Summer is over and the nights are growing longer.
Come spend one of those nights with us and a collection of 20+ vendors at our πΎπππππππ & πΎππππππππ π½ππππ πΌπππππ -- Friday October 17 from 6-10 PM:
spooky stuff
kooky stuff
vinyl music
horror books
smutty books
occult & esoteric
storytellers, tarot readers, etcβ¦
and more!
Full Vendor List (more added every day):
Boo's Bazaar
& More!
The flickering crescent moon, a sliver of bone in the ink-black sky, cast long, twisted shadows across the cypress knees. Sean, ever the professional, sat across from her. But tonight, his usual composure was a frayed thread, barely holding. The table, draped in a black that swallowed the moonlight, held not just the usual lineup of escalating torture, but four bottles, their labels stark against the gloom: "don't let", "the boo hag", "ride", and "ya".
She was the guest tonight, the legend come to life. Her name, whispered in humid Southern nights, was the Boo Hag. Her wild, dark hair seemed to writhe with a life of its own, her eyes, pinpricks of malevolent red, followed Sean's every gulp. Hot sauce, like a painter's careless stroke, smeared her gaunt face, but it wasn't the heat that made her truly monstrous. It was the hunger that gleamed in those eyes, a hunger Sean suddenly felt in his own marrow.
Heβd offered her the first taste, a brew from Wyrd Sisters Brewing, their Midnight Rye IPA. "Boo Hag," he'd said, his voice a little too steady, "A 6.8% ABV concoction with Ghost Chilies." The first sip had been a velvet cloak of dark malt, rich and earthy, a low hum of rye lingering on the tongue. It was comforting, almost sweet, like the promise of a quiet dream. But then, as the last of the liquid slid down, the ghost awakened.
A slow burn, a whisper at first, then a growing ember, began to bloom in Sean's throat. It wasn't the immediate, fiery assault of the Hot Ones challenge; no, this was different. This was insidious, a heat that crept and coiled, like Spanish moss reaching for a soul. He watched the Boo Hag pick at a chicken wing, her long, clawed fingers dripping with sauce, her red eyes never leaving his. He imagined the ghost chilies, tiny, venomous hearts, infusing the beer with that very essence. It wasn't just flavor; it was a creeping dread, a sense of something ancient and malevolent stirring.
The malty richness, the subtle rye, now felt like a sweet trap, drawing you into the slow, inevitable burn. He took another shaky sip of water, the heat a persistent presence, a phantom limb. The Boo Hag leaned forward, a low growl rumbling in her chest, her hot sauce-streaked face now a mask of pure, unadulterated menace. It wasn't just the ghost chilies doing their work anymore. It was her, reflecting the beer's dark spirit, ready to pounce, to draw the life from him, a slow, agonizing drain, just like the lingering burn of the Midnight Rye IPA.