The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 090 : My Name Isn’t Judy // My Daughter’s Imaginary Boyfriend

Episode Date: August 13, 2025

**Unsought Goods; https://www.tempomeals.com/sinisterMy Name Isn’t JudyWritten by Quincy LeeJessica McEvoy as ClaireTrevor Shand as RickyAdditional voices by Scarlett Shand My Daughter’s Imaginary BoyfriendWritten by Top_Gain2728Trevor Shand as The FatherJade Shand as LillyVisit Rezbir Creepypasta on youtube for more 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 Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This lot contains disturbing content involving a family pet and graphic horror elements. Customer discretion is advised. Ah, there you are. I was wondering when you'd wander in. There's different when you're about to arrive. Like the shop knows before I do. Here, step closer. In this case, on the black velvet, a dog collar, red leather, brass tass,

stamped gaudy it's older than it looks the leather is cracked the whole stretched like something fought against them the tag well if you run your thumb across the engraving it feels deeper than it should the woman who brought it in she didn't give me much more than a look one of those looks that says don't ask me to tell it again Some things, once you've heard them, stay with you in ways you don't want. This is lot 090, and a tale I call, my name isn't Judy. 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 Shannon P. Lena. Nicole Juntenman. Vincentisrad. Keith Tecklitz. Marvin the mischievous.

Zach Smith. The Crimson Sandwit. and Al Footman. 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.

here, trying not to feel foolish. Too scared to leave my bedroom. I don't know what to do. I'm at my wits end. Please help. My husband is just outside the door and I'm afraid what he'll do if I... God, that sounds like he's a... No. No, let me explain. Ricky and I were on a hiking trip earlier this week. We were winding along a trail deep in a gorge and it was just after sunset, so the gorge was dark with shadows. I never saw anything myself, but Ricky swore he spotted a lost child. Wait, what the fuck? Was that a kid? He went off the path with our dog Gordy. I couldn't keep up. Eventually, he came back, looking anguished. Gordy had apparently run off snarling into the darkness, and he worried our pit bull was going to mull some lost kid out there.

I don't know what's gone into it. Gordy is a good dog most of the time, but he can be aggressive with strangers coming to our home. It wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility for him to bite if he thought we were threatened. Though it seemed odd a child would trigger that response. I pressed my husband for a description of this child, and he admitted he didn't get a good look, but said he thought the kid was naked, and that he mostly thought it was a child because he heard talking. I suggested he may have heard a baby deer or other animal. And wouldn't that be something Gordy would be more likely to chase?

And wouldn't a kid, a talking kid, answer our shouts? He agreed. Even so, we searched a while longer before the twilight became too dark, and we returned to the cabin where we were staying. The next morning, Gordy was back, scratching at the cabin door. We'd lost the spark for hiking, so cut our trip short and drove back home. That's when it all got strange. I have insomnia sometimes.

So I stay downstairs watching TV while Ricky sleeps upstairs. I was on the sofa, glazed over watching some late-night show when I heard talking. I assumed it was Ricky, but I couldn't make out any dissonation. distinct words. I called out and there was no reply. I went back to watching my show, but a while later, heard it start again. So I got up and went into the kitchen. There was a child in our kitchen. Or at least that was my first impression in the dim lighting. But it wasn't a child. It was gorty. Our dog was standing on his hind legs. just standing in the middle of the room.

Shoelaces of drool dribbling from his jaws, and he was making these grunting sounds. He stopped the moment I came in, and he was back on all fours again, looking at me. When I told Ricky, he said I must have been seeing things. But I'm telling you, the dog was on his hind legs,

trying to talk. Next morning, Ricky kept teasing me about Gordy and saying stuff to our dog like, Hey, Gordy, grab me a cup of coffee, would you? Actually, can you answer the phone for me, Gordy? Gordy would just stare at him. Honestly, he was still acting a little strange, but after Ricky's teasing, I was done worrying about the dog,

so I left for work. I was on lunch break when I got the texts from Ricky. Seriously, wrong. He's making all sorts of fucked up noises. I think maybe he's got mange or something. He's losing some skin. on my way to the vet I called

but Ricky never talked on the phone while driving so it didn't surprise me it went to voicemail I texted him to call me after he got to the vet after work I checked my phone Ricky hadn't texted on my drive home I tried calling multiple times to no answer Ricky was not home

most vets closed by 6 p.m. so where was my husband I checked his location on my phone, and to my surprise, he wasn't far at all, maybe ten minutes away. So I drove out there. It was on a country road, the route we take to the emergency vet. And at first, I didn't see his car anywhere. I finally found it when I noticed some of the grass flattened beside the road, and that his car had veered off into a ditch. By now, the sun was setting.

I noticed the driver door open and muddy foot. Prince. Ricky's phone was in the passenger seat. I followed the tracks, but they vanished in the grass, and I walked around, calling for Ricky, and stopped when I found Gordy. What was left of Gordy? I should have taken a picture, but I was so distressed. It was our Gordy, but it was like something had split him in half, like those pig carcasses, you see, hanging from meat hooks. at slaughterhouses. I could count his ribs. I called the cops.

They came out and examined the scene of the accident, but after looking at the footprints, concluded it was only Ricky who'd been out here. They seemed to suspect my husband must have done this to Gordy. Even though I told them, Ricky had been on the way to the vet. I started to tell them about Gordy's weird behavior the night before, but that really made them skeptical.

I wanted them to go full crime scene and tape off the area and take photos. But apparently that kind of investigation is not done for dead dogs. When I came home, I was exhausted and upset. I saw lights on in the house. Relief washed over me because that meant Ricky was home. But when I opened the front door, the first thing I noticed was the dirt tracked inside.

Ricky and I always remove our shoes when entering. Also, I could hear you. him talking, but it was just like Gordy the other night. Talking, but not talking. These odd syllables, like someone mimicking the act of talking. All of this chilled me to the bone as I crept around the corner so I could see him in the den, standing there, unnaturally stiff and straight, sort of swaying. Honey? The gibberish immediately ceased. His head turned and I swear, it was like he reached up and faded his skin over his face, like a sticker that has started to peel at the corner,

and that he smoothed back into place. I heard him say, very clearly this time, I ran upstairs to our bedroom and slammed the door and locked it. I could hear him roaming around outside. Occasionally, he called for me. I'd dropped my phone in the hallway. I was too scared to go and grab it. Instead, I stayed hidden up here, listening to the sound of the TV downstairs.

At one point, the news anchor said, Reports of Sunny Weather coming up. And I heard Ricky's voice, clear and distinct. Sunny Weather coming up. Reports of sunny weather coming up! Every so often, he came up to try a new phrase on me. The last time he came upstairs, I was sobbing and yelled through the door. What about Gordy?

What the fuck happened to Gordy? Gordy's fine, honey. Gordy is just fine. Everything's okay now. I'm feeling so much better. You should probably let me in, honey. My name's not honey. Call me by my name.

You know my name. It's Judy. Open the door, Judy, honey. Judy, open the door. Come on. I just want to give you a hug. But my name's not Judy either. It's clear.

Judy is his mother's name. Whatever is down there wearing my husband's face. It's far, far too clever, the way it tried to quickly reassure me. And I know I have to call the police and tell them something's wrong. And that if they interview him, they'll see he won't be able to answer correctly. They'll realize something. Something's not right. I finally managed to creep out and grab my phone and sneak back in while he was still watching television.

But now I'm terrified. Because right after I scurried back in and locked the door, he came up. They must have heard me. And he knocked. Honey. Honey, open up. Everything's fine.

Claire, honey. What's different to you? Open the door, Claire. Open the fucking door! Ah, excuse me a moment. Don't move from this spot. Someone's at the side door, and I wasn't expecting a delivery today. I'll be right back.

Leave a message. Please do so with the town and have a great... I bought the dress from your shop. All I wanted to do is be beautiful for my husband, but when I put the dress on, it made me do things. I didn't want him to look at another woman, dabbed his eyes out. All right. I apologize if I'm a tad shaken up,

because when I stepped away, I found this sitting on the stoop outside. No note. Just a manila envelope with my name on it. And inside this, a baby monster. plastic casing scuffed, battery cover missing. But still works. In fact, it remains ever connected to a room that's whereabouts are unknown. No button to speak through, only to hear and to see.

The father who sent it? Well, he didn't say a thing about it, as he can no longer speak. This is the second item in lot 090. A disturbing broadcast titled, My Daughter's Imaginary Boyfriend. I never used to believe in anything beyond what I could see. Religious? Not spiritual.

Not even superstitious. Fix roofs for a living. Drink my coffee black. And fall asleep to old war documentaries on the couch. Simple man. Daughter started talking about her boyfriend. Imaginary. She's seven years old.

Dies. Loves jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The kind of kid who leaves notes in my lunchbox that say... I love you, Dad. With little doodles of stick figures and smiling sons. Her mother died when she was four. Car accident. I was the one who had to tell her.

I remember holding her while she cried. Saying over and over. It's okay, Daddy. I still have a lot. you. So yeah. It's just been us too since then. Until about a month ago. She told me. I was washing dishes after dinner. She sat at the table, swinging her legs, humming something tombless.

Daddy? Yeah, sweetie. Do you want to meet my boyfriend? Your boyfriend? Aren't you a little young for that? He says age doesn't matter. That gave me pause. Wait, um, who's... he Peter She said

Like I was dumb for not knowing He's nice He plays games with me in my room And he says he's gonna marry me when I turn eight I dried my hands and knelt next to her You know Imaginary friends aren't real right She frowned

He is real He just doesn't like when grown-ups see him That night I checked her room before bed Looked under the bed usual parent stuff. Nothing there. Just a few dolls, some drawings,

and her nightlight glowing purple. I kissed her good night. As I closed the door, whispering, I figured it was her playing pretend, but then things started to get. Well, I'd wake up and find her bedroom door wide open. Lights on, stuff moved around.

I once found all her dolls piled in the, bathtub. Their heads turned toward the door like they were waiting for someone. I asked her about it. Peter likes to redecorate. Another night, I heard music playing softly from a room. It was one of those creepy music box lullabies. But the thing is, we don't have a music box. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the corner, smiling. There was nothing there. I asked who she was looking at. Peter's showing me what he looks like.

I asked her to describe him. Really tall. Like, taller than the ceiling. But he bends down to talk to me. Sit right. The drawings were next. It started with one tape to the fridge. Innocent enough.

Crayons, blue sky, green grass, stick figures. At first glance, I thought nothing of it. Lily always drew her and her mom, or her with a princess crown or holding balloons. But this one was different. In the middle stood a small figure. Clearly, Lily, wearing her favorite yellow dress, the one with the bunny on it. She was holding hands with something tall. Much taller than the trees behind them.

The figure was black, not colored black. pressed black. Like she had pressed the crayons so hard the paper had torn in places. It had no face. Just long, stretching fingers reaching from where the hands should be. And its head. A tall, oblong oval with slashes where eyes shouldn't be. There were no clouds in the sky.

No sun. Just red. Streaks hanging from above. Sweetie, who's this? She smiled proudly. That's me and Peter. We're playing outside. And the red lines.

Those are sky scratches. Peter says they happen when he's happy. I found more over the next few days. In her backpack. Under her pillow. One taped inside her closet. Each one, worse than the last.

Peter's standing in her doorway, impossibly thin, with arms that reached the floor. Peter curled up at the foot of her bed, with a mouth stretching across his entire chest. You're floating outside my window, staring in, the one that shook me the most. She drew my room, and it was exact.

Down to the crooked lamp on my nightstand and the crack on the ceiling. Picture. I was asleep and standing over me was Peter. His hand inches from my face. His head tilted unnaturally far to the left. And in the top corner... Peter says he likes you.

Written in her uneven handwriting. I asked her gently. Lily, why did you draw that one of me sleeping? She didn't even look up from her mashed potatoes. He told me to. Why does he want you to draw him? He likes pictures. He says they make things realer.

And he thinks he looks silly when you snore. I felt cold, my grave. Every creek of the house made me twitch. I left the hallway light on like I was the kid now. At 3.12 a.m., I woke with a start. No dream. Just woke like something whispered in my ear. The air fell off.

stale. I sat up. The bedroom door was wide open. I never sleep with it open. I stared at the doorway, heart hammering. Darkness seemed thicker out there. Not just absence of light, just barely. I thought I saw something long and tall slip out of view, as if it had been standing there a second before. I tried to be rational. I even considered taking her to a child psychologist. But then she stopped eating. Stopped playing. Just sat in her room.

I started recording her at night. Set up an old baby monitor with motion detection. I didn't expect to catch anything. I wanted proof nothing was happening. I wish I hadn't looked at 244 a.m. Her door opened by itself. No wind, slowly, slid off the bed. She didn't wake up.

Something moved by the foot of her bed, quite visible. Just shadows, so was her bed. But she was there, curled up in the corner, eyes wide open, whispering. To the inside out, please. I couldn't get her to explain. He just kept saying the same thing. Peter has a place, no skin, no sound, no time. I told her Peter had to go.

He doesn't like when people say he's not real. That's when he gets messy. I started burning the drawings. Threw away the nightlight. Put salt at her window like some old superstition. I was desperate. That night. I heard Lily talking again.

I stood outside her door, listened. Her voice was shaky. I'll be good. Don't hurt, Daddy. I threw the door open. No one was there but her. She looked at me with tear-street cheeks. He doesn't like you anymore. The final straw came three nights ago.

I was asleep on the couch. I woke to the sound. of humming. Lily's voice, and she was standing on the ceiling, upside down. Like gravity didn't apply. Eyes were rolled back, and she was humming a song I didn't recognize. Behind her, in the shadows near the corner. Something tall would just watch.

Held her. She whispered in my ear. He says you saw him now you have to. I'm writing this from a motel. I packed our bags, grabbed Lily, and left that house. She hasn't spoken since. Stares at me. Sometimes smiles in her sleep.

Sometimes whispers in a voice that doesn't sound like hers. I thought imaginary friends went away. I thought kids grew out of them. Peter's real. I think he's older than anything we understand. 40 years. He turns eight, she says. 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, you're not, if you're, you're, if you're 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, Lod090. My daughter's imaginary boyfriend, written by Top Gain 2728, featuring Trevor Shand as the following. author, Jade Shand, as Lily. Visit Resberg Creepasta on YouTube for more. My name isn't Judy, written by Quincy Lee, featuring Jessica McAvoy as Claire, Trevor Shand, as Ricky. Additional voices by Scarlet Shand, 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, Nicholas Redding, and Conan Freeman.

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.