The Man in the Window
Black Jack has been around since 1884. He's been carried in coat pockets, tucked into desk drawers, passed across counters, and chewed by more generations than anyone could count.
So when he tells you he remembers something, you might want to listen.
It was 11:47 p.m. when he walked into the shop. I remember because the old clock above the counter was always five minutes slow.
He wore a long black coat and a hat pulled low over his eyes. Rain clung to his shoulders as he stepped inside. He didn't browse through the shop or say hello. He walked straight to the counter.
"Black Jack," he said, as the shopkeeper slid a pack toward him.
The man paid, opened the pack, unwrapped a stick, and put it directly in his mouth as he walked to the window. He stood there, looking into the rain without moving.
The shopkeeper went about closing up, but the man continued to stand at the window.
"Waiting for someone?" the shopkeeper asked.
The man turned.
"Myself."
The shopkeeper gave a nervous laugh and went back to counting the register.
That's when I noticed something strange.
The man had no reflection.
I could see the shopkeeper in the glass. I could see myself. But where the man should have been, there was only darkness.
A few minutes later, the shopkeeper looked up again.
The man was gone.
The door was still locked. The bell hadn't rung. There were no footprints on the wet floor.
The shopkeeper stared toward the window, confused. Then he noticed a wet handprint on the outside of the locked shop door.
Five fingers and a palm.
Nothing else.
The man never came back. But for years afterward, whenever the clock approached 11:47, the shopkeeper swore he could see a figure in a black coat standing across the street.
The Woman Who Came Back
Beemans has been around since 1890. That's a long time to spend watching people come and go. You'd be surprised how many of them leave something behind.
She came into the station every Thursday at 4:15.
She was always dressed neatly, always carried the same small leather suitcase, and always bought a pack of Beemans from the shop before boarding the evening train.
I remember her well. She'd unwrap a piece, tuck the rest into her coat pocket, and sit by the window until the train arrived.
One Thursday, she didn't come.
The shopkeeper waited the following week. And the week after that.
She never returned.
Years passed. The station changed hands, the paint faded, and the old clock was replaced. But every Thursday at 4:15, the shopkeeper still found himself glancing toward the door.
Then, one October evening, the bell above the shop door rang.
The shopkeeper looked up.
No one was there.
Except for a fresh pack of Beemans sitting on the counter.
He picked it up and noticed something tucked underneath: a small, faded train ticket.
The date was from years earlier—the very day the woman had disappeared.
The shopkeeper never found out what happened to her. But from then on, every Thursday at 4:15, he left one pack of Beemans on the counter.
Sometimes, by closing time, it was gone.
The Last Customer
Clove has been around since 1914. That's more than a century of late nights, crowded bars, secret meetings, and stories that were never meant to be told.
Some of them still linger.
It was just after midnight when the man walked into the bar.
He wore a dark coat and kept his hat pulled low over his face. The place was nearly empty, but he walked straight to the bartender.
"Something to freshen my breath," he said.
The bartender handed him a piece of Clove.
The man chewed slowly, then looked toward the back of the room.
"Is the back room still here?"
The bartender looked at him, confused.
"There isn't any back room. That's a solid brick wall."
The man gave a half smile.
Then the lights flickered.
When they came back on, the man was gone.
The bartender searched the bar, but the man was nowhere to be seen.
The next morning, he found the crumpled Clove wrapper on the counter. He threw it away, thinking it was all in his head.
That night, after the bar closed, the bartender found another piece of Clove sitting on the counter.
Beneath it was an old photograph of the bar.
The bartender recognized the room immediately.
There was a man in the photograph wearing the same hat as the man from the night before. In the photograph, he was standing behind the bar.
The photograph was dated 1914.
As soon as the bartender realized who he was looking at, he heard three loud knocks from the brick wall at the back of the bar.
He ran out as quickly as he could.
But he left one thing behind.
A pack of Clove gum on the bar counter.
So... Were These Stories Real?
We'd love to tell you they were.
But here's what we know for sure: Black Jack has been around since 1884. Beemans since 1890. Clove since 1914.
That's a lot of years, a lot of pockets, a lot of people, and a lot of stories.
We can't tell you exactly what they've seen, but we're pretty sure they've seen some things.