The bar was half-dead, just the way I liked it. The kind of place where you could drink in peace, where nobody asked questions unless you wanted them to. I’d been there a couple of hours, nursing my beer, half-watching the ancient TV in the corner when I noticed him.

He didn’t fit in, that much was obvious. Not in a place like this.

The man sat at the far end of the bar, hunched over a glass of whiskey, sweat soaking through his preacher's collar and dirt smeared across his face and clothes like he’d crawled out of a grave. He looked like a walking contradiction—black preacher’s suit, but covered in grime and tattoos. Neck inked up, forearms too. And that jacket, some old worn-out leather thing that looked like it had seen a few fights. 

I couldn’t figure him out. That’s what bothered me. 

A priest, or preacher, or whatever, drinking alone in a run-down bar, looking like he'd just crawled through hell? No way that didn’t come with a story. 

I thought about leaving him alone. Really, I did. But I’d had a few, and curiosity got the better of me. Besides, I’m not the kind of guy to let something strange pass me by without asking a question or two.

So I slid over, took my beer with me, and stopped a couple of feet away. Close enough to make him notice, far enough to not get too personal. Yet.

“Funny place for a man of the cloth to be, don’t ya think?”

He didn’t answer right away, just sat there, staring at his glass like he was seeing something in it I couldn’t. The longer he didn’t answer, the more I wondered if I should have kept my mouth shut.

Then he looked up—just a quick glance—but his eyes… There was something in them. Something I wasn’t prepared for. Cold, like he’d seen some things that didn’t leave a person the same. 

"Maybe," he muttered, his voice gravelly and low, "but I’m no priest. Not right now atleast."

I couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Coulda fooled me,” I said, leaning against the bar. “So, what’re you then? Some kinda holy man who lost his way?”

He still didn’t bite. Just kept rolling his glass in his hand like he was thinking about something a lot heavier than whiskey.

Now, I’m no idiot. I’ve seen my share of rough men, especially in this part of Texas, but there was something different about this guy. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, like he’d been through something nobody should have to go through. Or maybe it was just the tattoos. He has an edge like an old blade that was tricky, but still sharp enough to cut clean.

But I pushed a little harder. “Or maybe... maybe you’re just runnin’ from somethin', huh? That why you're hidin' out in a dump like this? Coverin' up your dirt with a Bible and some black clothes?”

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That’s when he looked at me. Really looked at me. His eyes were blue, ice-blue, and they went right through me like he was staring at my soul, picking it apart. It made me uncomfortable, but there was no way I was backing down now.

"You have no idea," he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made the hair on my neck stand up. “No idea what I’ve seen. What I’ve done.”

That stopped me for a second. I could hear it—the weight in his voice, the kind of weight that doesn’t come from being drunk or tired. It was something deeper. Something darker. Something primal.

I should’ve walked away. I knew it. But by then, I was too curious, too far in. So I leaned in a little closer. 

“What the hell happened to you, then?”

He stared at me for a moment, like he was sizing me up, deciding if I was worth talking to or if he should just knock me out and go back to his drink. But after a second, he nodded to the empty chair across from him.

"Sit down," he said, his voice steady now, almost too calm. "I'll spill you some. But I promise you this—you ain't gonna like what you hear." A Louisianan twang to his tongue.

I hesitated. A part of me wanted to back out, say "never mind" and find a safer conversation. But another part of me—maybe the dumber part—wanted to know. So I pulled the chair out and sat down. 

Up close, he looked even worse. There was a haunted look to him, like whatever he'd been through had torn pieces off of him that he'd never get back. 

"So?" I asked, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “What’s your story, preach?”

He smiled at that, but there was no warmth in it. Just something bitter, something tired. 

“Call me Remy..” he took a sip from his near empty glass and poured himself another from a bottle hidden in his sleeve.

“It started in New Orleans, well I started there..” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But what brought me here? That was a tiny town called *Warren*.”

The second those words left his mouth, something in the bar shifted. The air felt heavier, like the shadows had gotten a little darker, a little closer. The bartender shot a quick glance our way, but didn’t say anything. 

I didn’t know what or where *Warren* was, but the way he said it—the way the room seemed to respond to it—made me think it wasn’t the kind of place you wanted to know about.

He took another sip of whiskey, set the glass down carefully, then leaned back in his chair.

“I was a man driven by faith once,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. “But that was a few miles back. And what I saw out there, in that town… it ain’t something god created. Hell ain’t gotta candle for that flame , I still don’t know how to get those screams outta my mind when I close my eyes..”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. This wasn’t what I’d expected. I’d thought I’d get a laugh, a story about bad luck or a broken faith, something normal. But this—this was different. I could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t just spinning a tale. Whatever happened to him, it had left a mark. Something real. Something terrifying. That something reached out and touched me right there in the corner of that dingy watering hole. Something dark.

"Go on, then," I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. "Tell me." 

Maybe I should take a trip to the restroom and call the cops after he incriminates himself-The thought echoed  like an empty room.

Remy stared at me for a long moment, like he was weighing whether to tell me the truth or lie to make me feel better. Then he sighed and leaned forward, his hands on the table, his voice lowering to just above a whisper.

"You ever hear about a town that disappeared off the map?" he asked, eyes narrowing as if daring me to answer. "A place nobody talks about, but everyone knows existed? That's where I just come from."

And just like that, I knew this conversation was going to take me somewhere I didn’t want to go.