Murphy's Bar and Grill was an unusual establishment; that could not be denied.
By all outward appearances, it was average and nondescript- a small building flanked by looming trees on a dusty road. It had a vintage appeal. A small patio turned outdoor dining area with a bar on one side faced the lovely, if not rather infamous, Langdon Lake, and the indoor seating area was scattered with study wooden tables and chairs. In the corner stood a dusty jukebox that had long since passed its prime and a well used pool table along the adjacent wall. The walls were brick and lent an authentic feel, heavily adorned with photographs and artwork, by staff and guest alike. It was packed by day; families taking their customary after church Sunday brunch, frat brothers sharing a pint over the latest college sport victory (and drunken party), socialite girlfriends bonding over shared gossip and a mutual hate for one especially entitled elitist.
By all accounts it was a landmark in its own right by day, loved by the townspeople.
After hours, however, it took on a life of its own.
Rumors ran wild of the occurrences after dark. Figures looming in the shadows. Strange, old-school jazz playing randomly. Occasional bursts of flame and smoke, yet leaving no evidence behind save for the scent of charred wood. And the missing persons. Most of this was chalked up to local superstition, an urban legend born of age and persistence.
I, Naamah Robichaux, can assure you that it is entirely true. All of it.