cigarette.

It was then that I noticed the overflowing ashtray. The size of a damn punch bowl sitting next door. It was full of butts. Had to be over a thousand of them in there. Had she smoked them all herself? I strained my eyes and studied her harder. Her lips were blistered badly. She'd been at it for a while.

The bartender patiently held out the cigarette. Grinned never leaving his face until she finally sighed and took it. He produced a lighter and she took a drag. She began to cough violently. gagging too. I decided to chime in. Hey, man, she doesn't look so hot.

And I really don't think she needs another smoke. She looks like she's dying a thirst, too. Call the elevator, man. She's had enough, I think. The bartender turned his big smile on me. Who, old Nancy here? No, Nancy's a trooper, man. Smokes a couple packs a day.

and as far as her thirst, well, she knew this place was a thirsty sort of dive before she walked in the door. But she wanted to be here. She is getting exactly what she wanted. I walked over to Nancy and placed my hand on her shoulder. Ma'am, if you want to get out of here, I'll walk you over to the elevator. You don't look so great right now. I tried to sound as concerned as a 21-year-old kid could say. sound. Nancy looked at me and smiled.

Oh, I'm fine. Just fine. She said, but her mouth quivered as she spoke. The bartender was watching us like a hawk, still smiling, but his smile no longer look so friendly. Everything okay? He asked, beaming like a used car salesman. Nancy shakily replied yes. The bartender turned around.

And in that second Nancy gripped my arm hard, pulled me into the smog that was her breath and whispered. Leave while you can. So low that I almost missed it. Her breath was like a chimney. She must have been chained smoking for days. I smoked, and so to most of my friends. And even on nights when we would chain smoke and pound booze until the sun rose, None of us were ever that toxic.

I walked over to the man in the business suit. At least he appeared sane. Hey, sir, I think that lady over there needs help. The man looked at me and laughed. We all need help, kid. We're in hell after all. And as he did this, I looked over at the goth girl. Just in time to see her begin to cut herself.

deep and hard from the looks of it. The plain-dressed man sitting next door began to laugh in a high-pitched tone, almost a giggle. And that's when I noticed he was masturbating. Not in the sense that we all do at home. No. His penis was raw, bloody, torn away in places. But he just kept going at it.

Stop that! Look what you're doing to yourselves! I screamed at them. They looked at me and I noticed the girl was crying, but also smiling. Her eyes were practically begging to her self-inflicted pain to stop. Yet she just kept cutting. I'd seen enough. I reached over and attempted to pull the knife out of her hand.

Just then I felt a strong grip on my shoulder, stronger than anything I'd ever felt in my life. It was the bartender. He'd come around the bar to grab me. No. No, sir. He screamed into my ear. Every patron of hell gets to enjoy their treats without judgment.

After all, judgment has already been passed. We exist beyond that now. Let her cut. She loves it after all. Can't you see she loves it? She's smiling, ear to ear. The bartender dragged me back to my stool. It was great speed.

was somehow back behind the bar again. Now you wanted secrets, right, Kurt? You were bored and wanted more. That is what you came for. Now, drink your drink before I beat your fucking face in. Through all this, he never stopped smiling. He slammed a glass before me. A murky liquid was inside.

He grabbed my arm and began to squeeze. The pain becoming unarmed. unbearable. This was something, but not a bar. I wasn't ready to believe I was actually in hell, but I knew I was somewhere bad. Drink your drink, sir! He screamed again, and fearing that I'd pass out from the pain, I slammed down the liquid in front of me. It tasted horrible. Scrap it then, and I can't now. But it was fear, and suddenly the room got much hotter. The light began to flicker and suddenly I was afflicted by knowledge.

Things I didn't want to know. Things no one would want to know. My mother had an affair. And the man I'd grown up calling Dad was infected not my father at all. I had a brother who died. I never knew that. My boss at work hated me. My grandfather committed suicide.

All these years I'd just... thought he died naturally. My mother was going to abort me, but changed her mind because she couldn't afford the abortion. Going to die alone. My wife, a woman I would meet in six years and fall madly in love with would die in a car crash with my three-year-old son in the back seat. There was nothing I could do to change this. I would go blind in my 60s from a work-related accident. There were currently 34 people in the world right now. Some who I thought of his friends who wanted me to die. They hated me. Had ever loved me. Those were just a few of the secrets that suddenly hit me. There were thousands, maybe millions more. But by then my mind couldn't process them all.

There were some things. Things about me. Things about people I knew that were so dark that I'm thankful I cannot remember them. Because to dwell on them for even a second longer would have brought on madness. Frantically, I looked around the bar. The woman, Nancy, was still smoking. Only her throat was on fire. A small red glow, smoldering right in the middle of her throat. She was clearly in the worst pain of her existence, but she continued to take puff.

after puff of her cigarette. Each time she did the glow in her throat would get brighter. I looked straight ahead into the mirror behind the bar, seeing the gore fest that had begun behind me. However, what took my attention was the small black figure standing directly to my right. It was maybe five feet tall. Its skin was jet black. The only thing that stood out was its eyes. They were human eyes.

But bright. not glowing, just bright enough to stand out in the onyx of its face. It had small horns on its head. It had very white, sharp teeth. Somehow I knew this was din and I was in his house. I looked towards the door but it was gone. The heat continued to get worse. The secrets were still popping into my mom.

each worse than the one before. Entire dimensions of my soul were being revealed to me. All of it horrible. Just then my cell phone rang. The ringtone. Something from my world. Something from up above. It grabbed my attention and in that moment the secrets slowed down a bit. It was 4 a.m. His name, Mike. Yes. I have a friend named Mike. My best friend. The more I focused on things that were real, the more stable things became around me. The secrets were almost stopping now. The macabre seen around me was slowing down too. Nancy was back to just smoking again.

The goth girl wasn't cutting. The sinister face of din. It had also retreated just a bit. Mike, my oldest friend, yes, we grew up together. We rode our bikes together. We had sleepovers, pizza parties. And the more I focused on the real world. If I could just...

The door was back. I bolted for it. Stop! You had your chance to back out! Screamed the bartender, and I looked back just in time to see him leap over the bar behind me. I shot through the doors and back into the tiny, impossibly hot hallway. The bartender burst through the doors,

and I did the only thing I could think of. If thinking about the real world weak in this place... then perhaps a real link to the real world would break it. I hit answer on my cell phone. And the voice of my best friend who was calling from the safety of his apartment greeted my ears. I could even hear music in the background.

Real music. Mike! Call the cups! I'm in real trouble here! The bartender was still coming, still grinning. I had one last idea. I pushed speaker. Mike's voice, a product of the living world owned by someone who had not made a deal to enter some level of hell flooded the hallway. The bartender stopped.

He is not allowed to know of this place. To have any contact without being invited. Even voice contact. It violates the council of nod. That was when the final blow to the bar from hell was delivered. I heard Mike, in his sleepy, it's... concerned voice say, What is the council of nod?

Contact had been made. Whatever rules govern this place has been broken. Suddenly the elevator came down. The bartender, still smiling. Look down at me. Sorry, sir, but you have violated the rules. You are no longer welcome at this bar. Please leave.

Jody was standing in the elevator. I stood up and climbed in. The effects of the drink I consumed were gone. No more secrets. My phone had died. I guess calling from hell trains a battery. However the effects were enough. We rode up in silence.

When we reached the surface, Jody walked me out of the house onto the stoop. Then she spoke. You may think you won tonight, but you didn't. You had a chance to ride this elevator up as well as down. Your heart wanted secrets instead of happiness, though, so it went down. You could have gone up, and everything you could have ever possibly desired would have been yours. So, go on. Feel proud.

We like proud mortals, because the proud ones always find their way back to hell. Fuck you, Jody. I replied, but did so as I was walking away. I didn't want to tempt these people any more than I had. The aftermath. I remembered almost all the secrets. Over the ears, they've slipped away, slowly at first, then, like a dream. I'd wake up and more would be lost.

I wrote down the ones that I listed here, because I didn't want to forget them all. However, when I read them now, They don't seem like secrets anymore. Just like weird lies. Of course I called the police the next day. I wanted to help those people down there. I had to dress up the story a bit.

I told the cops that I was led there by Jody after meet her in the quarter. I left out the part about the place possibly being a level of hell. Somebody described it as a basement where people were being tortured. The cops got a warrant and went in. The house was empty, and as I said it was. However, there was no elevator found. The cop said there was a large closet area that appears to have had an old elevator at one time, but it was long gone now.

The house itself was still on the market. It had no owner. For a few years, I would go down to Jackson Square around 2 a.m., hoping to catch Jody luring another victim into the house. However, I never saw her again. Years went on, I did marry, and no, my wife was never killed in a car accident. We don't have kids yet, though. Perhaps when I violated the contract, the Council of Nod or whatever, some all broke that cycle, but I will be careful.

After I posted this, I burned the list of secrets that I'd written down. Of course I could always read them on here, and in time hopefully I'll forget them too. I never confronted my mother about the abortion plan or asked who my real dad was. The secret seems so real. But Satan is also called the father of lies for a reason. I'm not sure if Dinn is Satan or is the lesser version of him. But I doubt that Dinn is a very honest sort either. I post this as a warning though.

A warning to be careful when seeking out secrets. Some things are kept secret for a reason. And to know them is to know madness. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us. at Creepypod on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, or email us at creepypod at gmail.com. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wiki.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license.

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