The Ninth Floor in the Old Town was named after the Divine Comedy. The pub itself was located in a basement, and to enter, one first had to descend a flight of stairs from he street level, then walk down a corridor made of the same stone the old medieval houses had been built from, the walls of which were painted with scenes from the nine levels of Hell. At the end of that corridor, the doorway that led into the pub itself was painted to look like the gaping mouth of the Devil, frozen in that lake where he eternally chews the corpses of traitors. Above his ugly mug were painted the words of a bar joke, shining golden in the light of the fake electric firelight: A satanist, a new age fluff pagan, and a Christian walks into a bar to discuss religion.... and because they are mature adults, they have a respectful conversation that ends with them all leaving as wiser people, having walked safely together across the abyss of hatred into which lesser men are doomed to fall.
It wasn’t until I died that Iearned that the words weren’t just literal, but actually a warning. See, the place attracted people who were interested in discussions on theology. It was part of what drew me there. It was a rare culture of mutual respect, in which people from all sorts of paths met and broadened each others horizons. Satanists, Luciferians, Christians, Muslims, pagans of more kinds than I can name, lefthanders, righthanders, cultists from different paths... it was always a delight to sit down and hear out what these bright minds had to say about life, death, and their philosophies on how to live. Sometimes, weirdo fundies would show up and stir up drama, but they never returned more than once, so as a whole it was a safe space to be part of a religious minority. I felt at home there. So when I died, still in a daze, chocked and not yet completely aware of why I had looked down on my badly twisted corpse just moments before, I returned there out of sheer habit. The bartender sent me a look of sympathy, patted me on the shoulder, and served me one on the house. I was so chocked by my death at the time it didn’t even register how strange that was until after I had finished my beer... heh.
Because of the nature of my death, I was.. shaken. Badly. I didn’t feel ready to move on. As luck would have it, since they knew me and thought I was trustworthy, they decided to hire me. I became a bouncer there. As to why they needed a ghost as a bouncer... well... remember that the floor in the hallway corridor was made of stone? Yet, one spot always made a strange creaking noise when people walked over it.
”Hey, Kyle,” the horned, fork-tailed woman next to me said as we watched an angry man holding a Bible stride down the stairs. ”Isn’t that the guy who showed up last week and started yelling about how everybody needed Jesus?”
”Oh, yeah. I remember him. So...”
We were holding this discussion right next to him, but, well. Dead people. He couldn’t see us.
”Yeah, his kind is not welcome. Pull the level, Kronk!” she said, her voice rising into a dramatic flair.
”Please remain seated, and keep your hands and legs in at all times!” I grinned, returning the joke.
The man passed over the creaky spot in the floor, and I pulled the level. A vague orange glow came from the abyss that opened up beneath his feet, and he was swallowed by it before he had time to scream. He was a lesser man, and so, he was doomed to fall. He really should’ve heeded the warning...