Many years ago, when I was a young man, I was driving down the road one night in late fall. It was storming and foggy, and occasionally, a bolt of lightning would flash, giving a momentary glimpse of bare tree limbs writhing and whipping in the wind, silhouetted against the dark sky. I rounded a curve, and saw a light ahead. As I got closer, I could see that the source of the light was a seedy, run-down looking roadside bar. I pulled into the parking lot and went inside. I sat down at a table and looked around. There were only a few people there, mostly strange-looking sorts, and in the back corner was a table at which sat three of the ugliest women I had ever seen in my life, strange goatish sisters that looked as though they had escaped from a Waffle House. The waitress came by and gave me a glass of a brownish liquid that burned as I swallowed it. She repeated this several times.
There was a jukebox in the corner that seemed to only contain old Merle Haggard songs and the Swedish techno-pop version of "Cotton-eyed Joe." I dumped a bunch of quarters into it, and sat back down. The waitress came back around a few more times and gave me more glasses of the burning, brownish drink. At this point, things began to take on a surreal aspect, almost like I was disconnected from reality and had entered another dimension of conciousness. I have vague memories of laughing, dancing, and consuming more glasses of the burning brown liquid. I awoke the next morning, looked over, and found myself surrounded by what I can only describe as three frightful haints.
I fled in terror, and was all the way across the county line before I stopped on the side of the road to put my britches on.
