Josh had sat contently near the roaring campfire,
examining the dancing flickering flames and the crackling of the
firewood and considered the day's events. Chester, his college roommate,
had urged him to go on this trip. "A few days roughing it in
the Canadian woods would do you good," he had energetically
cajoled, until Josh finally, as he so often did, gave in.
One of the highlights of the trip, as Chester had
so enthusiastically explained, was the proximity of the small multi-award-winning
micro-brewery, which, despite being miles off the beaten track,
still managed to attract swarms of enthusiastic beer drinkers each
and every day, all in search of the perfect pint. Josh could never
understand this quest; he had always considered beer to be an insipid
gassy liquid. Yet, despite this, after quickly setting up camp this
morning with Chester still passionately harping on, they had both
trekked the mile and visited the brewery.
As they approached, Josh noted that it was nothing
more than an old shack, with several large barrels in
back. Yet despite its appearance, as he had been informed,
dozens of seemingly educated, rational folks had also made the trudge
through forests and were jubilantly sitting on dirty old benches
and drinking large glasses of the stuff. Josh reluctantly accompanied
Chester inside and ordered two of the samplers. Within a few minutes,
two old cork trays with six small glasses in various hues of brown
on each of them were presented to them. They returned outside and
found an empty bench, and Josh watched on amazed as Chester keenly
drank and spurted phrases like "Well hopped, beautifully
balanced, and malty." Josh attempted to do the same but
found the task unbearable. All of a sudden a lofty man dressed in
faded overalls and sporting a straggly grey beard and a balding
head took a seat next to them. He seemed contented at Chester's
consumption and nodded at him but looked a little dismayed at Josh's
six still nearly-full glasses.
"My name is Wilkins," he informed them.
"I am the head brewer here
I see that you don't like
our regular offerings." He eyed once more the full glasses
and sighed. Then a broad grin transformed his wrinkled face and
he raced off with surprising spryness and returned moments later
to jubilantly place down on the table two large glass jugs. "Then
please accept these here gifts
Our special brew
I like
everyone who comes here to be satisfied." With that, he got
up, slapped Josh heartedly on his back and walked off whistling
to himself.
* * *
Chester had quickly begun drinking his prize almost
immediately upon completing the mile trudge back to the campsite.
Within a couple of hours, his jug was empty and he was in a jovial
drunken stupor in the tent, obnoxiously snoring. As nightfall began
to silently creep in, Josh sat there, determined to understand the
attraction this local brew held over people, and as the new moon
lit up the cold night sky, he examined the glass gallon jug. "Witches
brew 6.9 APV" was the dubious name that was hand written upon
it. 'It looks innocent enough,' he thought
'Perhaps I should
give the stuff a second chance.' With that, he unplugged the rubber
cork and lifted the jug to his lips. "What's the worst that
could happen?" he reasoned as he took a long gulp. "Yuk"
he said out loud, but his mind was set and he continued to drink.
When the jug was a quarter gone, his opinion began to shift. Songs
from his childhood began streaming from his normally quiet mouth,
and he felt himself being washed over with a strange sort of unfamiliar
sanguinity and cheeriness. As he continued to drink, the feelings
only intensified further. The sweet songs of his childhood became
replaced with bawdy Irish drinking songs that he was surprised he
even knew. It was then he spied it in the dark forest, a campfire
in the distance. Glancing in the tent at his sleeping roommate,
he decided to set off into the darkness to explore. 'What's the
worst that could happen?' he thought as he set off into the night,
his now half-emptied jug firmly in his hand.
As he trekked into the night, the campfire acted as
a beacon for him. He continued to drink
Twenty minutes later, with the beer jug now empty,
he slowly came upon the mysterious camp. His congenial manner was
now being overtaken by nervousness. He was having a hard time focusing
his eyes and was having difficulty maintaining his balance. He saw
several men about the fire, and as he lowered himself into the safety
of some bushes, he fell and landed awkwardly. A sharp pain shot
up from his left ankle. "Shit," he whispered into the
night as he lay there and examined the scene in front of him. He
held his breath in horror at the sight that now met his eyes. Three
men, including the seemingly friendly brew master he had met that
afternoon, were carefully attending to their task at hand. Over
the fire, a large wooden frame had been constructed, and tied by
rope to it hung a man's limp body. He appeared to be already dead
and had been stripped bare and hung upside down. The brewers, using
what appeared to be razor blades, were cutting slits in the dead
man's wrists. It somehow reminded Josh of how syrup is drawn from
the maple tree, slowly and delicately dripping... Despite his horror,
he felt a curious urge to take a closer look
The blood was
dripping into a cauldron over the fire
. Then he began to scream
uncontrollably as his eyes managed to focus on the words hand-written
on the front of the cauldron: "Witches brew 6.9APV."
Suddenly the men paused from their meticulous task
and began to run furiously towards Josh, who was at this point screaming
hysterically
He attempted to get up and run, yet the intense
pain in his ankle and the overwhelming dizziness in his head made
him once more fall to the ground.
* * *
Josh was never to be seen again after that. Three
weeks later, Chester went back to the area in search of him, and
as he sat there in the brewery explaining to anyone who would listen
his friend's disappearance, once more the head brewer amiably ambled
over and offered him a free jug of beer.
"I am sorry to hear of your friend's disappearance,
young man
Perhaps a sample of my latest brew will help take
your mind off it," he said, grinning.
The end.