The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 084: The Cellar // My Mom Used To Hide Under My Bed

Episode Date: June 16, 2025

I Was Sent To Investigate A Missing ChildWritten by StanzoNarrated by Trevor ShandFeaturing Amalie Brown as AbigailSarah Golding as Mags Wiloughbyhttps://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1l68yd2/i_was_sent_to_investigate_a_missing_girl_in/ My Mom Used To Hide Under My BedWritten by King-Crimson0Narrated by Conan FreemanFeaturing Jessica McEvoy as MomJade Shand as Everett Shand as The Boyhttps://www.reddit.com/r/scarystories/comments/1lb6x68/my_mom_used_to_hide_under_my_bed_at_night/ Featuring Stephen Knowles as The Antique Dealer Theme music by The Newton Brothers Additional music byCO.AG ([e-mail]) Vivek AbhishekSUBSCRIBE to them on YOUTUBE: / vivekhsihba  LIKE them on FACEBOOK:  https://rb.gy/nhgn0iFollow them on Spotify/ iTunes/ Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/rxdcjqt Clement Panchoutwww.clementpanchout.com Redlight Chill Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

A equals H. Ah, right on time, dear friend. Some lots arrive all at once, blunt, obvious, demanding to be seen. Others arrive in pieces, whispers in the walls, dust in the corners, sounds that don't belong to the hour. Lot 84 is one of those. Two items High Priestess Emily brought in especially for you

Unconnected by origin Yet curiously Linked by sound Kncks Taps Rhythms too deliberate To be dismissed Too faint to be trusted

We begin with this A ribbon Pink satin With a small silver bell still attached to the end. Recovered from beneath the earth near a ruined barn, one no longer listed on any local surveys. It still carries a scent.

Stone. Iron. And when held, some claim to hear giggling. Others say the bell rings on its own. Always just out of earshot. It's been cataloged under one name. one name. We call this first story, the seller. 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 Chloe, Ashkash, Blake Izayf, the Big Bad Wolf of California, Kristen DeBose,

Romie, Alexander Cruz, Castle Sepeda, Jody McGrath, and Tammy D.C. We are Ever appreciative of your devotion to the order.

Go to the obsidian covenant.com to receive the sacrament. Now, where were we? Oh yes. Welcome to the antiquarium of sinister happenings and odd goings on. I was sent to investigate a missing child. I took early retirement two months ago. They say it was voluntary, but if you read between the lines, the transfer, the psyche valve, the months of leave before I resigned, you'd see the truth, told anyone what really happened in Barley Hill.

Not the chief superintendent, not the shrink they assigned me, my wife. Who thinks it was just burnout? It wasn't burnout. You know what I saw. And I know what I heard in that cellar. Part of the beginning. Barley Hill is a speck on the map. Two rows of cottages. one pub, one post office, and fields that go on forever. Kind of place where time folds in on itself. I was stationed nearby in Hexham and sent out to assist local plot when a girl went missing.

Her name was Abigail Shaw, 12 years old. Disappeared on a Tuesday afternoon between school and home. She should have walked back with her friend Lucy, but told her she was cutting through the woods to take a shortcut. Except there was no shortcut. Just miles of dense forest and farmland. I met them the night she vanished. Good people. Salt of the Earth types.

Mr. Shaw was shaking so bad he couldn't hold his tea. Mrs. Shaw kept glancing at the clock every few seconds. Like if she stared hard enough, time would reverse. The Barley Hill Constable, a man named Pritchard, was already out of his depth. No CCTV in the village. No reports of strangers.

No signs of struggle. I took over coordination and brought in dogs and drones by the next morning. Every square meter of woodland. For three days. Nothing. She'd vanished like smoke. Two miles from the village near an abandoned farmstead. The old place called Greaves Orchard.

The dog had to be a little bit of a village. had gone ballistic near the collapsed barn and started digging at the earth. That's where we found the ribbon. Pink satin with a tiny silver bell. Abigail's mother confirmed it was hers. The barn itself was unsafe. Roof half caved in, the floor rotted. But below it, there was a trap sealed with rusted iron bolts.

And this is where you. things get odd. The floor above that trapdoor hadn't collapsed. There was no way the dog could have smelled anything through solid oak beams and a foot of earth, and it led us to that exact spot. Like it had been called there. Broke the lock, came up, smelled like old stone and wet iron. We descended. The cellar was far too large, carved into the bedrock with old tools. Pritchard said the farmhouse had no records of underground storage. No history, no maps, not even local gossip. But here it was.

Fifteen feet underground. With stone shelves, iron hooks, and something that looked a lot like restraints bolted to the wall. We searched every inch. Just one small shoe tucked behind a broken crate. And carved into the wall, six feet up, an inch. chalk.

Still fresh. That word stayed with me. We brought in forensics. They lifted Abigail's prints off the shoe. The ribbon, too, but... Nothing else. No signs of anyone else. We interviewed every village or twice.

I walked the woods alone some nights. Flashlight in one hand, a quarter in the other, is when it started. At first, it was small things. My mobile would turn on in the middle of the night. Start recording. Voice memos I didn't make.

Three times over the next week. I woke to a faint knock on my guest house door. At precisely 2.11 a.m. stayed up and recorded the hallway. When I reviewed the footage the next morning, my stomach turned at 2.11 a.m. shook slightly. Voice whispering.

I never said that. Instead, I went back to Greaves Orchard. I paced the area around the barn. Aides. An old woman named Mags Willoughby. She lived alone at the edge of the village. nearest to the orchard.

She'd seen something. She said, lying. Two nights ago, I saw a girl running across the field. Did you recognize her? She looked like the shore girl, but she... She wasn't right. Not right. She's barefoot, mud up to her knees, but her clothes were tall.

I look scared. It looked calm, like she was walking in her sleep towards the barn. I stayed out there until dawn. Nothing. A week passed. The official search was scaled down. The press moved on. But I didn't.

got inside me. I barely slept. Eight standing up. My wife said I talked in my sleep, muttering about cellars and chalk and ribbons. Then one night, a storm rolling in over the moors. I returned to Greaves Orchard. One last time, Barn was creaking in the wind. Breeze swayed like they were trying to whisper to each other. I descended the cellar steps with my torch and recorder. Everything was as we'd left it. But the word, alive in its place, newly written in shaky chalk. A sound behind me. I spun and caught it in the beam.

A girl. Pale. Dirty feet. Wearing a night count. Abigail. She just stared at me, smiling. I reached out. but she stepped backward,

darkness, and vanished. Just stonewall. I don't know how long I stood there. Torch shaking. Eventually, sleep that night. Three days later. Wandering along the roadside near Hayden Bridge.

Disoriented. Clothes clean. No bruises. No injuries. Dehydrated, but other words. unharmed. The doctors said she'd been fed recently. No signs of trauma. She didn't remember anything. She just kept repeating the same thing. The man in the cellar was nice.

They assumed it was a coping mechanism. A way to process fear. I asked to see her one last time. I just wanted to ask a single question. I sat across from her in the hospital room. She looked at me calmly, swinging her legs off the side of the bed. Abigail. Was the man in the cellar old or young? Everyone celebrated a miracle. What I saw in that cellar. She was found.

The voice memos from my phone. It was my voice again. Silence. Then a child's voice. Soft. Like it was speaking right next to the mic. Did you hear that? Not the bell. No, it's gone quiet now.

It's the answer that worries me. You see, some echoes don't stop when the object is returned to the shelf. They carry room to room, wall to wall, until they find something willing to listen back. I should check the eastern cabinet. There's been movement in the glass. and if I'm not mistaken, something's knocking from underneath. I'll return shortly.

Leave a message. You shop recently, and it has worked really well. I just hear it just thumping away. I can't make it turn off, please. I'm a speaker goal, and it doesn't. Still with us? Because the ribbon was only part of the message.

Now we come to the other. A plank of flooring, roughly three feet in length. Smooth on one side, as though touched by small hands again and again. Along its surface, faint indentations. Three, two, four. Always the same. We've labeled it the tapping board. It was recovered from beneath a child's bed.

The house was sold twice before anyone dared remove it. But when they did, they found scratches beneath. Names, dates. And something else, harder to explain. The second story in Lot 84 is titled, My Mom Used to Hide Under My Bed. Born in 2000. He grew up in a small town in Norfolk. Northeast Ohio. We had one of those little ranch style houses, all on one floor, three bedrooms.

It was just me and my mom for most of my life. My dad left when I was a baby. She was a good mom, from what I remember. We didn't have much money, but she made sure I always had what I needed. She worked as a waitress at a restaurant in the center of town, always tired, but always kind of to watch movies together at night. She tucked me in, kissed my forehead, and tell me she loved me. I felt safe, except at bedtime. I must have been about six or seven, the first time I noticed it. One night, after she tucked me in,

I heard the floor creak after she turned off the light. Not out in the hall, freezing, listening. Then I heard the sound of her breathing. Slow, heavy. Right underneath me. Mom? Called for her louder. After a few seconds, she crawled out from under the bed like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Mommy's here. Same thing. I heard her crawl under right after lights out. The soft thud of her knees and hands against the floorboards. The shift of the mattress as she settled in. I was too little to really question it. I thought maybe it was just a game she liked to play. But the older I got, the more I realized, it wasn't a game.

It became a routine. Tuck me in like normal. Turn off the light. Single night. She started doing little things. She would tap on the wood under my mattress in these odd rhythms. Three taps, then two, then four. Sometimes it sounded almost like a song.

Other times like random patterns. If I moved or sat up, she'd stop until I lay back down. A couple times, I caught her from the foot of the bed. My eyes on me. There she was. Her face just visible in the dark, glinting in the faint light from the hall. No expression. Just watching.

Stop sleeping well. Stiff under the covers too afraid to move or call for her. If I tried to leave the bed, she'd grab my ankle. Not hard. Just enough to stop me. She'd giggle again. same soft weird How do you explain something like that when you're a kid?

It wasn't every night that something scary happened. Some night she'd just lie there quietly. I'd hear her whispering to herself sometimes. Words I couldn't make out, soft and steady, like she was talking to someone I couldn't hear. This went on for years. During the day, she was totally normal. Made my lunch, help with homework, joked with me, hugged me.

I remember trying to work up the courage to ask her about it once when I was around 10. Mom, why do you sleep under my bed? Oh, buddy, I don't do that. You must be having silly dreams. But that night, she was there again, was louder. I stopped looking under the bed. I started sleeping on the couch. when I could get away with it.

Eventually when I turned 11, she told me I was old enough to have a lock on my door. She never came back into my room. Know why she did it. Know what changed. She passed away when I was 23. Cancer. Last week's, she was confused a lot of the time drifting in and out.

I was sitting by her bed. She grabbed my wrist and said very clearly, I kept you safe, you know. You were never alone. I still don't understand what she meant. 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. 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. 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, our best customer. The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings, Lot 084. My mom used to hide under my bed.

written by King Crimson Zero, narrated by Conan Freeman, featuring Jessica McAvoy as mom, Jade Shand and Everchand as the boy. I was sent to investigate a missing child, written by Stanzo, narrated by Trevor Shand, featuring Amalie Brown as Abigail, Sarah Golding as Mags Willoughby, 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, Vivek Abyshech, Clement Panchout, and Red Light Chill. 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.