Inside, one can see this once may have been a well loved saloon. The ancient bar of oak and brass still retains the faintest ghost of its grandness. Yellowed photographs and news clippings peek out from the smudged glass and brown leather that still shelter them upon the wall. The smiling and gay faces of men with names long forgotten seem to taunt the current drinkers.
Mr. Ghost sulks by himself at a worn and scarred tabletop of cheap formica. He clutches a shot glass. A cheap bottle of berry schnapps sits half-full in front of him. There are few others in the bar at the moment; the few other patrons seem to consist of wrinkled and beaten retirees. Despite the scratchy Christmas music faintly playing from a decrepit Wurlitzer the bar seems deathly quiet, each drinker lost in his or her own world.