At the edge of the muggle town of Tintwell is an old pub, where only travelers and strangers stopped by at to drink as the local's drank at the local inn. The local townsfolk knew better than to visit Old Johnny's pub. The stream of stranger's there were right peculiar wearing hoods as if belonging to some sort of cult. Not wanting to be mixed up in such oddities, the local's avoided the pub of Old Johnny like the plague.
Old Johnny was busy despite the late hour. It always seemed as if during the witching hour that he was the busiest. The travelers always seemed to stop by then for a pint. Most of them did not touch their drink's but a couple of them did. But all of them for certain paid for their drinks and even left large tips. He still could not complain after all these years, but still, he really ought to retire. His back was hurting him more and more as of late, and it might just be time to sell the old place.
Old Johnny kept one eye on the door as he moved around serving drinks, and gathering a few empty mugs, and still full mugs. Making sure to avoid the corner filled with three hooded figures with strange glittering diamond like pins, he returned to the bar to dump the ale and beer into the sink. As he dumped the beer in the sink, he muttered under his breath, "Wat a waste of fine ale and beer."
Though the entire time he was doing so Old Johnny's eyes flickered to the three figures sitting in the corner of the pub. These fellow's, whom he had never seen them before with their glittering diamond like pins. But there was something terribly off about them. He had seen their wrinkled hands and knew that they were all elderly folk, but there was a sinister feel about them. His gut told him to stay away, and he would. His gut had never failed him before.
The door suddenly swings open a complete silence falls over the pub as a chilling presence enters the pub. The older man was tall, and slender. His hair silver, but most striking were his eyes that were like frozen pools of darkness that belonged to the deepest pits of hell. But worst of all was his presence, it was as if a horrible, ancient beast had awoken, and all of humanity suddenly found itself prey again.
Old Johnny could not even breath and did not dare too lest he attract the man's presence. Those icy, death filled eyes survey the pub, before the older man moves towards the corner where the three men were sitting at. The instant the older man turns away there is a scurrying of feet as the hooded figures throw wads of money onto the pub tables and scurry away like rats and dogs with their tails between their legs.
Never had Old Johnny seen his customers flee in fear, but never had he in all his years felt such a terrible thing. Wiping the cold sweat from his face with his sleeve, but does not move to collect the change, and instead hurries towards the back of the pub. He truly did not want to know nor much less be in the presence of that devil any more than he needed too!
Old Johnny pants with fear as he locks himself in his tiny pub office. Shivering he rubs his arms to find that they are freezing cold. All that he knew is that he felt that his heart would stop, and it was as though he was facing a predator.
Old Johnny glances up at the wall at the various portraits and medal's hanging from the wall. He had fought in the great war against Hitler and his dam Nazi's. He had been there on Sword Beach on June 6th, 1944. They had fought their way into Ouistreham and managed to take it, before heading to Caen, where the German forces dug into the city for weeks. He had survived the war, seen untold atrocities, and even personally fought against the Waffen-SS. But none of that compared to what he had just felt bloody, sheer terror. Not even the worst of the Nazi's had ever had him quacking in his boots like a newborn fawn.
With his hands shaking, Old Johnny pulls open the desk drawer and reaches for a carton of cigs. He had quit the habit a while back, but frankly, he did not give a dam at the moment. He needed one.
Grabbing the silver lighter, Old Johnny pauses to study the lighter. It had been a gift from a buddy of his from their village, Alfie Smith. The two of them had signed up together and had even been shipped out together in the same unit. Eventually, they were even deployed together at Sword Beach, before Alfie had been lost at Caen, France in the retaking of the city. Alfie had been a good friend, but Alfie had been dead nigh over thirty years ago. And frankly, it was harder to believe just how old he was now.
Shaking his head, Old Johnny snaps the drawer shut, before flipping the carton open, and lighting a cig. Taking a deep breath, he inhales the cig into him, before letting out a cloud of smoke. The ciggie still tasted as foul as ever, and despite it tasting like poison, it always seemed to hit the spot exactly right.
Taking another breath, Old Johnny studies the decorated wall of his office. He lived through the night; he was selling his pub first thing tomorrow morning. He was far to be dealing with this sort of sh*t. And he had not survived the war against the d*m Nazi's to be done in by some sort of monster. No, sir! He was moving to Baths, finally, buying himself a flat, and he would enjoy his retirement, gosh darn it was the last thing he did! And that was that! But chances were that he would change his mind come morning.
Old Johnny knew that he was far too old and set in his ways. He would probably go mad in Baths without anything to do, but play bingo, and all the other sort of nonsense that folks his age seemed to enjoy. He was a nasty, old bugger, alright. But he was, what he was, and he was simply fine to remain like that.
After a good long drink, he would be right as rain. And that was all that there was to it.