Angry Spirits - 1. Angry Spirits

"Let me be the first to welcome our newest GM to the Spirit Shed team. Aggie, mind introducing yourself?"

After waiting an awkward moment for the other conference call attendees to wrap up their forced applause, Augustus Buckner put on his best customer service voice. "Thanks, Brian! Having been a team member of ten-oh-two for a couple of years, I'm thrilled to bring my excitement and expertise to the squad. I look forward to working alongside y'all as we change and uplift our market."

Receiving a tap on the shoulder, he peered over to Janell Besthouse. She gave a thumbs-up, informing him his verbiage was correct. Ever since she hired him, he had admired her outlook in the industry. She never let the old-fashioned aspects of customer service die out. She refused to let someone be disappointed if a product wasn't readily available. If the store didn't have it, she ordered it. If the product wasn't in our inventory system, she barked at her higher-ups to key it into the database. If they said no, she found a way to fix the system and sell it anyway.

Her thumbs-up meant the world to Aggie. Having worked in the retail industry since the age of ten, he finally earned a store to call his own. Well, in a sense. Spirit Shed was a growing power in the alcohol industry. With over thirty stores in the state, the company set the standard in Kentucky. The corporate office still controlled the ultimate say in what was sent out to stores regarding mass buy-ins and new product contracts. But this store was a special case. Being the smallest location in the chain had its perks, and he had Miss Besthouse to thank. Despite appearing frail, she had a big pair of balls. She was the only general manager he ever witnessed corner a district manager and explain how modern business jargon and tactics did not work in a redneck, backward town. It mystified him how a sweet and caring grandmother figure possessed a stern, spitfire energy.

Wrapping up the conference call, Aggie clicked the mute button, sighed, and reclined in the office chair.

"Good stuff, Aggie."

He tapped the ragged wooden desk. "Janell, do you know how hard it was for me to keep my trap shut?"

Her signature titter made him smile. "I know, I know. I was afraid that sailor tongue of yours was going to come out. You'll need to get used to these calls. Every Monday at noon."

"On top of submitting the Southern and Coastal orders before eleven in the damned morning? Can I go back to my night shifts, please and thank you?

Again, she laughed. "You saying you'd rather work five nights a week?"

"What can I say? I got used to it after a few years. But I suppose I can get used to this instead." He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Are you sure you want my mouth running this show?"

"Of course. Handing over the reins to you brings me great comfort.” Her eyes gave away her amusement. “I know you can handle everything this place has to offer."

"Not much to handle. This place is the perfect size for a newbie GM."

"Ha!" Janell rolled her eyes and gave one of her infamous 'think again' stares. With a raised eyebrow, she leaned in. "This is just your first week. I haven't told you half of what the job entails."

"What do you mean? Everything's pretty straightforward."

"Did…" She rested her hip against the desk edge. "Did I not tell you when I hired you in? This building is haunted."

Aggie scoffed, then cackled. "That's a good one! You know, I've always joked about the dumpster out back. No lights kind of give off that murderous vibe."

"Someone did die out there," she clarified, "about fifteen years ago."

The proverbial brakes were stomped on. The numerous times he named the moonlit receptacle the 'murder dumpster' suddenly possessed weight. "You're joking."

"Yep. Ol' Dustin Coltharp. Poor man stumbled out of the bar before it closed down and decided to take a nap against the dumpster. Then another guy, probably drunker than Dusty, drove right into the thing."

His face contorted. "No!" What a horrific way to go.

"His head got squished like a grape. All because the bar manager kicked him out for trying to pour his own beer. The man always had an issue with authority, especially management and police."

He peered over her shoulder. Behind the plywood, makeshift wall in the office-side stock room was the attached secondary part of the building. Condemned during the COVID pandemic, Shay's Sports Bar & Grill was a popular establishment on this side of town. Particularly popular with the good ol' country boys, “back-in-my-hay-day” rememberers, and seedy meth heads, many of Spirit Shed's customers have cried and cried again for it to reopen. Their memories were recalled and told to him and his coworkers. He frequently wondered if the business was worth it. Countless claims of fights breaking out, bottles being thrown at the band, and unkempt serving methods had created an inclination for Aggie to be hesitant.

"Why is this the first I've heard of this? I've worked closing shifts five nights a week for the past two years. Nothing has ever been out of the ordinary. Hell, I've even been back there."

Janell sighed. She appeared defeated. "That's Dusty for you. He loved the lower bar managers because he could manipulate them and pull the wool over their eyes by looking sober. But the GM and backups always knew when to cut him off.

"Aggie," she said, "are you sure you want this?"

He gestured, holding out open hands toward the computer monitor. The screen stated, 'Your call has ended.' "Miss Janell, I'm in too deep."

***

Weeks passed by, and the flow of the store changed little. Just as he desired, Aggie wanted to keep the pace Janell's leadership generated. There was little to do. The store had two stockers, Beverly and Mack, and they kept the two minuscule stock rooms organized. Between them, the shelves remained full. Sheila, as ditsy as she could be at times, commanded the purchase order process. Scott took his place as the prime closing manager, which was an easy schedule change. The man provided promising closes on his two days off when he was in the position. He worried about Cameron. The college kid was one in a million, from Aggie's perspective. He barely complained about working every Friday and Saturday night, only to return ten hours later on Sunday morning. The only time he earned a weekend off was when he submitted a vacation. What a trooper!

That was the team. How Janell operated with just seven employees– four managers and three clerks was beyond his comprehension. It made little sense when the store operated thirteen total shifts a week. So far, he hadn’t been forced to operate outside a typical GM day-shift schedule.

Until an hour ago, that is. Scott had an emergency. The moment he called Aggie, the general manager told him to forget about the store. Unfortunately, it couldn't have happened at a worse time. Cameron was on a rare vacation with his parents. Out of state, he could not be reached.

Part of Aggie was thrilled. Week after week, he had been stuck in the office responding to email threads, answering calls from the district manager, and completing obsolete online trainings. The opportunity to run a register and manage the store shone like a theater spotlight.

It was Friday. Rush hour. Three to four in the afternoon. Everyone was getting off work, and they needed their nippy. Aggie snatched a fresh till from the safe with pride and excitement, and strode towards the cashwrap like he owned the place. Sheila gawked at him with her black-rimmed cat-eye glasses. She must have seen his grin, for she mimicked it.

"You've been waiting for this, haven't ya?" she asked. Her cheery, native Kentucky accent was bounding, just like the curly and silver ponytail behind her head.

"You know it, lady. It's been a while since I pulled a double and worked by myself."

"I can stay over for a bit to get you through the rush."

Popping the till into the unused register on the drive-through window's end of the counter, he entered his credentials. "I'm sure I'd get the overtime approved, but that means you'll be late for your poker night. Can't have that, can we?"

Sheila glanced at her watch with an agape mouth. "Yeah, you're right about that. Forgot I had that tonight."

He merely smiled and checked the time on the computer screen. "You know it's bad when I know your schedule better than you do."

She laughed. "You know, I should run around with my head backward because I know the way that way!"

Before he could comment, the drive-through bell rang. While taking the order, Sheila offered to leave her till in for him to utilize. Bless that crazy lady. Two customers entered the store in true rush hour fashion, and he watched two more cars pull into the lane. A smile crept across his lips. The countless nights as a closing manager ignited a fire within him. Sheila knocked out the orders in store, then tapped his shoulder. She was leaving.

He rolled his shoulders. Game on.

***

The rush kept his mind on the fly. He alternated between drive-through and in-store orders. Hefting cases of beer out the window pumped blood in his veins. Even the customers' obnoxiously cheery attitudes couldn't annoy him. Aggie was a confident one-man army.

By seven in the evening, the hectic pace finally slowed. When given the chance, he sprinted to the restroom. In record time, he relieved himself and washed his hands. Then, just as he yanked the roll of paper towels, a loud clap of thunder rumbled in the distance. "Uh oh." He sighed. "That'll either kill the sales or send them all to the drive-through."

He walked toward the storefront aisle and studied the graying skies from the large windowpanes. A storm was coming. Brandishing his phone, he opened the local news app and selected the live Doppler radar. After studying the repeating waves of green, yellow, and red, Aggie knew the city was in for some rough weather. To make things easier, he connected the phone's Bluetooth to the store's media player, then turned on the live coverage over the intercom throughout the small store. The meteorologist expressed his concerns about high, damaging winds and potential hail.

Another ding sounded. He snickered to himself. "Through hell or high water, these bitches wanna get drunker." He spun and took the order for a half gallon of Nikolai vodka. On the way to the vodka aisle, another rumble of thunder shook overhead. The storm was nearing. Bringing the $9.99 bottle to the register, he caught the movement in his peripherals. The sickly man in the window offered a closed fist with a five-dollar bill between his fingers. Knowing what was about to happen, he held out his palms together, allowing the pile of change to fall safely. "Be right back."

While counting the coins, Aggie heard the pouring rain begin. The man was five cents short, but he accepted the payment and bagged the bottle. Handing it off, he offered a smile. "Here ya go, try to stay dry."

Garbled wanna-be words tumbled from the man. Being fluent in the “drunkenese” language, he understood the "Thank you, have a good night."

He closed the window and hurried to the front door to retrieve the chalkboard. It was set in a dry corner under the awning, but he didn't want Bev's work to go to waste. By the time he opened and rounded the door, the bell chimed again. Jogging, he grasped for a second wind and greeted the next customer. "Howdy-do! What can I get'cha?"

"Y'all sell two liters?"

"Sure do."

"Cold?"

"Yep."

"Sprite?"

Aggie's brain fizzled like a glass of Pepsi. As he nodded with a smile he thought, You know, you could've just said, "Can I get a cold two-liter of Sprite?" instead of approaching me like a brain-dead caveman.

"That," the pudgy and graying Neanderthal ordered before turning to face his windshield.

Maintaining a faux smile, he rounded the corner of the cashwrap and pried the soda cooler door.

Thunder boomed, rattling the window. The store was swallowed in darkness, followed by the city's hum of lost power. A few squeals could be heard from across the street. He quickly assumed they belonged to the usual Taco Bell workers who lingered outside their building. But he quickly returned to his own problem. Nothing was functioning. Register screens were black, cooler doors dim, and the only source of light was the red exit sign above the front entrance. Aggie grabbed his phone and shook it. Thanks to the utility app he had installed, the flashlight shone bright due to the motion, providing a sense of security. He returned to the customer and informed him he could take cash, which he was grateful for. Performing quick math mentally, Aggie handed over the beverage and watched him drive away.

His training kicked in. A list of tasks had to be done. He scribbled on a sticky note to complete the Sprite transaction when power was restored, then went to lock the door. "No transactions," he recounted with a whisper. Stepping outside, he looked left and right. The whole street was dark. In a hurry, he jogged to the drive-through and pulled the bell hose, then returned inside to lock the door.

"Next," he muttered, pulling up the local energy provider's outage website. He didn't expect much, yet he had to provide a screenshot. The outage was reported, but no expected recovery time was listed. It spanned a total of 3,430 projected customers, so he assumed a transformer got struck. He immediately sent the screenshot to the district manager and started a call.

Brian immediately answered, "Augustus! Calling pretty late, aren't we?"

"I wish I wasn't, sir. Ten-oh-two's power is out. From the provider's map, ten-oh-one is still up, but I have the store here closed for the time being."

"Oh, just got your text. Yeah, that looks like a nasty outage."

Aggie peeked through the drive-through window before turning the knob to lock it. "Weatherman said some nasty stuff was heading this way. I'll keep an eye on the municipal’s tracker to see if this'll last long."

"Wait, are you at the store? This late?"

"Yep, just covering. Scott had an emergency, and Cam's on vacation."

Brian sighed. "I don't need you pulling the hours Janell did. I still say that's why she retired."

All he could do was chuckle. "All due respect to her, I'm thirty years younger than her. Nothing a Red Bull can't fix."

"If you say so. Well, stick around for a bit. If the lights are still off an hour before closing, get on out of there. You'll need to let your opener know to reset the server and wifi if you don't get to it."

"Roger that. Have a good'n, Brian."

"Likewise. Stay safe."

The call ended. The darkness kept him uneasy, but it wasn't his first time in the store with no power. Using the phone's flashlight, the gleam off the bottles of wine and liquor made the glass look like specimen jars. The only sounds were the falling rain, the occasional thunder rolling, and his beating heart. Little could be done. He decided to count down Sheila's till. It hadn't been used for most of the day, as Beverly handled nearly every transaction while Sheila processed invoices and handled cycle counts.

A thud distracted him. His eyes darted toward the sound, and a loud gulp accompanied his swallow. No one else was in the building. Looking toward the front window, he saw no silhouettes, and his car was the only one in the small lot. He shrugged it off, assuming it was a piece of trash blowing across the pavement. Propping his phone to illuminate the till, he grabbed a notepad and counted. Primarily relying on touch, he passed each bill between his fingers, then squinted and jotted down the numbers. He pushed up his glasses as they slipped down.

"Hey-ey!"

The shout seemed cloudy and from behind layers of walls. Thinking it originated outside, he scanned the parking lot. Still, only his car sat there, and he saw no signs of life. Uncertain, he used the key to pry the register drawer and secured the till. With bated breath, he stalked the window aisle and sought for the origin. A vibration came from the wall alongside the drive-through, akin to when someone's bass-laden speaker system boomed. Pint bottles clacked together like wind chimes.

His heart rate increased.

"Ooh!"

Aggie spun to face the voice coming from the drive-through. Every muscle tensed, ready to give chase or flee. Trepidatiously, he approached.

Light flashed, and thunder boomed, frightening him. "Ah!" He clutched his chest in terror, then in relief as he realized Mother Nature was the bully. Returning to the till, he tried to recapture normalcy. The lone LED light provided comfort as he finished counting with newfound haste. Binding the would-be deposit with a paperclip, he attached the note and brought the till to the office with the intention to put it in the safe.

Stepping out, he spotted a faint flickering. In the corner of the plywood wall separating the two conjoined businesses were holes in the metal corner girder. Even with the power on, a light always shone through due to an emergency spotlight always being on in that closed-off room. Instead of the usual yellow light, red and orange hues danced. "That's…"

Aggie panicked. He smelled smoke.

Fire.

He grabbed his phone and keys, stumbled out of the emergency exit, and sprinted toward the bar's entrance. Frantically, he flicked through the ring and stabbed the correct key into the padlock. He needed confirmation before alerting the authorities.

Once inside the spacious and barred patio area, he ran to the miniature garage door that led to the actual pub-style establishment. With the same key, he unlocked and lifted the metal, cringing at the screech and creak as the door reluctantly lifted. Using the phone as a guiding light, he trod carefully through the abandoned space toward the broom closet– certain that was where the fire burned. He pried open the door, revealing only an endless darkness.

No fire?

What the hell? The scent of smoke was gone. Did his senses fail him? Did his imagination run wild from nature's stimulants? Closing the door behind him, Aggie shone the light across the bar. No chairs or tables were left from the previous tenant; only the metal and wood surfaces of the serving area remained. Unfaded wall space from previous mirrors and beer memorabilia littered the—

A sharp gust blew past his face, and shattering glass erupted behind him! He instinctively brushed his face, and his hand came off wet. The smell of copper blasted his nose– blood. Ducking, he frantically searched for the culprit.

"Service," a low voice whispered in the silent room. Flashing his phone, he saw nothing.

Heart pounding, he sought escape. His fleeing feet took him to the open garage door. Before he reached it, it shut with an ear-splitting crash. Hot tears poured down his cheeks, mimicking the burn of the phantom fire. He cried out as his fingers dug under the rubber landing. Try as he might, he couldn't lift it.

"Service!" the voice demanded, followed by another splattering of glass.

"Fuck!" he bleated, desperate for a saving grace. Backing himself against the metal, his hands shook as he canvassed for the attacker. The smooth brick floor chilled his pant legs, and his toes grew numb through his athletic shoes.

"Another. Another. Another." The wispy chant echoed through the vast room.

"N-no!" Fight or flight kicked in. He scrambled to his feet and pressed his back against the wall. Fight won the battle, and he shouted, "No more. You're done!"

The silence that remained was louder than a lifetime’s worth of thunder.

"You're done," he shouted again. "You're cut off!" There was no response. A familiar confidence built inside of him. "You need to leave. Now!"

The air felt thick as he anticipated retaliation. His ragged breathing echoed in the sudden stillness. Stooping, he cautiously lifted the door slowly. The metal screeched. Seeing how he wasn't being harassed further, he yanked it up and shimmied underneath. Slamming the door down, he shakily latched the padlock, then collapsed. His body shook as his adrenaline ran its course. Waves of emotion slammed into him as he sobbed. He couldn't believe he survived the insanity. As he wiped his eyes, he tentatively prodded his injured cheek. Startled, he probed his face; it was dry.

After taking a few deep breaths, he stumbled to his feet and exited the patio area. He stood still for a few moments to collect his thoughts. What happened in there? Nothing made sense—

The street lights and nearby businesses illuminated, and the power whirred across the neighborhood. He looked to his left and noticed the lone lamppost in the bar's parking lot had turned on. His eyes were inexplicitly drawn to the dumpster, and his fear returned. The bottom half of the sage-green side appeared splattered with blood.

"Dusty Coltharp," Aggie mumbled breathlessly.

The man Janell mentioned a week ago. The details flooded back to him. How the poor man was plastered, got kicked out of the bar, then died while passed out propped against the dumpster, ironically, a victim of a drunk driver. Aggie never said never when it came to the afterlife, and the idea of spirits trapped on this plane wasn’t completely farfetched. What he had just experienced sold it to him. Being a soft person, he sympathized with Dusty.

He stepped out and immediately felt raindrops hit his short hair. Approaching the dumpster, he closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. For both what happened to you and what I just said in there. Th-that's not me. I go by the book, man. I can't tell you how many taxi rides I've called to get people home. Just know if you ever came in my store, or if I ran that bar, you'd still be told no but respectfully. Too many out there wind up in bad shape or worse when the intoxicated are viewed as a nuisance. Just… I'm sorry."

Opening his eyes, he wiped them on his sleeve. Confusion overcame him as the bloody mess had disappeared as if Dusty had never perished. Closing his eyes again, he tried to register the phenomena that had transpired. It all seemed ridiculous in a way.

Headlights lit up the parking lot, and he jumped as the driver honked his horn.

"Hey, you work here? Y'all closed?"

"I… sorry, I was…" Coming up with an excuse, he pocketed his hands. "Was just taking the trash out. Gotta get the registers back up and running, then—"

"Bah!" the man grunted as he revved his engine and sped away.

The disgruntled hillbilly couldn't faze Aggie. He glanced at the dumpster one more time before he walked back. Entering through the rear, he grumbled and took note of his soaked shoes. "Socks, too," he whispered. Exhausted, both mentally and physically, he craved a bubble bath. And Chinese food. No, pizza. Extra sauce and cheese.

He unlocked his phone, turned off the flashlight, and texted Brian, Locking up. Power still out. Gonna be for a while. Halfway to the registers, he received a thumbs-up emoji. Popping open the drawer, he began counting. No amount of sales dollars could keep him from calling it an early night.