Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - One Last Drink at the Writer's Block

Episode Date: September 16, 2022

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The hardest part of failure is watching others succeed. That's the phrase scrawled across the first page of the diary that I found behind the wall of my new apartment. I had known that Jacob Whitmore, an up-and-coming author, had lived here before me. I'd also known that he'd been ripped limb from limb in one of the most gruesome, unsolved murders of the past decade. The leasing agent had tried to hide the details, of course, but neighbors talk. Fortunately, I'm not superstitious.

Living in these gray-tiled, whitewashed rooms made famous by the crime scene photos doesn't make me tense or afraid. I hardly ever even thought about that poor young writer, unless the name Jacob Whitmore came up in conversation. Until now. If my broom hadn't knocked against the wood paneling while I was sweeping, I never would have known about the hidden compartment, empty apart from a single journal.

I feel like I owe it to all of those who still follow the case to share with the world what I've discovered. It might be a forgery, a hoax, or a practical joke. Or it might be the biggest breakthrough to date in the unsolved case of Jacob Whitmore. December 24, 2017. Christmas Eve might be the hardest night of the year to be alone. I don't have the heart to tell my family that I can't afford the gas to visit them this year. So I sit here on the floor, sifting through pictures from better times.

Like college, where I met Tanner, Jesse, and Levi, my three best friends. The four of us had next to nothing in common, except for the crazy dream of someday making a living as writers. We've kept each other sane even through breakdowns, existential crises, and financial disasters. We've shared each other's saggy couches, cheap weed, and romantic partners. We've commiserated about stuffy publishers, a merciless market for the written word, a dumbed-down public incapable of appreciating our art. Now, of course, it's all of us. over. The beginning of the end came two years ago, when Tanner's first book got published.

It was a breakout hit with interviews, a sequel, and a streaming service series to follow. Jesse's sci-fi short stories were next, winning several awards and rocketing her podcast to New Heights. Around the same time, a section of Levi's fantasy novel became an online sensation. He's already signed the production deal. The only member of our little band yet to achieve their dream is me. And it hurts. It hurts that their work has won them fame and fortune, while the real literature that I produce is completely ignored.

Tanner writes about ghosts and serial killers for God's sake. How anyone can be superficial enough to read that sort of trash is beyond me. But at least he has readers. It seems that all I have is my bitterness. I tell myself that no great artist is ever recognized during their lifetime. I tell myself that modern people are too shallow to truly appreciate my work. But the truth is staring back at me from the second-hand mirror on the wall of my basement apartment. My friends have moved up in the world, and I've been left behind.

December 30th, 2017. Tanner just called me again. Either he doesn't know that I've been of war. avoiding his calls or he doesn't care. The truth is, I don't want my friends to see me like this. I want them to remember the idealistic, passionate wordsmith that I was, not the bitter, insipid failure that I've become. Maybe it was the sound of rain pattering against my window

during the pauses between rings. Maybe it was the cold loneliness that creeps in during the winter months, like the cockroaches scurrying across my kitchen floor. Whatever it was, it made me pick up the phone for the first time in months, and I regretted it immediately. I'd recognize that mellow voice anywhere. Tanner sounded so sauced and happy that I wanted to reach through the airwaves and strangle him. He was calling to invite me to a bar. A place to get inspired, he called it. I've told Tanner a hundred times that I hate bars.

The conversation should have ended there, but of course. course, kept talking. He mentioned how he'd been to this special bar with Jesse and Levi already. In the end, that fact alone is what forced me to say yes. I didn't want to be left out once again. We agreed to meet tomorrow night at a nearby plaza, since it's New Year's Eve and, according to Tanner, reading back over this, I sound like a sulky child, and I know it. It's just so hard to have a positive outlook on anything in this freezing apartment. I'm sitting at my writing desk wrapped in every blanket I own, and I can still see my own breath. I hope that Tanner's special bar will at least be warm.

January 1st, 2018. I got lost in my own city last night. The streets I thought I knew transformed into a neon labyrinth, haunted by jostling figures beneath dark umbrellas. Beneath the icy rain, time and distance, stretched in strange ways. Or maybe that's just the exhaustion talking. I was late, but Tanner didn't seem to mind. In the months since I'd seen him,

someone had bought him a vape and taught him how to dress, but he still hadn't got rid of the ridiculous tropical foliage umbrella that he'd used since college. I wish I could remember everything we talked about as he guided me through that maze of alleyways, but I could barely hear him over the rain and the traffic. I only remember how he kept emphasizing that this, bar was a special place, and that he was doing me a huge favor. I just wanted to be someplace out

of the chill. As it turned out, the writer's block was all that and more. If it wasn't for Tanner, I would have walked right past it, a white panel door with a brass knocker in the shape of a book. The writer's block, it read. Inside, a staircase led down to a grandiose, mirror-backed bar of brass and dark wood that wouldn't have been out of place on the Titanic. Behind it, an impeccably dressed bartender hummed a sentimental tune as he cut lime wedges. But the walls were what caught my attention. Every vertical surface was a floor to ceiling bookshelf, arranged by genre around booths with swinging saloon-style doors that were thoughtfully painted to show what waited inside. Cupid, a bare-chested cowboy, and a bodice heaving heroin for romance, a gum shoe, a magnifying glass and a smoking gun for mystery,

a Greek pantheon, Chinese palace, and the Globe Theater for the classics. Suddenly, Tanner grabbed my shoulder and pulled me in close to whisper in my ear that he was going to order my drink for me, and he wouldn't take no for an answer. His rough stubble, grating voice and the greasy smell of rainwater in his hair clashed with the dreamlike space around me. I felt a sudden urge to shove him away, disappear into one of those cozy booths, and leave the disappointing world outside behind forever. It's not that I wasn't grateful,

but it was odd that there were no prices, or even a menu for whatever the rider's block might offer. Then there was the way the bartender mixed our cocktails behind closed doors. Tanner's in the horror booth, and mine and the 20th century. literature booth. I couldn't shake the feeling that something had been slipped into my drink. I've got a dark and stormy with a pinch of Matheson, Tanner explained. You've got a death in the

afternoon with a drop of Hemingway. I couldn't say for sure what was in my cocktail, but it was good. As I sipped it, I realized that I was over-complicating everything. I needed short, punchy sentences that told a clear story. I needed to bring life, real life, back into my work with no frills attached. The sparkle in Tanner's eyes told me that he understood exactly what was happening to me, because he was undergoing the same transformation. By the time we left the writer's block, I could barely feel the sidewalk beneath my feet. I was inspired.

We staggered out into the rain, and Tanner shoved something into my hand. a black notebook and a pencil. Write it all down, he commanded. Because when that drink wears off, you won't remember a word. He immediately started following his own advice, his pen dancing across the pages of his journal with the fervor that I hadn't seen since our student days.

I can only imagine what we must have looked like, two madmen standing beneath wobbly umbrellas on a 3 a.m. sidewalk, scribbling like we'd just seen God. February 27th. Those were Tanner's words when I told him that my manuscript had been accepted for publication. I used the notes I'd taken outside the writer's block and received the fastest, most enthusiastic response that I'd ever known from a publisher.

The royalty agreement was more than I ever would have dared to ask for, and I didn't have to ask. They offered. For the first time in years, I found myself laughing on the phone with a friend. When I told Tanner that we'd have to make another trip to the writer's block sometime soon, I'd meant it as a joke. But his reaction was strange. Tanner got quiet all of a sudden and told me to take a look at the documents he'd send over shortly.

I will, of course. But first I needed to schedule these two interviews and get back to my publisher about the book tour dates. March 2nd. Tanner is insane. That's the only explanation I can think of for the O'Sartrevelde. absurd email that I finally got around to reading a few minutes ago. In exchange for access to the writer's block, Tanner wants half of all my earnings. In perpetuity. I would have thought he was kidding. If it weren't for the contracts he'd sent, signed by a whole team of lawyers. I deleted

the sarcastic reply I had typed out. These days, I can afford to be magnanimous. Besides, Tanner is an old friend, and going out with him that night had kick-started my career. Although I have no doubt that sooner or later, my talent would have begun to shine even without the help of that odd little bar. Even so, I don't like what Tanner's implying. How dare he suggest that he, or some drink, for God's sake, is responsible for my success? His insinuations couldn't have come at a worse time. My agent is already screaming about social media's short attention span.

My publisher is breathing down my neck for a sequel. And since I finished that manuscript, I haven't been able to write a thing. Or rather, the moment I finish a page, I read through it with disgust and fling it into the trash. How can I share that garbage with my audience when I know I can do better? Perhaps it's just first book jitters. Jesse and Levi both have heaps of stuff public. and while it's not exactly literature, I suppose I could reach out to them and see how they're handling it.

March 15th. How long has it been since the last time I'd seen Jesse or Levi? Months, years? I can't remember. I wanted to suggest we all met at the writer's block, but I couldn't find it online or on any map. I even went to the plaza where I'd met Tanner that rainy night and asked the locals,

but no one had even heard of the place. When I asked Levi if he knew where it was, his response was troubling. Never contact me or mention that place to me again. After that chilling, enigmatic message, he blocked my number. I realized that I'd have to be more careful with Jesse. I proposed that we'd meet for a drink to catch up, and at the end, we'd settled on Red Light, a bar from our student days. Red Light is famous for its Polaroid Plastered Wall's low sea,

feelings, cheap beer, and the dim crimson light that the owner uses to cover up how filthy the place is, or so they say. Fame hadn't been kind to Jesse, although she wore the same cut-off denim jacket and low-rise jeans that were her staple in college. I almost didn't recognize her. Her hair was done up in an elaborate style, but it was thinning. No doubt her makeup was top shelf, but her face beneath it reminded me of a grinning skull. Black wraparound sunglasses covered her eyes, and a soft-tipped cane rested against the bar beside her. I realized that, at some point, Jesse had gone blind. Before I could even begin to speculate what happened, she grabbed me with a bony hand and pulled me onto the stool beside her.

Her words sent a chill down my spine. He got to you, didn't he? March 18th. It's taken a few days of conversation with Jesse. to fully piece together what happened to my friends over the course of the past year. Nobody knows how Tanner first discovered the writer's block, but it's clear that every time he takes an author there, they lose a part of themselves to that place,

a piece that can never be recovered. Not without another trip to the writer's block. Tanner approached Jesse shortly after his first big hit. At the time, she was struggling, frustrated, and lost, just like me. It was only after her fourth visit to the writer's block that Jesse began to understand just how dependent she'd become on that strange bar. Without one of its literary cocktails, she couldn't produce a single line. The problem was, only Tanner could find it.

And it doesn't take a genius to guess what admission fee he charged the beautiful young author who he'd had a crush on since sophomore year. It soon became obvious that not even Tanner fully understood how the writer's block work. Electronics behaved strangely nearby, and the bar's wood panel door never appeared in the same place twice. That there was something unnatural about the place was obvious, as was the fact that there were certain do's and don'ts about using its services. Nothing inside the bar could be taken out, and certain activities, including writing, drawing, or photography, were punished with brutal violence by the eerie, unchanging bartender. The true danger, however, lay in the doses of genius that were added to the drinks. Jesse had wanted to make the most of her last visit to the writer's block.

Tanner usually ordered her a white Russian with Asimov bidders, but that night, she muscled past him and requested her own drink, one she hoped would give her enough inspiration to never again set foot in that eerie bar. Whiskey on the rocks with a double shot of Heinlein. I started seeing these horrible bugs everywhere. Jesse told me on her second meeting. Hideous insects, with alien appendages and too many legs, crawling along the ceiling, creeping across my pillow.

I'd see them out of the corner of my eye below my coffee cup, on the other side of the shower curtain. Jesse let out a ragged breath. I tried everything, you know? Shrinks, pills, religion. Whatever I'd drunk in the writer's block had put those. things inside my head forever. I decided it was better to see nothing at all, rather than to go on seeing them." Jesse paused to remove her dark glasses. Her empty sockets were still scarred

from where she'd gouged out her own eyes with something sharp and inaccurate, long fingernails, maybe, or a dull knife. But it's no use. I can still hear them, skittering, you know, in the dark. I can feel them. I had to grab Jesse's arms to keep her from scratching herself. Everyone in the cafe stared at us while I held her close and waited for her panic attack to pass. With our haunted eyes and insomniac pallor, we looked like a pair of addicts. I can't blame the barista for asking us to leave. When Jesse and I parted, I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth. The pressure to produce a second story collection is just too strong. I've come so close to achieving my dream and I can't let it go.

Not now. Not like this. I've already called Tanner. Tomorrow night, I'm going back to the rider's block. March 21st. Tanner had changed his style. He met me in the same plaza as before, wearing a sky blue designer suit and alligator shoes. As we walked, he told me all about the house he was going to refurnish. Partially, I assumed, with my money. I didn't say a word to him on our walk to the road.

writer's block, but I doubt he even noticed. Five minutes or five years could have passed since Tanner and I had stepped out of the writer's block. There was no way to tell. The same ageless bartender was still polishing glasses behind the enormous, empty bar. I think he was even humming the same sentimental tune. I ordered a gin and tonic with a Fitzgerald twist. Tanner had a Poe-infused Bloody Mary. I walked slowly to the wash from hoping to catch a glimpse of exactly how these supernatural cocktails were made. As the bartender backed through the Art Deco doors of the 20th Century Fiction Booth, I saw him pull a book from the middle shelf.

Whatever was giving us our bursts of brilliance was stored there, I realized, behind the books themselves. The bow-tie barman looked over his shoulder at me as the booth door swung shut. His mocking little smile never budged. but a flash of brutal anger passed through his dark eyes. I shivered and walked on. I didn't want to think about what a man who moved with that kind of mechanical precision could do to someone he wanted to hurt, or what twisted thoughts might be hiding behind that plastic grin.

When our drinks arrived, Tanner toasted me with a complicit smile. It drove home the fact that Tanner, Jesse, Levi, and I were all part of this now. forever tangled up in this place and the unearned talent it had on tap. I suddenly felt like a fly caught in a web, unable to see the spider, but sure that something dark and monstrous moved out there in the dark, just out of sight. After all, there are no card readers or cash registers in the writer's block. And the deeper I get into all of this, the more I worry about how I'll be expected to pay my tab. June 26th. Watching half of my earnings disappear into Tanner's pocket is taking my mind in some dark directions.

My second novella is proving even more successful than the first. I can look forward to another round of interviews, book signings, and accolades, all for words that aren't mine. Not really. The sweetness of fame is more bitter than I thought, and with Tanner bleeding me dry, I'm hardly better off financially than I was when all this began. Writing does nothing to relieve the pressure, because these days I can't scribble a single line of fiction without first making another little visit to the writer's block. I can scream, I can cry, I can hit a pillow, but I can no longer pour my soul out onto a page. Maybe my true heart is bottled up behind a copy of my latest bestseller, on a shelf somewhere in the depths of the writer's block, waiting for some other impression

young author to come along and steal a few drops of the talent that could have been mine. This is all Tanner's fault. When I close my eyes to sleep, I see his face, watch a change from the mellow Kurt Cobain lookalike, who I remember from college to something alien, malicious, and threatening. These days, all of my daydreams involve smashing that sneer to a bloody pulp. July 4th. Fireworks today.

I know I should be enjoying those loud, smoky bursts of color in the sky. I have quite a nice view from the balcony of my new apartment. But when I see them, all I can think of is Tanner. The way he's probably enjoying the same show from the backyard of his new mansion beside his latest influencer girlfriend. The way he scammed Jesse, Levi, and I, and continues to leach off of us even to this day. The irreplaceable thing he stole from each of us,

the justice yet to be done. I should seek help, I know it. If it wasn't for Tanner's extortion, I could even afford it. Without the ability to write, I kill time by plotting my revenge. Each scheme is more gruesome and hairbrained than the last. But at least I can now be sure there's no sin I wouldn't commit to rid myself of Tanner. My muddled thoughts drift back to Jesse, her haunted face, her sightless eyes. How two shots of whatever goes into those cocktails at the writer's block had destroyed her life.

In the dark place behind my eyes, I can feel these black thoughts shaping themselves into a plan. A plan that might finally give Tanner the fate he deserves and cut his dead weight out of our lives for good. July 28th. It's done. I'll never set foot in the writer's block again. My career as a writer is over. but that isn't why my hands are shaking. The plan was simple enough.

I'd wait to order my drink until Tanner went to the washroom. Then, while the bartender was off mixing me up something complicated, I'd sneak into the horror booth and dump the most vile-looking stuff I could find into Tanner's drink. If everything went well, I'd be back on my stool before either Tanner or the bartender could guess what I'd done. The plan worked perfectly until I headed toward the horror booth. Conspiratorial whispering came from inside the mystery booth, and a peal of raucous laughter could be heard inside the comedy booth. The booths were occupied.

I'd always imagined we were alone in the writer's block. That was just how the place worked. My throat felt dry as I pushed open the swinging doors to the horror booth. It took me a moment to adjust to the gloomy light, the black furniture, and the fact that I wasn't alone. I couldn't tell whether the skeleton and not. 19th century clothes was a former patron who died in his seat, or just a cheesy prop. Neither would have surprised me. Across from the bone man, an emaciated woman with horrified full moon

eye stared unblinkingly at the crimson dregs in the bottom of her glass. If she was aware of my presence, or anything outside of her own mind, she gave no sign of it. I didn't have much time before Tanner came back from the washroom, and the bartender finished my drink. I knew there was a bit of that special something behind each title on those black shelves. King, Lovecraft, Poe, Kiroga, Shelley, Weather. Some of the names I recognized, but I wanted something stronger. Something like what was waiting behind the medieval manuscripts and papyrus rolls up on the top shelf. I grabbed one at random, reached behind it, and felt my fingers close around a cold crystal vial.

Just holding it made me feel alone in a hostile universe. hunted by things I couldn't see, understand, or escape. Whatever was in there, it was potent. I slipped it into my sleeve just in time. I'd barely slipped through the swinging doors when I saw the bartender backing out of a booth with my cocktail. I acted like I was just coming back from the washroom, but I could feel his suspicious eyes burning into my back.

I heard a flush and the sound of a faucet. Tanner, my time was up. The bartender's polished shoes clacked across the hardwood behind me. Blocking his vision with my back, I pretended to stub my toe on Tanner's stool and fall forward. Climsy me. While I furtively poured over half of the violent of Tanner's Shirley Jackson Shirley Temple. The footsteps paused behind me. A chill ran down my spine.

I had no doubt that the eerie barman had seen right through my attempt to impersonate a B-movie spy. My whole body went tense as I waited for something horrible to happen. You good, man? Tanner asked, clapping me on the back. Those were probably his last words. Even without looking over my shoulder, I knew with complete certainty that Tanner had wiped his hands on his thousand-dollar jeans, strolled leisurely back to his stool, and chugged half his drink before he sat back down, just like always. Whatever I'd tipped into his drink might start taking him.

effect at any moment. Tanner dug his manicured fingers into the ornate trimming of the bar. Sweat, poured down his forehead to splatter on the dark wood. A moan escaped his lips, as froth burbled from his mouth. The bartender ignored us completely, continuing to hum and clean as though a man wasn't coming undone, right in front of him. Tanner collapsed against the bar, drooling, clutching his head like he wanted to tear it off. In my fantasies of revenge, I'd never imagined this. I'd never imagined the reek of voided bowels, the chatter of teeth,

the stain running down Tanner's pant leg. I hadn't imagined what watching my old friend die might really be like. I regretted everything. Tanner collapsed. I ran to a side. No matter how hard I shook, slapped, or begged, my old friend wouldn't wake.

Only the fluttering of his eyelids and the mad laughter pouring hoarsely out of his throat. proved that he was alive at all. I didn't care if I went to hell. I didn't care if I went to prison. I just wanted him to live. I heard this snap before I felt the pain. The bartender had stomped on my forearm hard enough to break it. I writhed on the floor in agony, clutching my useless limb, while the bartender viciously kicked my ribs again and again with that same slight smile frozen on his face. At some point, the tiny crystal vial I'd hidden up my sleeve rolled out across the floor. There was a lull in the attack, a deadly silence. My fingers crackled like

popcorn as the bartender brought his full weight to bear on top of them. He grabbed my shoulder, squeezing until the ligaments tore, then dragged me toward the exit with a single hand. He took special care to slam my back into each stare before he flung my broken body into the street. My shoulder screamed in agony when I rolled myself over and tried to crawl back, desperate to undo what I'd done. But there was only a bare brick wall where that fancy wood panel door had been. The writer's block was gone.

August 3rd. Maybe I was crazy to write about all this. Tanner's publisher, at the very least, will realize that he's disappeared, and I'm sure my name will come up during the investigation. This diary is essentially a confession. If anyone finds it, I'm done for. Someone's knocking on the door.

Every time I hear that sound, I wonder if it's the police or worse. The lights just went out. The whole building's gone dark. I can barely see what I'm scribbling in the glow from outside my window. That pounding is getting louder and louder. Something metal just split through the door. Whoever's out there, they're coming in. Who will it be? I wonder.

City detectives with a warrant for my arrest? That inhuman barman? back to finish what he started. Tanner, raving mad and out for revenge. Whoever finds this story, I'm sorry. I guess you'll never know. My name is Jacob Whitmore. I sold my soul for talent, and God, am I sorry?

So ends the diary of Jacob Whitmore. I still don't know what to make of it, but I am sure of one thing. If I ever get an invitation to the writer's block, I'm going to turn it down. sur-joled, Pugance Moines for 15

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