The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

My Late Night Journey of Rediscovery: Mac's Secret Garden of Forgetfulness.

In the early morning darkness, as the rest of the village slept, the neon sign of Mac's Bar sputtered on and off continuously, its sporadic glow illuminating the deserted car park.

Royce retrieved a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the heavy metal door, the rusty hinges creaking loudly in protest.

As I pushed into the dilapidated building, I felt like I had crossed over into an alternate reality.

The bar, typically bustling with obstreperous bikers, provocative vixens, and spilt alcohol, was shrouded in unsettling eeriness. Not a wisp of day-old smoke and stale beer, but a crisp cleanliness accompanied by a hint of lemon disinfectant and raw bleach.

Royce navigated the darkness easily, his movements slow and deliberate, his boots echoing on the freshly mopped floor.

The bar stools, usually occupied by rowdy locals, were perched upside down on their respective tables, and the dartboard—a frequent battleground for heated competitions and the bane of my existence—stood forlorn and untouched.

In this hushed stillness, the place felt almost sacred—a temple to the quiet moments that existed before the madness commenced.

There were no unhinged pixies here, no blaring jukebox, no drunken brawls. Just a peaceful emptiness that kept us safe from everything and everyone I feared on the other side of the door.

The staff lounge had a vintage feel, with its dark wood and worn-out furniture. A rusty fan was still spinning on the old coffee table, an ancient radio sat in the corner with no outlet to plug into and faded rock posters adorned the walls.

It smelled of marijuana, almost as if someone had been smoking it just a few hours ago and stashed the evidence in the vent above the retro vending machine.

Royce reached the industrial steel fire exit door first and pushed on the lever handle. He disappeared into the dimly lit stairwell, his heavy footsteps thudding on the cracked concrete as he ascended, the sound growing fainter and fainter until his movements were barely audible.

I followed closely behind, my heart thudding loudly in my chest as the heavy door slammed shut behind us, enveloping us in complete darkness.

For a moment, I felt a surge of panic, but then a small beam of light filtered through a crack above, leading the way to the moonlit sky garden.

The rooftop was devoid of any amenities that would typically facilitate leisure activities, such as furnishings, lighting, or recreational equipment. There was evidence of prior utilisation by personnel, as indicated by the presence of discarded beverage containers, abandoned ashtrays, and weathered deck chairs.

A haphazard arrangement of pipes and vents protruded from the tarred surface, yet interspersed among them were a few resilient plants, rustling softly in the gentle currents of the wind that had found a way to thrive.

However, the utilitarian nature of this place was inconsequential in comparison to the unparalleled coastal panorama it offered.

As a resident of luxury living, with the eagle view advantage of coastal picturesqueness, I was no stranger to breathtaking vistas, but something about this view captivated me.

I gravitated to the waist-high wall, watching the sweeping beam of the lighthouse in the distance as it cast a streak of sparkle along the inky black ocean, the constellation of stars twinkling overhead.

As my hands rested on the parapet surrounding the rooftop, I leaned forward to gain a clearer view of the landscape below. The undulating hills behind the bar led to a steep drop-off, where the land met the sea in a dramatic clash of calm beauty and imminent danger.