I think it is safe to say that readers of Proctor's Type have experienced a wide range of feelings and emotions through these words; however, fear is not one of them. That is about to change when I share with you the horrific events of this past Friday evening. A warning: what you are about to read is scary, real and not for the faint of heart. This is a tale that will be told by campfires for generations to come and the scariest part is it really happened.
It all started innocently enough. Myself and a bruh, Ian, stopped by a Lyndon drinking establishment to celebrate a rousing kickball victory and take in the night. When we entered everything seemed normal: there were staggering 40 somethings who had apparently been there since around 2:30 in the afternoon, a few younger bruh-types and various tattoos. It was when we ordered our first beers that things began to become eerie...
Not wanting to offset the intense cardiovascular exercise that is kickball, I opted for a Miller Lite draft and when the 16 or 23 oz. option was given to me by the bartender, I requested the big one. Ian, wanting to mix it up a little bit, ordered:
"I will have a Brooklyn Summer Ale, 23 oz. please."
To which, the bartenders eyes lit up and he replied coldly:
"I can't do that"
Ian, curious, inquired:
The bartender shook his head:
"I can only do the 16 oz., the large one would be like 10 dollars or something."
Ian, wanting a large beer, proceeded to order a Miller Lite 23 oz. for which he was charged $3.50.
We took our beers to the back deck, chalked the Brooklyn Summer Ale fiasco to the bartender having math trouble (the pint would have been $4) and began what the kids call "shooting the poop". A couple more beers were ordered and things seemed to be getting back to normal. That is, until the sun came down and we noticed movement in the undeveloped commercial property beside the bar. The overgrown field had gone unnoticed the first hour or so we were there, but now we could not keep our eyes off of it.
From the field came groups of two or three men at a time, walking to the bar through the field, their origins unknown. The haze over the grass in the field gave the impression that they had simply came from the field itself, appearing out of thin air, giving a strange Field of Dreams vibe. Who were these men? Where had they come from? What did they want? Ian and I discussed various possibilities, but none made sense. The men's behavior after their arrival to the bar only added to our suspicions.
Each man would enter the bar, say hello to a few regulars, request a drink for which they were denied, and walk back into the field, disappearing into thin air. Being one that always looks to science first and doubts the paranormal (a Scully type), I tried every possible theory. Maybe it was an optical illusion or maybe I was dreaming. After none of these theories held any water, I had to open my mind and accept the situation for what it was, even if it is horrific and sad:
These men were restless souls who cannot find eternal peace until they have enjoyed a 23 oz. Brooklyn Summer Ale. Night after night they come yearning for the large glass because the pint simply will not give them peace. Then night after night, for whatever reason, they are turned away. Why can't they simply pour the Brooklyn Summer Ale into the big glass? Could it be the restless souls only have $9? We will never know...
And because no good ghost story is complete without a twist...
Throughout the night we were given raffle tickets for a drawing we did not stay late enough for. It makes you wonder what the drawing is for. Could it be a talisman to ward off the restless souls? Or better yet could they do a single drawing every night for the elusive 23 oz. Brooklyn Summer Ale? Could our tickets have gotten a lost, yearning spirit out of Lyndon purgatory?