The Gospel According to Vuk

In the heart of Jefferson City, tucked behind a shuttered pawn shop and a crumbling Orthodox chapel, there’s a bar that doesn’t appear on maps. Locals call it Crna Česma—the Black Fountain. It’s said to open only on nights when the moon is veiled and the wind carries the scent of burnt myrrh.

Inside, the air is thick with silence and old secrets. The bartender never speaks. The taps pour drinks no one orders. And the man at the corner table—he’s always there. Bald, wrinkled, dressed like a retired undertaker. His name is Vuk, though no one dares say it aloud.

He holds a Bible in his right hand, but it’s not the kind you find in pews. Its pages are brittle and inked with names that flicker when read. The glass beside him is filled with something dark—not wine, not whiskey, but something older. Something that remembers.

The dog at his feet, black as coal with eyes like dying embers, is no ordinary mutt. Locals whisper it’s a čuvarkuća, a guardian spirit bound to Vuk since the Siege of Belgrade. It watches every soul that enters, and if it growls, you leave. If it doesn’t… you stay, and the bar begins to speak.

One night, a young man named Luka wandered in, drunk on heartbreak and cheap rakija. He sat at the bar, ignoring the silence, laughing at the shadows. Vuk turned a page. The dog blinked. Luka’s laughter stopped.

The lights dimmed. The paintings on the wall began to shift—mountains turned to mausoleums, silhouettes to screaming faces. Luka tried to leave, but the door was gone. In its place: a mirror. And in the mirror, Luka saw himself seated at the table, aged, holding the Bible, the dog at his feet.

No one’s seen Luka since. But Vuk’s glass is always full now. And the dog? It’s watching you.

🕯️ Those who enter Crna Česma must answer one question: Are you here to drink… or to be remembered?