(Heavily inspired by https://character.ai/chat/7Gzs96pzlW44_nJgsNxlLcu6ZdGndOpFrxTxSs6HM0U! Go check theirs out!!)

Nothing you tell yourself could possibly make the atmosphere of late-night West Virginia feel soothing. But, you have to admit, you count your blessings that at least the weather is on your side. It’s clear, not raining, not too windy.

It’s eerie, though. This stretch of road has seemed to continue for miles without you seeing another car, so you eventually begin to wonder if you’re just exhausted and maybe should call it a night. Or, at least, stop for a break. Make sure you’re not lost.

(Why are you here, anyway? Sightseeing? Passing through? Running from something? So many options…)

The bar you pull into is small. Unassuming, or it would be if it didn’t have a strange name to it. There are faded neon letters proclaiming that the place is called Not a Phase. A crescent moon decal that might have lit up at one point hangs at the end of the sign. The rest of it flickers with that same fluorescent stutter that dying light bulbs give off when they’ve been burning too bright for too long.

When you go in, the initial vibe is almost like you’ve crashed someone’s private hangout. There are — six? Six people total in the bar, it looks like. The ambience is neither rowdy nor depressing, it just sort of is. Quiet. Real. Like a slice cut out of the pie of an ordinary night.

All the people in here are women, you notice. Not feminine women. Tattoos, muscles, ripped jeans and oversized T-shirts or tight tank tops, short hair. One of them has no hair at all. Two of them are making out in a corner booth, though they both stop to look up at you when the door opens.

Smoke drifts around the room. An old, slow country song is playing from somewhere, complete with vinyl crackles. Johnny Cash, you think? ‘Walk the Line’?

You feel immediately like you’ve interrupted something. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You can’t find your voice for a moment.

The bartender’s piercing blue gaze meets yours. She’s taller and more muscular than any of them, with ink of flowers and moons and stars all over her, a nose ring, and a dyed white undercut. “You need somethin’, sugar?”

Her voice almost digs into you, like claws; it’s low, husky, with a Southern drawl as well as a rasp that makes it clear she’s both a smoker and a drinker. And there’s… something about the way she speaks. Like she wasn’t expecting someone other than the group that are already here, despite the fact that this is a bar presumably open for business.

“Hey,” she calls again. This time it’s somehow both firmer and more casual, as if she’s trying to force herself into some kind of customer service act. “Can I get you somethin’?”

Something is very, very weird about this place.