The Ghost of Keg and Cask
Proof that ghosts are real
I am certain that ghosts are real, and there is nothing I desire more than to prove it.
I searched everywhere for a sign, traveled to the most haunted places in North America, from Dock Street Theatre to Myrtles Plantation, to Fairmont Springs Hotel to Bonaventure Cemetery, but not once did I catch a glimpse, a sound—anything!—that might signal the paranormal.
But I found my sign, as these things go, right beneath my nose. Here in my hometown, in the haunted market, Keg and Cask.
I had heard the local legend: the ghosts of murdered laborers still haunt the premises. I parked near the river and walked along Third Street, passing outdoor stalls and a large bandshell. I saw the white-gray distillery towers first, rising above the old brick warehouses. The market was huge, spanning over three blocks, and housed in a steel and glass building that had been consciously designed to mimic the surrounding architecture. However, the clean lines and stylish accents were incongruous against the quiet decrepitude of the crumbling factories.
It was crowded inside, even on a Tuesday night. The different stalls were separated by particle board hung between wrought iron posts. Industrial lights hung from the exposed ceilings, casting flickering yellow light that twisted into long shadows. The windows were framed by ornate ironwork. Rows of wooden barrels and antique casks lined the walls. Metal stairs led to the beer hall on the second floor. The seller’s wares were advertised with vintage signs. I spent twenty minutes wandering the stalls, but with the noise and crowds, I knew it would be unlikely that I would find anything supernatural. I’d have to come back after dark, find a way to sneak into the market after it closed.
Keg and Cask had always been a brewery, originally founded by the Stalwart family in 1849. Its first name was Cavern Brewery, so-named because it was located in a natural cave. In 1905, Eli Stalwart, heir to the family fortune, hired a Chicago architect to turn the brewery into an ambitious, sprawling complex with new malt houses, brew plants, and bars.
In the summer of 1934, in the midst of the Great Depression, a lengthy truckers’ strike turned violent. The brewery complex was in the heart of the city’s distribution hub. Truckers and other laborers banded together to protest their depressed wages. On the other side of the picket, citizens were deputized into a rag-tag police force, and in June of that year, a flame struck the tinder match of protest. Two citizens were clubbed to death by the strikers, and a riot ensued. Hundreds of picketers swarmed narrow Third Street, crossing through Cavern Brewery to escape the melee. But the police arrived and opened fire on the crowd. Six strikers died, with almost thirty wounded. The day would later be known as “Bloody Friday.” A few days later, the strikers reached a shaky settlement, and Labor declared the strike a victory. It was said that blood and beer dirtied Third Street for days.
In the men’s restroom, I found a life-sized, sepia-toned photograph of the strikers. They stood in a line, their arms locked together in a show of unison, a show of strength. Their faces were grim, expressionless, the hardened look of a harder time. One of the men was kneeling in front of the others, his face turned downward, his cap obscuring his features. Standing at the urinal, I could look at the photograph through a little mirror hung on the wall. As I was shaking off, I glanced at the mirror and saw the kneeling man stand up and walk out of the bathroom.
I turned around, my fly still open. The kneeling man was gone from the photograph, as if he had never been part of the picture. But I had seen him! Just a moment before. There was my ghost! I rushed from the bathroom, and for a brief moment thought I saw a red-brown figure disappear into the crowd.
I was certain it was a ghost. At last, my proof—my vindication! I stayed at the market all night until closing, giddy with excitement. All six of the dead strikers assuredly haunt the old brewery, I thought. I was confident that they would appear for me again.
I returned to the market the next day, arriving half an hour before it opened. I was determined to see the ghosts again, even to talk to them. This was to be my legacy. I had proof that ghosts were real.
Day after day, I returned to Keg and Cask. From open to close. In the morning, I drank coffee, and in the afternoon, beer. I always found a comfortable place upstairs, where I could see the entire brewery, my eyes scanning for sepia-colored ghosts.
I haven’t seen them again, but I know they will come. I know they will materialize for me. Me, who believes in them so strongly. Me, with all my faith. I keep returning to Keg and Cask. I keep waiting for a glimpse.
A pandemic shuttered the market for a year, the stalls dark and dusty. I sat upstairs and waited, certain the ghosts would materialize in the quiet emptiness. Eventually, the market reopened. Half of the stalls remained closed, ultimately replaced with new ones. Fancier and more expensive ones. The trendy youth who lived in the nearby studio apartments grew up. They brought their kids, they brought their suits and briefcases. The coffee shop transformed into an Italian restaurant. The beer hall became a co-working space. Then, even the families stopped coming. A thirty-story tower of luxury apartments bloomed across the street. The graffiti and street art have been painted over. There are fake trees and glittering fountains on Third Street, and valets shuttle back and forth along the pavement.
I’m still at Keg and Cask, although you may not recognize me. You may not recognize the place, either: the vibe is different. The churning optimism of a more prosperous decade is gone. Even the rich find their parties end. Nobody comes here for dinner anymore. The Italian restaurant closed down. The co-working space sits empty.
Still, I return every day. I sit upstairs and watch the moonlight crawl through broken glass. Watch cobwebs cling to iron beams like broken sails. Cracked mirrors litter the halls, reflecting nothing. Rain falls through holes in the roof. Fog makes itself a home in the deteriorating halls. I am certain I will see the ghosts again, certain that they will manifest in such an atmosphere. I will return tomorrow.
Soon, others will return. I know this story. The market’s degradation will become its charm. Decay turns gothic turns romantic. Photographers will arrive first, eager to capture the ruins of a lost age, searching for meaning in its shadows. Teenagers will follow, their hearts fluttering with fresh life, nerves rattling for adventure. Then the artists will come, seeing in these ruins opportunity and aesthetic inspiration.
And the cycle will begin anew.
I’ll still be here. Waiting for the ghosts. I know they’re here, lurking just out of sight. I know the market will revive. A new entrepreneur will come, flush with cash, eyes summoning potential everywhere. They will build a new era on the bones of the old. This place will be trendy once more.
And I will still be here. I will always be here. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for a glimpse. Waiting for a sliver of eternity.