Catfish Jack’s bills itself as “the most haunted watering hole on the Mississippi.” Based on the smell alone, that seems entirely plausible.
When I visited, the building looked like it had been condemned twice and then lost the paperwork. Faded neon signs buzzed half-heartedly in the cracked windows, and the floor inside had the sticky resilience of a bar that had mopped exclusively with spilled beer and broken promises.
But the main attraction wasn’t the decor, or the five-dollar whiskey shots, or the jukebox that only played Skynyrd B-sides — it was Booth #7.
The haunted booth.
The local legend.
According to the bartender — a man named Duke who looked like he hadn’t trusted happiness since 1978 — Booth #7 was the site of a long-forgotten love triangle that ended in “tragedy.”
Depending on who you asked, tragedy meant a stabbing, a gunfight, or a particularly vicious arm-wrestling match gone wrong. Duke wasn’t clear. Nobody was. But everyone agreed that strange things happened at Booth #7: cold spots, ghostly whispers, the occasional unexplained beer spill.
Naturally, I ordered a drink and sat down.
The booth creaked alarmingly under my weight. The vinyl was split and patched with duct tape, the table was permanently sticky in that way that suggested years of neglected cleaning and possibly new forms of bacteria evolving quietly in the corners. The overhead light flickered just enough to be atmospheric if you were the forgiving type.
I wasn’t.
I waited for the ghost.
Fifteen minutes later, the only supernatural phenomenon I had experienced was the sensation that my jeans were permanently bonding to the seat.
No cold spots. No whispers. Just the background noise of the regulars arguing over a pool game and a mechanical fish mounted over the bar singing “Mack the Knife” at unpredictable intervals.
Duke wandered over with another shot, “on the house,” because, as he put it, “You look like you need it if you’re gonna last long in that booth.”
When I asked if anyone had ever actually seen anything paranormal happen here, he shrugged and said, “Buddy, it’s Booth #7. Strange things happen all the time. Last week it ate my tips.”
He winked. I still have no idea if he was joking.
After my experience — or lack thereof — I’ve come to the conclusion that Booth #7 at Catfish Jack’s isn’t haunted. It’s just what happens when vinyl, whiskey fumes, and wishful thinking are left to ferment for three decades without ventilation.
If you go, bring cash, low expectations, and a pair of pants you’re not sentimental about.