The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 011 : Mr. Widemouth / The People Of Monk Castle (ft. David Dastmalchian and Scout Taylor-Compton)

Episode Date: September 14, 2023

Experience the terror of a twisted cult and meet a childhood friend who isn't what they claim to beThe People Of Monk Castle (I’m A 911 Operator) - written by HiggsThunderStars Scout Taylor Compton and Conan FreemanMr. Widemouth - written by PerfectCircle35Stars David Dastmalchian, Deirdre Morton, Jade Shand, Conan FreemanFeaturing Stephen Knowles as The Antique DealerTheme music by The Newton BrothersAdditional music:Nothing Left by Dave DevilleFree download: https://filmmusic.io/song/8547-nothing-leftLicensed under CC BY 4.0: https://filmmusic.io/standard-licenseLucid Nightmare by Tim KuligFree download: https://filmmusic.io/song/8492-lucid-nightmareLicensed under CC BY 4.0: https://filmmusic.io/standard-licenseChildren Eating Corn by Tim KuligFree download: https://filmmusic.io/song/8487-children-eating-cornLicensed under CC BY 4.0: https://filmmusic.io/standard-licenseAnxiety by Kevin MacLeodFree download: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mroAwovey9ALicensed under CC BY 3.0Aftermath by Kevin MacLeodFree download: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJApqlWZTHoLicensed under CC BY 3.0Blue Sizzle by Kevin MacLeodFree download: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gT_f_1FPx8Licensed under CC BY 3.0CO.AG ([e-mail]) Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Greetings, come on in. Now you look real familiar. You've been in here before, haven't you? Well, welcome back. Ha ha. I see where your eyes went straight towards. Beautiful, ain't it? They say this sword was used in ritualistic sacrifices

at the hands of a twisted cult. Make a cut into this one called The People of Monk Castle. Welcome to the antiquarium of sinister happenings and odd goings on. There was a place in Montclair where the most terrible of things occurred. Things too painful to be real and too unreal to be painful. On the border of Verona, a text... Yeah, hi.

This is going to sound kind of strange, but there's a man stumbling around circles in my front north. He looks sick or lost or drunk or something. I just, I woke up to get a glass of water and I heard, you know, crunching around underneath my front window. So I peaked out. I'm looking right at him now. He's about 10 yards away from me. Something's not right. What is your address, ma'am?

16 and 17 Quarry Lane in Pinella Pass. I'm going to send a squad car your way, but that's quite a ways out. Are you alone in your house? Yes, I'm alone. Can you confirm that all of your doors and wards? windows are locked. I know that my front door is definitely locked, but I'll go check my back door again real quick. Stay on the phone with me.

I appreciate your help, by the way. I know this is kind of strange, but I really hope that... Still there. He's still in the yard, but upside down. He's at me, but he's standing on his hands now. He's perfectly still staring straight at me. He's doing a handstand, and he's smiling at me and not moving. He's doing a handstand, ma'am?

He's spacing me and he's standing on his hands. Without the call, an officer's on his way. Try and keep an eye on him, but make sure your back door is locked again. We need to make sure all possible access points are secured. Can you talk me through and confirm that your back door is locked? Okay, I'm walking backwards now and I'm keeping him in my sight. Okay, yeah, my hand is on the back door now. It's locked.

I need to check the deadbolt, so I'm going to take my eyes off him for a split second. Like, ma'am, help is on the way. Just stay on the phone with me. Everything's going to be all right. What is happening? I'm going to stop against my front window. Been looking all over for you. They're still doing that road work out front, tearing up the street.

If it carries on for much longer, I'm about set to tear up the Public Works Department at City Hall. Come over here. I want to show you something that was coincidentally torn from the ground as well. It's a bit morbid. and for those with more discerning taste like yourself. It's gravestone from New Vineyard Memorial Cemetery. A terrible place and an unbelievable story. How about you get buried in this one I call Mr. Widemouth?

During my childhood, my family was like a drop of water in a vast river, never remaining in one location for long. We settled in Rhode Island when I was eight, and there we remained until I went to college in Colorado Springs. Most of my memories are rooted in Rhode Island, but there are fragments in the attic of my brain, which belonged to the various homes we had lived in when I was much younger. Most of these memories are unclear and pointless, chasing after another boy in the backyard of a house in North Carolina. Hmm, trying to build a raft to float on the creek behind the apartment we rented in Pennsylvania and so on.

There is one set of memories which remains as clear as glass, as though they were, just made yesterday. I often wonder whether these memories are simply lucid dreams produced by the long sickness I experienced that spring, but in my heart, I know that they're real. We were living in a house just outside the bustling metropolis of New Vineyard, Maine, population 643. It was a large structure, especially for a family of three. There were a number of rooms that I didn't see in the five months we resided there.

In some ways... It was a waste of space, but it was the only house on the market at the time, at least within an hour's commute to my father's place of work. The day after my fifth birthday, attended by my parents alone, I came down with a fever. Doctor said I had mononucleosis, which meant no rough play and more fever for at least another three weeks. It was horrible timing to be bedridden. We were in the process of packing our things to move to Pennsylvania, and most of my things were already packed away in boxes, leaving my room barren. My mother brought me ginger ale and books several times a day,

and these served the function of being my primary form of entertainment for the next few weeks. Boredum always loomed just around the corner, waiting to rear its ugly head and compound my misery. I don't exactly recall how I met, Mr. Widemouth. I think it was about a week after I was diagnosed with Mono. My first memory of the small creature was asking him if he had a name. He told me to call him Mr. Widemouth because his mouth was large.

In fact, everything about him was large in comparison to his body. His head, his eyes, his crooked ears. But his mouth was by far the largest. You look kind of like a Furby. I said as he flipped through one of my books. Mr. Wide Mouth stopped and gave me a puzzled look. Furby? What's a Furby?

he asked. I shrugged. You know, the toy. The little robot with the big ears? You can pet and feed them, almost like a real pet? Oh. Mr. Widemouth resumed his activity.

You don't need one of those. They aren't the same as having a real friend. I remember Mr. Widemouth disappearing every time my mother stopped by to check in on me. He later explained. I don't want your boyfriend. parents to see me, because I'm afraid they won't let us play anymore. We didn't do much during those first few days. Mr. Wide Mouth just looked at my books fascinated

by the stories and pictures they contained. The third or fourth morning after I met him, he greeted me with a large smile on his face. I have a new game we can play. We have to wait until after your mother comes to check on you because she can't see us play it. It's a secret game. After my mother delivered more books and soda at the usual time, Mr. Widemouth slipped

out from under the bed and tugged my hand. We have to go to the room at the end of this hallway. I objected at first as my parents had forbidden me to leave my bed without their permission, but Mr. Widemouth persisted until I gave in.

The room in question had no furniture or wallpaper. Its only distinguishing feature was a window opposite the doorway. Mr. Widemouth darted across the room and gave the window a firm push, flinging it open. He then beckoned me to look out at the ground below. We were on the second story of the house, but it was on a hill, and from this angle, the drop was farther than two stories due to the incline. I like to play pretend up here, Mr. Widemouth explained. I pretend that there's a big, soft. Soft trampoline below this window.

And I jump. You pretend hard enough. You bounced back up like a feather. I want you to try. I was a five-year-old with a fever, so only a hint of skepticism darted through my thoughts as I looked down and considered the possibility. It's a long drop.

But that's all a part of the fun. It wouldn't be fun if it was only a short, drop? If it were that way, you may as well just bounce on a real trampling. I toyed with the idea, picturing myself falling through the thin air only to bounce back to the window on something unseen by human eyes. But the realist in me prevailed. Maybe some other time, I said. I don't know if I have enough imagination. I can get hurt. Mr. Widemouth's face contorted into a snarl, but only for a moment.

The anger gave way to disappointment. If you say so. He spent the rest of the day under my bed, quiet as a mouse. I do apologize, but a delivery just arrived here at the shop, and I need to sign for it. Sit tight, and I'll be back quicker than a rat up a drain pipe. Wasn't so bad, was it? Let's glide back into this nightmare, shall we? The following morning, Mr. Widemouth arrived, holding a small box.

I want to teach you how to juggle. Here are some things you can use to practice before I start giving you lessons. I looked in the box. It was full of knives. My parents will kill me. I shouted, horrified that Mr. Wide Mouth had brought knives into my. my room, objects that my parents would never allow me to touch. I'll be spanked and grounded for a year.

Mr. Widemouth frowned. It's fun to juggle with these. I want you to try it. I pushed the box away. I can't. I'll get in trouble. Knives aren't safe to just throw in the air. Mr. Widemouth's frown deepened into a scowl. He took the box of knives and slid under my bed, remaining there the rest of the day.

I begin to wonder how often he was under me. I started having trouble sleeping after that. Mr. Weidmouth often woke me up at night, saying he put a real trampoline under the window, a big one, one that I couldn't see in the dark. I always declined and tried to go back to sleep, but Mr. Weidmouth persisted. Sometimes he stayed by my side until early in the morning

encouraging me to jump. He wasn't so fun to play with anymore. My mother came to me one morning and told me I had her permission to walk around outside. She thought the fresh air would be good for me, especially after being confined to my room for so long. Ecstatic, I put on my sneakers and trotted out to the back porch, yearning for the feeling of sun on my face. Mr. Wide Mouth was waiting for him. I have something I want you to see.

I must have given him a weird look because he then said, It's safe, I promise. I followed him to the beginning of a deer trail which ran through the woods behind the house. This is an important path. I've had a lot of friends about your age. When they were ready, I took them down this path to a special place. You aren't ready yet, but one day I hope to take you there. I returned to the house, wondering what?

kind of place lay beyond that trail. Two weeks after I met Mr. Widemouth, the last load of our things had been packed into a moving truck. I would be in the cab of that truck sitting next to my father for the long drive to Pennsylvania. I considered telling Mr. Widemouth that I would be leaving, but even at five years old, I was beginning to suspect that perhaps the creature's intentions were not to my benefit, despite what he said otherwise.

For this reason, I decided to keep my departure a secret. My father and I were in the truck at 4 a.m. He was hoping to make it to Pennsylvania by lunchtime tomorrow with the help of an endless supply of coffee and a six-pack of energy drinks. He seemed more like a man who was about to run a marathon rather than one who was about to spend two days sitting still. Early enough for you? My father asked with a hint of sympathy.

I nodded and placed my head against the window. hoping for some sleep before the sun came up. I felt my father's hand on my shoulder. This is the last move, son. I promise. I know it's hard for you, as sick as you've been. Once Daddy gets promoted, we can settle down, and you can make friends. I opened my eyes as we backed out of the driveway.

I saw Mr. Widemouth's silhouette in my bedroom window. He stood motionless until the truck was about to turn on to the main room. road. He gave a pitiful little wave goodbye, steak knife in hand. I didn't wave back. Years later, I returned to New Vineyard. The piece of land our house stood upon was empty except for the foundation as the house burned down a few years after my family left. Out of curiosity, I followed that dear trail that Mr. Widemouth had shown me. Part of me expected him to jump out from behind a tree and scare the living bejesus out of me, but

I felt that Mr. Widemouth was gone, somehow tied to that house that no longer existed. The trail ended at the new vineyard Memorial Cemetery. I noticed that many of the tombstones

belonged to children. Thank you for your patronage. Hope you enjoyed your new relic as much as I've enjoyed passing along its sordid history. It does come with our usual warning, however. Absolutely no refunds, no exchanges, and we won't be held liable for anything that may or may not occur while the object is in your possession. Oh, you think just because you're only listening to my voice that you have nothing to be concerned about? let me assure you that your visit to the antiquarium, whether in the flesh or in your mind's eye, is most certainly not in vain.

You are the architect of this place. I must say you've done a hell of a job. Even the way you have given me a face and carved out the most minute details of my person in that cerebrum of yours is quite impressive indeed. Therefore, the items you procure within these walls, even on a metaphysical level, are very, very real, and are now and forever part of your subconscious. All part of our standard bill of sale, really? Till next time, we'll be waiting for you whenever you close your eyes.

in the space between sleep and dream. During regular business hours, of course, or by appointment, only for you, our best customer. Have a good night now. The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings, Lod Zero One One, Mr. Widemouth, written by Perfect Circle 35, narrated by David Dasmouchin,

featuring Jade Shand, as the young narrator. Deidre Morton as Mr. Widemouth. Conan Freeman as the father. I'm a 911 operator written by Higgs Thunder. Featuring Scout Taylor Compton

as the woman. Conan Freeman as the operator. Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer. Additional music by COAG, Kevin McLeod, Jordi Delmo, Dave DeVille, and Tim Koolig. Engineering production and sound design by Trevor Shand.

The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings is created and curated by Trevor and Lauren Shand. Theme music by the Newton Brothers. Follow us on Instagram and Twitter at Antiquarium Pod. Call the Antiquarium at 646-481-7197.