"The Enigmatic Patron of The Arachnid: A Mystery at Midnight"
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Amelia Locke took her place behind the thick marble bar as she did every night, minutes before the little gold clock embedded in the mirror above struck six. She always arrived first, checked the registers, counted out the float herself. The other bartenders would file in with hurried greetings, but Amelia was always there, tying her curls back with two quick loops of a black ribbon, smoothing the lapels of her midnight blazer.
The club—her club—was called The Arachnid. Its darkness was punctuated by small orbs of light tangled in webs of copper wire overhead, glimmers like tiny moons trapped in a spider’s lair. Amelia knew every shadow, every crooked grout line behind the bar, every nick on every bottle of gin.
“I’ll get our regulars set up,” she told her barback, Niles, as the first patrons filtered in, shedding rain-slicked coats. She poured Henry’s dry vermouth over ice before she saw him—he always ordered a martini and always wore a red tie. She flashed Beatrice a wave and pulled two fingers of single malt for her without a word. Beatrice would wink, toss the whiskey back, and line up the smallest pool cue with the one she’d used the night before.
Amelia’s hands were fast, but meticulous. Each measured pour, each cordial on the sticky spoon, every slice of orange peel torched to just the right bitterness. All the while her gaze swept the crowd. Who was drinking faster than usual? Who was nursing a heartbreak? Who was looking for trouble? Her club was a haven; nothing ugly would worm its way in on her watch.
Her routine settled her. At half-past eight, she cleaned the bar top and took a ten-minute stroll through the velvet banquettes, exchanging a joke with Old Tom, straightening a crooked vase, reminding two rowdy lads to keep the language down. All night, one hand always hovered near her phone. No bouncer noticed a thing before she did.
She liked the control—she liked knowing every face, every name. She liked watching secrets swirl in glasses and keeping them safe.
Except tonight, just before ten, something flickered. A girl entered, slipping past the blackout curtain, her frame small, canary-boned, the sweater of her black dress hugging sharp shoulders. Her eyes swept the room not in confusion, but quiet appraisal, as if she’d counted the exits before she’d even crossed the threshold.
The noise dulled at her passage. Amelia felt the eyes of her staff flick to her, but none dared stare too long. The newcomer’s heels made no sound as she glided to the bar.
She took a seat three stools down from where Amelia was slicing limes. The owner couldn’t help but watch her reflection in the mirror opposite. The girl’s dress shimmered the deep space black of an oil slick. She sat straight, hands folded, not fiddling with her phone, not glancing at the menu. Waiting.
With a practiced ease, Amelia reached her. “Good evening,” she said, smile measured but warm. “What can I get you?”
The girl seemed not to hear. For a moment, her eyes focused on Amelia’s nametag, then flicked up, cold and weighing. “I’ll have whatever you recommend. Dealer’s choice.”
Amelia’s eyebrows rose a fraction, but she masked her curiosity. She reached for the Japanese gin she reserved for connoisseurs and set about her craft—the measured pour, the swirl of vermouth, the citrus twist flamed just so. The girl didn’t break her gaze.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” Amelia said quietly, passing her the drink in a chilled coupe.
“I haven’t been before.” Her lips curled, but the smile never reached her eyes.
From her vantage, Amelia watched the girl sip and scan the room. Her attention didn’t linger anywhere—not the wall of spirits, not on the live jazz duo, not on the other guests. She wasn’t looking to be seen, or even to hide. Amelia’s misgivings doubled.
Three regulars shifted uneasily. Henry’s glass clinked. Even Joe, the bouncer, cast a glance through the haze.
Amelia pretended to polish, but she watched. Watched as the girl barely drank, deliberate even in that. Watched as she gave nothing away, not after the second drink, not after a compliment on the music. Watched as she asked quiet, seemingly innocent questions: “Do you get many strangers here? Do people always say your bar feels this safe?”
Leaving a twenty on the wood, the girl finally smiled—this time truly—and nodded in thanks. “You’re a good observer,” she said softly, “Don’t ever stop watching.”
She slipped from her stool, headed for the back exit, leaving only the faintest trace of perfume—jasmine and something metallic—behind. Amelia stared at the empty seat for a while, then went back to her carefully curated routine. But she felt, unmistakably, that the game had changed.
Tomorrow she would check the cameras. She would ask around—had anyone met this girl before? She would ask herself why she had watched so carefully and still missed the one question that mattered: What was a girl like that looking for in a place where everyone was known, and nothing was forgotten?
Behind the bar, Amelia’s world, edges once so defined, blurred just a little around the mysterious outline of a girl in a black dress—and the secrets she might bring with her next.
This story was generated by user vella.ris69 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a long story about a young nightclub owner who worked behind the bar and served customers. Describe exactly what she did and how carefully she watched the customers. Describe her evening routine at the club. Write about how she knew most of the customers when suddenly a petite girl appeared wearing a black dress. She immediately caught the attention of the club owner.
Response: Amelia Locke took her place behind the thick marble bar as she did every night, minutes before the little gold clock embedded in the mirror above struck six. She always arrived first, checked the registers, counted out the float herself. The other bartenders would file in with hurried greetings, but Amelia was always there, tying her curls back with two quick loops of a black ribbon, smoothing the lapels of her midnight blazer. The club—her club—was called The Arachnid. Its darkness was punctuated by small orbs of light tangled in webs of copper wire overhead, glimmers like tiny moons trapped in a spider’s lair. Amelia knew every shadow, every crooked grout line behind the bar, every nick on every bottle of gin. “I’ll get our regulars set up,” she told her barback, Niles, as the first patrons filtered in, shedding rain-slicked coats. She poured Henry’s dry vermouth over ice before she saw him—he always ordered a martini and always wore a red tie. She flashed Beatrice a wave and pulled two fingers of single malt for her without a word. Beatrice would wink, toss the whiskey back, and line up the smallest pool cue with the one she’d used the night before. Amelia’s hands were fast, but meticulous. Each measured pour, each cordial on the sticky spoon, every slice of orange peel torched to just the right bitterness. All the while her gaze swept the crowd. Who was drinking faster than usual? Who was nursing a heartbreak? Who was looking for trouble? Her club was a haven; nothing ugly would worm its way in on her watch. Her routine settled her. At half-past eight, she cleaned the bar top and took a ten-minute stroll through the velvet banquettes, exchanging a joke with Old Tom, straightening a crooked vase, reminding two rowdy lads to keep the language down. All night, one hand always hovered near her phone. No bouncer noticed a thing before she did. She liked the control—she liked knowing every face, every name. She liked watching secrets swirl in glasses and keeping them safe. Except tonight, just before ten, something flickered. A girl entered, slipping past the blackout curtain, her frame small, canary-boned, the sweater of her black dress hugging sharp shoulders. Her eyes swept the room not in confusion, but quiet appraisal, as if she’d counted the exits before she’d even crossed the threshold. The noise dulled at her passage. Amelia felt the eyes of her staff flick to her, but none dared stare too long. The newcomer’s heels made no sound as she glided to the bar. She took a seat three stools down from where Amelia was slicing limes. The owner couldn’t help but watch her reflection in the mirror opposite. The girl’s dress shimmered the deep space black of an oil slick. She sat straight, hands folded, not fiddling with her phone, not glancing at the menu. Waiting. With a practiced ease, Amelia reached her. “Good evening,” she said, smile measured but warm. “What can I get you?” The girl seemed not to hear. For a moment, her eyes focused on Amelia’s nametag, then flicked up, cold and weighing. “I’ll have whatever you recommend. Dealer’s choice.” Amelia’s eyebrows rose a fraction, but she masked her curiosity. She reached for the Japanese gin she reserved for connoisseurs and set about her craft—the measured pour, the swirl of vermouth, the citrus twist flamed just so. The girl didn’t break her gaze. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” Amelia said quietly, passing her the drink in a chilled coupe. “I haven’t been before.” Her lips curled, but the smile never reached her eyes. From her vantage, Amelia watched the girl sip and scan the room. Her attention didn’t linger anywhere—not the wall of spirits, not on the live jazz duo, not on the other guests. She wasn’t looking to be seen, or even to hide. Amelia’s misgivings doubled. Three regulars shifted uneasily. Henry’s glass clinked. Even Joe, the bouncer, cast a glance through the haze. Amelia pretended to polish, but she watched. Watched as the girl barely drank, deliberate even in that. Watched as she gave nothing away, not after the second drink, not after a compliment on the music. Watched as she asked quiet, seemingly innocent questions: “Do you get many strangers here? Do people always say your bar feels this safe?” Leaving a twenty on the wood, the girl finally smiled—this time truly—and nodded in thanks. “You’re a good observer,” she said softly, “Don’t ever stop watching.” She slipped from her stool, headed for the back exit, leaving only the faintest trace of perfume—jasmine and something metallic—behind. Amelia stared at the empty seat for a while, then went back to her carefully curated routine. But she felt, unmistakably, that the game had changed. Tomorrow she would check the cameras. She would ask around—had anyone met this girl before? She would ask herself why she had watched so carefully and still missed the one question that mattered: What was a girl like that looking for in a place where everyone was known, and nothing was forgotten? Behind the bar, Amelia’s world, edges once so defined, blurred just a little around the mysterious outline of a girl in a black dress—and the secrets she might bring with her next.
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