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The Midnight Hind

 

When you approach the pub known as the Midnight Hind, you would be forgiven for thinking it is abandoned, or at the least, closed. It only operates between dusk and dawn, and the ancient leaded glass of its cross-hatched windows are so pregnant with swirling colors that, in the moonlight, they take on the dead-eyed opalescence of an oil slick.

Opening the door, most blink at the contrast between the still darkness without and the riot of light and sound within. People talking and arguing, playing cards at corner tables, and gathering around the small stage where an odd little band plays. But none of that was why I’d entered that place. I had come to play the Bar Game.

You sit at the far end of the bar facing the other player, the span of polished wood in front of you deeply etched with white lines and runes. Among these carvings, several rows of silver nails have been hammered halfway deep, and when you are bade to slide your hand in, you find that the spaces between the nails fit your fingers just perfectly. Further, regardless of the players, when both have their fingers planted between the silvery rows, their fingertips always lightly touch.

Then the game begins.

The bartender has a card he or she produces from beneath the bar. On it are three questions.

What is the best thing you have ever done?

You immediately get flooded by not only the best answer of your own heart, but that of your opponent. And it goes beyond mere telepathy. You see all the good and bad consequences of what you both did—things you could never know. This question breaks many people right away.

What is the worst thing you have ever done?

This is, almost without fail, a different answer than one expects. A buried, secret shame. It is what undid my opponent only a moment before I was going to yank my own hand free. The third question was never asked of us, but I saw it on the card.

Who are you truly?

I shuddered at the words, in part because I saw the look on my opponent’s face. I had won, so I kept the memories of my best self while my worst crimes were wiped away. Not just from my memory, but removed wholly from the world. Her penalty for losing was the truth. Not only did she keep a perfect recollection of her worst act and its effects, but she had the last question answered for her. She was irrevocably shown who she truly was, without all the self-delusions and comforting lies.

I avoided her eyes as I got up to find a cheerier corner of the pub. The bartender was gentle as he ushered her out of the bar, and while it made me uncomfortable, I understood why she couldn’t stay. After all, this was a place of light and laughter.

And the damned deserved to walk alone in the dark.

 

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