“So how’d you go?”
“Drowned. You?”
“Mauled by a bear.”
“Wow. That’s rough.”
And so it goes here at The Crossroads, where the spirits of the restless dead gather. Comparing causes of death’s just part of how we get acquainted with each other, no different than asking what someone does for a living or where they’re from. Me? I died in a house fire. Ain’t a pleasant way to go, but let’s be real; not too many are. The lucky ones are those that get to die in their sleep. Not really anyone like that here; they lived a full life and passed on peacefully at the end. We’re all the ones that have been robbed. Cut short.
Getting here’s easy. First step’s the worst: you’ve gotta die. Once that’s out of the way, all you need to do is look for a door marked with a skull and crossbones. It can honestly be any door, anywhere. An apartment door, a rusty old piece of shit barely clinging to its frame, the entrance to a high-end department store, anything. Go through it and you’re here.
Tonight it’s all old wood floors and plaster walls, with globe lanterns and candles for light. Kinda cozy really. A few people are watching TV at the far end, reruns of Dead Like Me. Seems the TV’s got a sense of humor. It can’t play anything new by the way, only reruns. Can’t exactly get cable in the land of the dead. We’re grateful for it; at least it’s something. Upstairs there’s some kinda game going on, since every so often there’s an eruption of laughter or cheering from up there. There’s still more at the bar having a drink and shooting the shit with old Clive, the proprietor of this place.
Tomorrow it might be very different, since the place changes according to how Clive wills it. Most of the time it’s like this, sometimes it’s a good deal more upscale, others a medieval tavern. One time he turned it into a goth club, all red and black brocade with coffin-backed chairs and wrought-iron chandeliers.
“Wanted to do something different for a change,” he’d explained with a grin, having taken on the form of someone much younger than the old man we’re all used to seeing.
Goth-Clive was far hotter than he really needed to be. That fringe hanging over one eye, the little fangs, the red eyes…oof. Color me impressed.
Not sure if Clive’s a ghost like the rest of us or he’s something different. Something more. Hell, I’m not sure if ‘Clive’ is even his real name. What I do know is that he’s linked to this place and it to him. The Crossroads wouldn’t exist without Clive. Can’t say for sure if the reverse is true, but I wouldn’t be surprised. All I know for sure is that he looks after us wayward spooks, providing us with a shoulder to cry on or a willing ear. I’ve talked to him for hours, and I’m far from the only one.
Whatever he is, he’s doing the Lord’s work looking after the lot of us.
Sometimes longtime patrons stop showing up. General theory is that they’ve finally passed on. Maybe they’ve somehow managed to wrap up whatever unfinished business was keeping them here, or just come to terms with their death. Some of ’em were friends I made here, and yeah, I miss them terribly. But you know what? I’m happy for them. Happy they managed to finally find the resolve to leave this world behind and go where they need to go.
Maybe one day I’ll find the strength to do the same.
The Crossroads will always be here though for whoever needs it, as long as they need it to be.