The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 062 : If You Go Down, You Forget…- chapter 2 -

Episode Date: October 15, 2024

Written by Quincy LeeStarring Trevor Shand as JackRomy Evans as SophieAddison Peacock as EmmaAdditional voices by Conan Freemanhttps://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1eln5u7/theres_a_trapdoor_i_hear_crying_below_but_each/ Featuring Stephen Knowles as The Antique Dealer Theme music by The Newton Brothers Additional music byCO.AG ([e-mail]) Vivek AbhishekSUBSCRIBE us on YOUTUBE: https://bit.ly/3qumnPHFollow on Facebook : https://bit.ly/33RWRtPFollow on Instagram : https://bit.ly/2ImU2JV **Unsought Goods; https://theantiquarium.myshopify.com/** Babbel: Here's a special, (limited time) deal for our listeners. Right now get 50% off a one-time payment for a lifetime Babbel subscription - but only for our listeners - https://www.babbel.com/sinister. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

W equals Q. Ah yes, another journey begins. You know, I just love when you drop by. Today it appears as though the path begins

where another one has ended. Here in your hands is a sheaf of paper, yellowed with age, covered with arcane symbols and scribbles in ancient languages. They are torn from the pages of the story of two friends of mine, Jack,

and Emma. This is, if you go down, you forget. Chapter 2. Before we begin, I want to point out some of the customers whose names have been etched in brass on this beautiful plaque I had made above the front desk. These are some of the members of the inner circle of the antiquarium. We go by the Obsidian Covenant.

Recent initiates include The Perceptor, Teeth, Sylvia Paitzel, Shane Carraway, Maggie B, Jiglepuff, Tori E. Selznick, Jacqueline Graham, Michael Meyer, and Alex Avengera. We are ever appreciative of your devotion to The Order. Go to The Obsidiancovenant.com to receive the sacrament. Now, where were we? Yes. Welcome to the antiquarium of sinister happenings

and odd goings on. If you go down, after two. Fourteen years old, hired me to help find her sister Chloe, 17, who disappeared down this trapdoor 10 days ago while urban exploring. Not that I'm any kind of hero. No. I'm a former con artist turned paranormal investment. investigator with a spine like wet tissue. Following foul odors, scuttling around in the dark, and running at the first wolf of danger are all part of my skill set as a clever coward. Also the skill set of a cockroach. Whatever.

Point is, I was made to go scuttling in creepy corners. But Sophie wasn't. I lost her when she followed me down. Now, I'm on the top step, staring into the blackness, as if I could see whatever lies below. And all the hairs on my neck stand on end. As I listen to her sobs, I keep failing to rescue her. The moment you cross the threshold coming back up, those creaky stairs, everything you saw,

everything you experienced below is just cameras and phones don't work down there. I've gone down a dozen times, and each time I've come rushing back up with my heart hammering and throat raw with screams. And no idea what happened below. My only clues to what's down there are the things I brought out with me. One, yellowing pages with ancient writing in Latin and Aramaic. Two, a message written in Sharpie on my arm. Seven words.

Written note riddled with misspellings. I'm coming, Sophie! I cut my hands and shout. This time I promise, I'm getting you out. So, how do I stop myself from yoyowing back? up again? Well, for my three measly clues I've devised a plan. One that guarantees one thing with absolute certainty happens. This. It all starts with my first clue. The yellowed pages. You see, they're covered in arcane symbols and scribbles in ancient languages that I can't read

because my only real degree is in BS. What's that? I'm a fraud? Hey, show me a paranormal investigator who isn't. So anyway, a few hours ago, I was sitting in a greasy Milwaukee diner waiting for my ex. The only person I could think of who could translate these pages on short notice when she entered the diner,

her eyes fell on the gold lock and around my neck. I spread my arms and said, Hey, babe. Don't call me, babe. Sorry, babe, that wasn't... Sorry, I... It's just, I still think of you in my head is... Stop! I don't care, shut up! Just don't call me,

Babe. Yes, ma'am. Suddenly I wished I'd met her at the trapdoor instead, because then I could at least throw myself down it. A little background on the two of us. She gave me the lock and I'm wearing on her anniversary. Called me her grifter with a heart of gold. The lock-in is a heart shape,

inscribed with smaller hearts with a picture inside of her making a heart. And it's absolutely not something a straight dude can wear. Not just because it's girly. I sometimes have been known to rock a ponytail or wear salmon or pose provocatively in the nude. Pay me like one of your French girls. But I am lactose intolerant, and this heart of gold is way too much cheese. Like any cheesier and you'd be fucking pizza. Probably shouldn't have told her that, though.

Anyway, I never wore it. But then came that post-breakup life of booze and bitterness and bachelor salad. You know, when you're standing at the sink, chomping on a lettuce head, taking swigs from the dressing bottle, suddenly it hits different. The fact someone once thought enough of you to gift you this. Why'd you call a cheesy fucking asshole? I'm only helping you for the sisters. Emma said, still glaring at the locket like she was imagining ripping it off my throat.

No take-backsies, Emma. You're right, that the Latin and Aramaic explains how the door was sealed. The symbols etched into the floor around the trap door create a warding that makes you forget what's below. I can break the warding so you'll stop first. forgetting, but all the research says I shouldn't. That to break it is to unleash a terrible evil. So you'd better have a damn good plan, Jack. It's ratchets up now as I descend.

The blood in my ears drowning out the creek of each rickety-wooden step. My veins are spiked with adrenaline on this final trip down, but also curiosity. Because why have I failed over a dozen times? What keeps setting me up screaming? What the fuck is down there? My clues aren't enough. The desire to know is so potent it's a craving. An intoxicating urge.

Like I'm an addict and seeing what's down there is how I get my fix. Even if the sisters weren't missing, I'd probably be on these stairs, creeping down. Just to know. At the time I hit bottom, I'm swimming in an inky darkness. I hold my sleeve over my nose. against the stench of decay, noting the crumbling stone, the dusty shelving under my flashlight. Old cans sit on the nearby shelf. Carnation evaporated milk. Van Camp's pork's pork and beans. Campbell's soup. It's mm-mm-good. They'll probably not anymore. This stuff must have been canned

decades before I was born. I step across the room and grab a few of the cans, piling them in my arms and quickly stacking them on the stairs. and it's as I'm stacking the last one that a fly crosses my light and whizzes past my ear or has the buzzing gotten when I suck in the next gulp of air I aim my light in the direction of the flies and freeze

there's something there and traces discolored fingers greenish gray and blotchy up a delicate wrist I recognize the charm bracelet on that wrist because I saw an identical bracelet on Sophie's arms morning, the two sisters matching, and my chest sinks.

The arm is bent at a strange angle. The body crumpled like a broken puppet and finds the face. The eyes eaten away by flies. The second clue I used to plan my final descent was the ink on my arm. A scrawling sharpy marker in my own sloppy handwriting. Victim alive must perform inscribed ritual. Escape. clear enough follow the inscription on the yellowed pages and break the warning but why such bad

sentencing why so dramatically cryptic why not just tell myself what's actually fucking down there the answer of course is that i did tell myself because i wrote those seven specific words in the specific order and if you put the capitals together yeah yeah you get the victim a alive M must P perform, etc. And it spells out V-A-M-P-I-R-E. Obviously some sort of vampiric

entity made you write the Sharpie message knowing you'd forget when you came back up trying to trick you into breaking the seal. I read over your third clue too. Do not go back down. Sophie will be safe if you use the notes to break the wording. Do not come down again because your lilith

draws it to her. Sophie is hiding blind in the dark from the thing that took her sister. T was summoned here by the wards, which keep it in this world. But if you barak to rods, then that will kill its and set Sophie free. When it is gone, Sophie may safely come upstairs. Wow, man, that's a lot of mistakes. I wonder if it's in... Uh-huh.

The question is, who's conning who, Jack? We know next to nothing about whatever's below Except the fact it's horrible enough Someone went to a lot of trouble to seal the trap door Breaking those words could be the biggest mistake of your life Nah, maybe the last mistake Which is also the biggest if it kills you, idiot Agree to disagree, babe

I caught her glare I mean Emma Breaking the wards isn't even close to the biggest mistake of my life I've got a list a mile long There was that time I raised donations for a cat rescue when I was actually cat fishing, or all the go-fund-mees I ran that just funded me, or any number of misdeeds that mean,

carmically, I'll reincarnate as a cockroach. For the past year, I've been trying to do good deeds to make up for all my mistakes, and get the demon that's chasing me off my ass. So if using my skills as a scammer can save Sophie and dig me out of the red in this carmic performance review, hey, I'll take it.

I hear me out. This plan is going to work. I just need to go back down one last time. Going back down is suicide. You know what will happen. On my last trip down, I came up holding a knife to my throat. I'd nick the skin, blood dribbling as I stared into one of the cameras I'd set up to document everything. And repeated a warning.

Do not go back down. Do not go back down. Do not go back down. Maybe. You shouldn't fucking go back down. Oh, I don't know, Jack. I get the feeling Emma might have a point. But you know how it goes.

This is the antiquarium, is it not? Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Allow me a quick moment if you could. I have to run out to sign for a delivery. Shouldn't take long at all. Why don't you make yourself at home? And I'll be right back. Leave a message.

Please do so with the town and have a... At a procurement doing. I think your creepy-ass boss might like... Don't tell my send that, though. Uh, got my hand and owned those, like, um, what is it, like a demon, a Japanese demon, right? Yeah, pretty cool thing, huh? A couple drawbacks. You can't turn it off.

I constantly get to hear everybody's thoughts around you non-stop. Uh, as well as, you're probably going to want to get some bleach and stuff if, uh, if you think you might be interested. Take care. Thanks for your patience. Something arrived just for you that is going to be a little bit. of great use for you in the days to come. Curious? All in good time, friend.

All in good time. For now, let's catch up with Jack and Emma and see what kind of trouble they managed to. Dig up next. Shall we? Do not go back down. Do not go back down. Do not go back down.

Maybe. You shouldn't fucking go back down. Lies buzz in and out of Chloe's sockets. and coffee from the diner searches up. I heave my guts in the corner. Keep heaving till I'm hollow. Slam my fist on the crumbling mortar. I knew this morning from the very moment I pried open the trap door.

It was like cracking the lid of a tupperware of rotting meat, marinated in sewage. There could be only one fate for the sister missing for ten days below with no water. But finding the source of the smell nonetheless rings my insides like a rag. How many times did I run up and down those stairs with her corpse right below? Calling from somewhere further in, still alive. Aiming my puny light into the blackness, I plunged down the hallway into a large bare room. My beam is a small yellow circle traveling across a canvas of solid black, slowly revealing walls.

A few items of slowly decaying furniture. An old trunk, an ottoman, a very old chair. My light finds a door. Darning over, I lean back against it. Wrap my knuckles on the wood. Sophie? Jack! Are you safe in there?

I... I think so. She was in here. She used the corner for the bathroom. But she's not here now. Last week when I called to her and the trapdoor was still closed. Do you think that's when she left this room? She...

I thought she went out there. No. No, it's not your fault. But now, I'm envisioning Chloe's last moments. Days hiding from whatever is down here in the dark, and then hearing her sister's voice. Fleeing the safety of this closet, scrambling for the stairs and the pitch blackness, only to find the trap door. Shut.

That am I imagining by the tingling along my name. And a shuffling sound. The sensation. Every hair stands on end. brain my ears. It's... The wrist is having a seizure. My flesh crawls with a spider skitter of terror,

hands rubbing, like bare feet sliding on stone, like lip smacking. I try to remind myself that the source of that sound is what I'm searching for, catches on a figure. In the split second in which my beam passes over it, the figure is hauntingly tall,

stupid, like the statue of a withered old man with freakishly long nails, frozen in an awkward slouch, mid-step towards me. It smells like a corpse freshly dug out of a grave, and its eyes are squeezed tightly shut. As if after so many decades in the dark, it cannot bear even my weak light. I see all this in the fraction of an instant that my beam flashes over it. Oh, Jesus Christ, fuck me!

I've clicked the light back to that same spot. Only that spot is now empty. I'm on the ground before I even register the impact. And something knocks my flashlight away, spinning it out of my grip to crack against the wall, plunging the basement into blackness. Your plan is dangerous. This is just like when we broke up.

You caught in paranormal bullshit and insisting on playing the hero. Classic Jack. Oh, I have to do this alone, Emma, in the most reckless and insanely stupid way possible. Fucking macho bull crap. It's not macho book. Fuck.

Then why not let me come down with you? Because I'm a coward, Emma. Okay, fuck! Because last time you and I were facing the paranormal, remember what the fuck happened? Because I remember. And I was not fucking heroic. She flinched.

I clenched my jaw and dialed myself down. I'm like a cockroach. All right? Very fast. Hard to kill. And my best in the gutter crawling through the fucking dark. So just let me do the one thing I always do. which is be selfish and run.

And there it is, folks. Cowardly? Let's call that wisdom. Lion or jackal, baby. Always a jackal. Until now I've been spinning my cowardice into an asset. It's what I do as a con man. I spin stuff.

I lie. Like the whole time I'm not hating myself for the truth that I betrayed her. I sold her out when the demon that marked me came. I told it to take Emma instead of me. That's not just failing to save the princess. That's throwing her in. to the maw the fucking dragon so I wouldn't get eaten. That's why we broke up. So ever since I lost Sophie below, I've been wondering, what really happened down there?

Did I try to save the kid? Abandon her? Ditch her so I could preserve my own precious skin? I don't fucking know. And so, I've been throwing myself down into the dark over and over and over. Can't see the face hovering above mine. Like a gust out of a car. Caddick. Jack, why are you imagining making out with it? I blame tropes for priming my brain and also because any closer and will lock lips. And now, I can't turn off the

mental image of sucking face with the fucking thing. It's my nightmare. Meanwhile, my mouth is motoring. I'm going to give you what I promised. You'll be free. You can feast on everyone the whole world. Wait, what now? I should probably rain in my mouth, but it keeps running. I don't care who you eat.

Just don't hurt me. Please. We had a deal. Probably I can't remember, but just promise you'll spare my friends and I'll let you out. Promise to spare us and she'll break the wards. That's what you want, right? The withered limbs might as well be iron girders pinning me to the floor and I could only imagine how powerful it must have been when it was first sealed here. Before all those decades starving, a waft of cold, rotten breath, ASMRing in my ear. Each ends in an inhalation. It shudders and takes a long sniff of my neck and its tongue snakes out across the blood on my throat. Please don't let this interview with the vampire go how I think it's going to go.

It makes me again. I quickly scramble backwards. In the distance, a flicker of light from the top of the stairs. And Emma shouts. Jack, are you sure? Oh, my fucking God, yes, I'm fucking sure. Why is she hesitating? Dracula here is thirsty, and I'm the only nearby drink.

Hurry up before he changes his mind about having a jack-and-coke minus the coke. The light dims. And then the atmosphere shes. shifts. The tingling along my skin lightens. It's like there was a symphony of cicadas and crickets, but the cicadas all went silent. Leaving only the crickets chirping their tingling tune on my flesh, it's receiving messages, which means the warning. The chills skittering along my body now are from the entity. And with that prickling of my flesh, a deep dread curdles in my glow chuckle sends the hairs on my neck on end, and I whirl.

The voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. Too bad you are. The brush of a fingernail on my arm. The torn sleeve of my leather jacket exposes a tattoo on that arm. An inked image of a lady in red. The tattoo showed up one year after I made a wager with a demon. And even though I won, her ink is a claim on my life. Like a cattle rancher's brand.

She'll kill me soon. We'll feed on my screams when she makes a meal of me. But until then, if any other entity poaches me, they risk bringing down the wrath of my rightful owner needs to be marked. Pros and cons, am I right? But even as I feel myself ease, the nails click away from my ink to my life. Ever since walking into the diner, Emma's been so fucking angry. It threw me honestly.

Even when we broke up, even after my unfree, giveable betrayal. She'd never been so hostile. Why? About you? Have you ever even once stopped to ask yourself how it felt for me, not knowing if you're dead or alive? And if you didn't need my help with the wards, you would have gone down there with your

dumb, reckless plan, could have died down there with the sisters, and I'd never even know. Can you even imagine how pissed you'd be? How fucking hurts if it were me? Jack, if I went and died somewhere, and you didn't even know until someone found my decomposing body? You're not a coward, but you are a fucking asshole. She abruptly stalked away from the table. Her back to me, shoulders shaking.

And finally, it hit me that she wasn't angry. But hurt. Because of all these weeks, I dropped out of contact. That she didn't want me going down because she was scared of losing. me. This is probably a duh moment for anyone listening, but honestly, I'd assumed she'd moved on. Her Instagram, her Snapchat, and social media. She looked happy. Out with friends, living her life the way she's supposed to. I didn't want her knowing where and when I'd die. I can't outrun the claim on me forever. I thought by removing myself, completely cutting myself out of her life,

I was setting her free. I reached for her. She clung to me tightly, and I inhaled the scent of her skin as all those old feelings ignited. Emma's fingers dug into me like she couldn't decide between wanting to hold me forever, or let go and strangle me. No, you idiot.

I never forgot you. Now, in that split second between one heartbeat and the next, as the thing disappears, It hits me that it might not actually be me who dies first. That maybe I miscalculated. And that maybe. I scream as I run towards the stairs. Run him!

The cans. The cans all clatter and I shriek. No! I'm nearly as fast as the entity. So desperate I'm all but flying, racing past those rolling cans. I'm too late. Doors slams down above me. You for your patronage.

Hope you enjoyed your new relic as much as. 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. If you've got an artifact with mysterious properties, perhaps it's accompanied by a history of bizarre and disturbing

circumstances. Maybe you'd be interested in dropping it and its story by the shop to share with other customers. Please reach out to Antiquarium Shop at gmail.com. A member of our team

will be in touch. 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.

The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings, Lot 062. If you go down, you forget. Chapter 2. Written by Quincy Lee. Starring Trevor Shand as Jack, Addison Peacock, as Emma. Romney Evans as Sophie. Additional voices by Conan Freeman. featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer.

Engineering production and sound design by Trevor Shand. Theme music by the Newton Brothers. Additional music by Coag and Vivek Abyshech. The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings is created and curated by Trevor and Lauren Shand. Follow us on Instagram and Twitter at Antiquarium Pod. Call the Antiquarium at 646-481-7197.