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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/StrangeAccounts on 2024-12-26 18:08:06+00:00.

The call came on a Wednesday night, just after nine. I remember because the clock on my microwave blinked “9:03” in green LED lights when I heard my phone buzzing on the counter. I was halfway through reheating leftover pizza—a rare indulgence ever since I’d sworn off takeout in the name of “self-improvement.” 

Seeing her name on the screen sent something awful through me. I hadn’t heard from Sophie in three days—not since our fight about, well, everything. Work. Money. Free time. Faith. I didn’t blame her for being tired of me. Most days, I was tired of me too.

I hesitated before answering. “Hey,” I said, trying to sound casual. I tried acting as if I wasn’t dreading that call.

There was a pause. Not a good one. The kind where you know the person on the other end is carefully choosing their next words.

“Hi, Michael,” she finally said. Her voice sounded small, tired. “Can we talk?”

My throat tightened. “Yeah. Sure. What’s up?”

Another pause. Then she let out a single long exhale: “I can’t do this anymore.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. “What do you mean? Sophie, come on, we can—”

“Please don’t,” she interrupted, her voice was cracking. “I’ve been trying to make this work for months, but it’s always something, Michael. Every time I think we’re okay, you… you slip.”

“I haven’t had a drink in 137 days,” I shot back, defensive. “I’m doing everything I can—”

“And that’s great,” she cut in again, her tone soft but firm. “But it’s not just the drinking. It’s the way you close yourself off. The way you push me away every time I try to help.”

“I’m trying,” I said, my voice losing itself. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said, and that was the worst part. Because I could hear the finality in her voice, the resignation. “But I’m not the one who can save you. You need a foundation that’s stronger than I can be.”

I wanted to argue, to beg her to reconsider. Instead, I just stood there, gripping the phone like it was the only thing keeping me standing.

“I hope you find peace, Michael,” she said after a long silence. “I really do, I’ll be praying for you to get the help you need.”

Then the line went dead.

I don’t remember hanging up. I don’t remember the pizza burning in the microwave or the phone slipping out of my hand. What I do remember is standing in front of the cabinet above the fridge, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I stared at the unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s I’d kept hidden “just in case I really needed it.”

My sponsor would have had a field day if he had seen me. “A safety net is just a noose with extra steps,” he’d say. But I’d always been too afraid to get rid of it, just like I’d been too afraid to open it—until now.

My hand trembled as I reached for the bottle. The glass felt cool against my palm, almost soothing. I turned it over, the amber liquid sloshing inside. For a second, I thought about Sophie’s voice, the way it cracked when she said goodbye. I thought about the 137 days I’d fought to claw my way out of the hole I’d spent years digging myself into. I though of every prayer my AA group forced me to say. About every time Sophie had dragged me to church. I hated it all. I hated that I wasn’t fixed. I hated that I didn’t feel saved. I hated that—

And then… Something shifted. One second I was in my kitchen, staring down the edge of a decision I wasn’t ready to make. The next, I was sitting in a plush leather chair, the smell of cigar smoke and bourbon heavy in the air.

The bottle was gone. The kitchen was gone. All around me was the hum of jazz and the low murmur of voices.

I blinked, disoriented, and looked up. A man in a crisp black vest stood behind the bar, polishing a glass with slow, deliberate movements. He smiled when he saw me.

“Rough night, Michael?” he asked, his voice smooth as silk.

I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out.

How the hell did he know my name?

The man behind the bar tilted his head slightly, his smile widening just enough to put me on edge. “Michael,” he repeated, like it was the punchline to some private joke. “Welcome back to the Rag and Bone Shop.”

I looked around, trying to get my bearings. The walls were dark wood, polished to a near-mirror finish, and the room was dimly lit by a series of perfectly aligned lamps that casted long, flickering shadows. A faint jazz tune played from a record player in the corner, the needle crackling as it turned. 

The other patrons were scattered throughout the bar, sipping drinks or murmuring to each other in tones too low for me to make out. None of them looked at me.

“I didn’t…” My voice faltered. I cleared my throat, trying again. “I didn’t mean to come here.”

The bartender chuckled softly. “Most people don’t,” he said, setting down the glass he’d been polishing. His hands were immaculate, not a speck of dirt or a crack in his manicured nails. “But here you are.”

“I was at home,” I said, the words spilling out in a rush. “In my kitchen. I—”

“Had a bottle in your hand,” he interrupted smoothly. “Jack Daniel’s, if I’m not mistaken. An old friend of yours, isn’t he?”

My stomach churned. “How do you know that?”

He leaned forward, planting his elbows on the bar and resting his chin on his interlocked fingers. His eyes—dark and sharp—met mine, and for a moment, I couldn’t look away. “Let’s just say I know a man at a crossroads when I see one.”

I forced myself to break eye contact, glancing at the drink menu lying on the bar. There were no prices listed*.* My throat was dry, and I found myself licking my lips.

“I don’t want a drink,” I said firmly, pushing the menu away.

“Of course you don’t,” the bartender said, his tone friendly but condescending, like he was humoring a child. “You’re just here to… what? Soak up the ambiance?”

I stood up, the stool scraping against the floor. “I’m leaving.”

The bartender didn’t move, but his smile widened. “You’re free to try,” he said. “But you might find the door harder to reach than you think.”

I turned toward the entrance, my heart pounding. The door wasn’t far—just a few steps—but as I started walking, the distance seemed to stretch. Each step I took felt slower, heavier, like wading through thick honey.

“Why are you in such a rush?” the bartender called after me. “Sit down, Michael. Have a drink. Take the edge off. God knows you’ve earned it.”

I didn’t stop, didn’t look back. The door was right there. Just a few more steps.

Then I heard the sound of glass clinking against wood, and my feet froze.

“Do you remember the first time you drank?” the bartender asked. “I bet you do. Everyone remembers their first. That warm rush in your chest, the way the world seemed to tilt in your favor for once.”

I turned my head slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of my eye. He was leaning casually against the bar, holding a tumbler of amber liquid. The ice cubes clinked softly as he swirled the glass.

“Do you remember the way it felt, Michael? To let go of everything for just a little while?”

“Shut up,” I said, my voice shaking.

He ignored me, taking a slow sip from the glass and savoring it like it was the finest thing he’d ever tasted. “That’s the thing about alcohol, isn’t it? It’s a liar. A cheat. But God, does it know how to make you feel alive.”

I turned fully to face him, my anger outweighing my fear for the first time. “I said I’m not drinking. I don’t want anything from you.”

The bartender smirked, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. “We’ll see,” he said.

For the first time, I noticed the other patrons watching me. Their faces were pale and expressionless, their eyes glassy. 

The bartender snapped his fingers to get my attention, then gestured toward an empty stool. “Sit down, Michael. Let’s talk. No pressure. No obligations. Just you, me, and a little perspective.”

I felt my legs move on their own. I returned to a seat in front of him.

He raised an eyebrow, his expression amused. “There we go,” he said. He reached beneath the bar and produced a small, familiar object: a silver flask engraved with my initials.

My chest tightened. I hadn’t seen that flask in years—not since I’d thrown it into the river after my first stint in rehab.

“How—”

“It has a way of finding its way back to you,” the bartender said, his smile sharp as a knife. “Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

I stared at the flask, my mind racing. 

The door behind us opened, letting in a blast of cold air.

“Who’s the handsome man?” a soft, feminine voice asked.

I turned to see her. She was beautiful.

She stepped into the bar like she’d been there all along. The kind of beauty that stretched beyond her looks, but into the way she carried herself. Her dress shimmered faintly in the low light, hugging her figure. Dark hair spilled over her shoulders, and her red lips curled into a smile that could stop a heart mid-beat.

She already held a martini glass in one hand, the liquid inside catching the light like liquid gold. Her eyes locked on mine, and for a moment, it felt like the room had gone completely silent.

“You must be Michael,” she said, her voice smooth and inviting.

“How do you know my name?” I asked, softly.

She laughed, the sound like wind chimes caught in a summer breeze. “Everyone knows your name here. You’re the guest of honor.”

The bartender chuckled behind me, the sound low and amused. “Let me introduce you to Lydia. She’s a connoisseur of sorts.”

The woman—Lydia—moved closer, her heels…

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