The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 069 : My Family Has A Gruesome History..I Know I Will Be Next

Episode Date: December 28, 2024

Written by SocietysMenaceCCStarring Trevor Shand as EzaRomy Evans as LilithDee Quintero as Dr. Helena Reyeshttps://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1hfryae/my_family_has_a_gruesome_history_i_know_i_will_be/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/33RWRtP Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Ah, welcome back, my friend. Come in, come in. Yes, shake off the cold and leave your troubles at the door, as they say. Perhaps I can interest you in some new ones. The holidays can be such a busy time, can't they? But here, within these walls, the din of the world has a way of fading away. replaced by the whispers of history and the secrets of forgotten things. Now you, you have come at a most opportune moment.

The shop is particularly lively this season, relics that seem to hum with an energy all their own, as if eager to be noticed. Curious, isn't it? Perhaps the veil between the past and present grows thinner this time. of year, like frost melting on a window pane. But I digress. Let me show you something truly seasonal. It's not tinsel or garland, but rather a book, a genealogy, to be exact, a family's history, painstakingly recorded in ink and vellum. But of course, this is no ordinary record. No, no. This tome charts a lineage.

darkened by death. Do you dare to appear inside its pages to trace the branches of a tree where every root is entwined with shadow, and every leaf bears the weight of a curse. Be warned, for once this book's secrets are revealed, they can't be unknown. Come closer now for this one called My family has a gruesome history. I know I will be. next. 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 Senior Sack, Manuel Medrano, Corinne Condon, Noghondon, Natchez.

G. P. Caitlin Johnson. Gina Smart. Rachel Powell. Oliver Zombie. And D. is for devil. We are ever appreciative of your devotion to the order. Go to the Obsidiancovenant.com to receive the sacrament. Now, where were we?

Oh, yes. Welcome to the antiquarium of sinister happenings and odd goings on. The gruesome history. The genealogy book sits heavy in my hands. It's leather

binding cracked and brittle. Smelling of dust and something else. Something that reminds me of dried blood and forgotten screams. My fingers trace the faded names.

Each one a testament to a legacy I never asked for but can never escape. Per Pierce. Lying light filters through the curtains of our modest suburban home. Casting long shadows across the worn hardwood floors. Lilith is in the kitchen. Her pregnant belly, a gentle curve against her pale blue nightgown. She's humming something. A lullaby, perhaps.

Completely unaware of the weight of history that pulses through my veins. I should have told her before we were married, before we conceived our child, but how do you explain a hereditary nightmare that defies rational explanation? My father Nathaniel never spoke directly about the curse. Neither did his father Jeremiah, nor his father before him. It was always in hushed whispers, in sideways glances, in the way older relatives would grow, silent when certain names were mentioned. The Pierce family tree was less a record of lineage and more. Each generation lost someone. Always in ways that made local newspapers fall silent.

That made police investigations mysteriously go cold. That made even hardened investigators look away and shake their heads. My great-grandfather, Elias Pierce, was found dismembered in a locked barn. Every single bone meticulously saw. separated and arranged in a perfect geometric pattern. No tools were ever found. No explanation ever given. My grandfather, Magnus Pierce, disappeared entirely during a family camping trip.

Search parties found nothing. Not a strand of hair, not a scrap of clothing. Just a small patch of ground where something had clearly happened. The earth scorched in a perfect circle as though something had burned so intense. that it consumed everything around it, leaving only a memory of heat. My father, Nathaniel, he was discovered in our family's basement. His body contorted into an impossible position, eyes wide open but completely white. No pupils, no iris.

Just blank, milky surfaces that seem to reflect something from another world. It appears. With a wife who doesn't know. with a child growing insider, unaware of the genetic lottery they've already been entered into. The genealogy book falls open to a page I've memorized a thousand times. A loose photograph slips out. A family portrait from 1923. My ancestors stare back.

Their face is rigid and unsmiling. But if you look closely, and I have countless times, there's something else in their eyes Willith announces from the other room that breakfast is ready I close the book The eggs grow cold on my plate She watches me

Her green eyes searching A furrow of concern creasing her forehead She knows something's wrong She's always known how to read the subtle tremors in my silence You're thinking about your family again I force a smile Just tired isn't the word. My fingers unconsciously trace a small birthmark on the inside of my wrist.

A strange, intricate pattern that looks less like a natural mark and more like a symbol. A symbol I've never been able to identify, despite years of research. It's been in every Pierce-Males family photo, always in the same location, always identical. Lilith's pregnancy is now in her seventh month. The baby moves constantly. pressing against her skin like something desperate to escape. Sometimes, in the quiet moments before dawn, I've watched those movements and wondered if it's trying to escape something more than the confines of her womb.

The genealogy book remains open on the kitchen counter. I catch Lilith glancing at it. Her curiosity barely contained. She knows I'm secretive about my family history. Most of my relatives are dead or dead. disappeared, and the few photographs that remain are locked away in a fireproof safe in my study. My hand freezes midway to my coffee mug. Tell me about your great-grandfather.

There's nothing to tell. But that's a lie. There's everything to tell. Elias Pierce. The first documented instance of our family's peculiarity. He was a cartographer, always traveling to remote locations, mapping, territories no one had ever charted. His journals, the few that survived, spoke of places that didn't exist on any official map.

Places with geometries that didn't make sense. Landscapes that seemed to breathe. The last entry, dated December 17, 1889, was a series of increasingly frantic sketches, impossible architectural designs, symbols that hurt your eyes if you looked at them too long. and at the bottom, in handwriting they grew more erratic with each line, is alive. Those were his final one. They found him in that locked barn.

His body systematically dismantled like a complex mechanical puzzle. The local sheriffs report read like a fever dream. Bones arranged in perfect mathematical precision. No blood. No signs of struggle. Just reorganization. Willis hand touches my arm, pulling me back. to the present.

Ezra? Are you listening? I realize I've been staring into nothing. My coffee growing cold. The birth mark on my wrist suddenly feeling hot. The curse is never fine. The curse is always waiting. And our child is coming soon.

The ultrasound images are wrong. Not obviously so. Not in a way that would alarm a typical doctor or technician. But I see it. The subtle asymmetries, the impossible angles. Lilith keeps the images pinned to our refrigerator. A proud mother-to-be displaying her first glimpses of our unborn child. Each time I look, I feel something crawl beneath my skin.

Dereyna Reyes is our obstetrician. She's been nothing but professional. But I've caught her looking at me. Not at Lilith. Her eyes hold a recognition that makes my blood run cold. Everything is progressing normally. She said during our last appointment. The pause before, normally, hanging in the air like a barely concealed lie.

That night, I pulled out the old family documents again. Tucked between brittle pages at the genealogy book. The paper was so old it crumbled at the edges, but the ink remained sharp. Written by my grandfather Magnus. addressed to no one. Always comes. Of what? Lillis sleeps beside me.

Her breathing deep and even. Her belly rises and falls. The shape beneath her nightgown moving in ways that feel. Calculated. I trace my birthmark again. Under the moonlight streaming through our bedroom window. It looks less like a birthmark. A map to nowhere.

My father Nathaniel's final photographs are stored in a locked drawer in my study. I rarely look at them. It feels different. Something is pulling me toward them. Photographs are straight because of what they show. But because of what they don't show. In each family portrait going back generations, there's a consistent emptiness,

always in the same location. As if something has been deliberately erased. Before the photograph was even taken, baby kicks. So hard that Lilith doesn't wake up. But I see her stomach distort, a shape pressing outward. Not like a normal fetal movement. More like something trying to push its way out, trying to escape.

Or something trying to enter. My apologies. It seems we have a visitor. Just a moment while I tend to what needs tending to. And I'll be right back. Leave a message. This is about those candles I got from your shop. I need somebody to call me back. It's weird.

They won't light. I've tried everything, and here's the thing. I brought them with me to my girlfriend's grandma's place. Kind of out in the middle of nowhere, Baker's got Tennessee to Appalachians. And I try to walk in the front door with them. They just fall, like they shoot out of my hands and roll right off the porch. And at night, we're just holding them. Don't worry about, old friend.

Just a curious passer-by looking for a trinket. to gift. Something harmless. A bottle to be wrapped in cheerful paper and forgotten by New Year's Day. But not you. No, you've come for something more enduring, haven't you? Something that lies much more in the darkness. Now, where were we? Not like a normal fetal movement. More like something trying to push its way out. Trying to escape. I'm to end. her, my eyes, but I can still see the map. The territory of the eldest Cummings record sits spread across my desk, a constellation of pain mapped out in faded ink and brittle paper.

I've been researching our family history for weeks now, driven by something more than curiosity, something closer to survival. Every pierce male in the last five generations died or disappeared. disappeared before their 35th birthday. Coincidence. My father Nathaniel, gone at 34. My grandfather Magnus vanished at 33. Great-grandfather Elias found mutilated at 35. The pattern is too precise to be random. I've collected newspaper clippings, court documents, medical records. Not the dramatic, sensational evidence one might expect, but the quiet, pure bureaucratic trail of destruction.

Police reports with missing pages. Coroner's files with critical information redacted. Insurance claims it never quite add up. Luth finds me here most nights, surrounded by these documents. She doesn't ask questions anymore. Just brings me coffee. Watches me with those green eyes that seem to hold more understanding than she lets on. The baby's room is almost ready.

placing a mug beside me. I look up. The nursery door stands open. Pale yellow walls. Carefully selected furniture. Have you ever wondered why some families seem marked by tragedy? She sits down, her pregnancy making the movement careful. Calculated.

Some people are just unlucky. But I know it's more than luck. Something runs in our blood. Something that doesn't care about love or hope or the carefully constructed life we built. Look on my wrist throbs. Not painfully, just present. A constant reminder about the most disturbing document. A psychological evaluation of my grandfather Magnus conducted two months before his disappearance.

The psychiatrist notes her clinical reads as follows. patient exhibits extreme paranoia regarding familial curse demonstrates intricate delusion of systematic family destruction fixates on biological determinism shows no sign of schizophrenia but persistent ideation of inherited trauma suggests deep-seated psychological mechanisms at play inherited words

our family's destruction wasn't supernatural what if it was something more sidious A genetic predisposition to self-destruction. A psychological pattern so deeply ingrained that each generation unconsciously recreates the same narrative of loss. Lilith's hand touches my shoulder. Coming to bed? But my mind is elsewhere.

Calculating. The baby is due in six weeks. I have six weeks to understand what's happening to our family. Six weeks to break a cycle. that has consumed generations. Six weeks to save our child, the research consumes me. I've taken a leave of absence from work.

My entire study transformed into a makeshift investigation center. Genetic reports, psychiatric evaluations, family medical histories stretching back over a century. Each document another piece of a horrifying puzzle. Dr. Helena Reyes agrees to me. meet me privately. She's a geneticist specializing and inherited psychological disorders. Recommended by a colleague who knew something was unusual about my family history. Her office is

sterile, meticulously organized. Nothing like the chaotic landscape of my own research. The Pierce family presents a fascinating case study. She says, sliding a manila folder across her desk. generational patterns of self-destructive behavior, early mortality, and what appears to be a consistent psychological profile. I lean forward. She hesitates. Professional detachment wavering for just a moment. Extreme risk-taking behavior, persistent paranoia, documented inability to form long-term emotional

connections. Each generation seems to unconsciously recreate traumatic family dynamics. My grandfather Magnus, my father Nathaniel, their lives were a series of broken relationships, isolated existences, careers marked by sudden, inexplicable failures. I'd fought against that pattern. Married Lilith, built a stable life. Or so I thought. There's... Something else. We've identified a rare genetic mutation. Not something that causes a specific disease, but a variation that affects neural pathways related to threat perception and stress response.

She shows me a complex genetic map. Chromosomal variations highlighted in clinical blue. In simplest terms, your family's brain chemistry is fundamentally different. You're neurologically primed for a perpetual state of threat detection. Imagine living with the constant sensation that something terrible is about to happen every single moment. I know that feeling intimately. Lilith is eight and a half months pregnant now, many day. And all I can think about is the pattern.

Herodence seems to hunt my family like a predator of monsters or supernatural entities. but of a simple, terrifying truth. What if the real horror is inside us, coated into our very DNA? What if our child is already marked? Her actions started at 3.17 a.m. Lillis' grip on my hand was vice-like. Her breathing controlled despite the pain.

The hospital room felt smaller with each passing minute. The white walls seeming to close in. Dr. Reyes was there. Not our usual obstetrician, but the geneticist who'd been studying our case. Her presence felt deliberate, calculated. Everything is progressing normally. The same phrase she'd used before, but nothing about our family had ever been normal. Hours passed.

The rhythmic beep of monitors, the soft rustle of medical equipment. My mind kept circling back to the research. The genetic markers, the documented family history of destruction, in 42 a.m. Our son was born. I pierced the sterile hospital air, ran her standard tests. Blood work, genetic screening. My entire body tensed. Waiting for some sign of the curse that had haunted my family for generations.

Nothing. Weeks turned into months. Our son Gabriel grew strong, healthy. No signs of the psychological fracture. that had destroyed my father, our ancestors. No mysterious disappearances. No one explained tragedies. I submitted every piece of medical documentation to Dr. Reyes.

Comprehensive reports, psychological evaluations, each document a testament to Gabriel's complete normalcy. The genetic markers, I asked during one of our final consultations, the predisposition to self-destruction. She looked tired. professional. Sometimes, sometimes breaking a cycle as possible,

not through supernatural intervention, but through understanding, through choice. Lilith found me one night, surrounded by the old family documents, the genealogy book, the newspaper clippings, the medical records that had consumed me for so long.

Are you ready? I understood what she meant. That night, I built a fire in our backyard Watch the papers curl and burn The history of destruction Of inherited trauma As I was burning old time in generations

A pierce male would live Live Thank you for your patronage Hope you enjoyed your new relic As much as I've enjoyed passing along It's 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, LOD 069. My family has a gruesome history. I know I will be next. Written by Society's Menacee, starring Trevor Shand as Ezra, Romy Evans as Lilith, De Quintero as Dr. Helena Reyes,

featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer. Engineering Production and Sound 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.