The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 096 : Dose

Episode Date: October 11, 2025

Lot 096 : DoseA Company Sent Me A Cure For My Father’s Grief…Written by Frank Gamalhttps://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1njm3pq/a_company_sent_me_a_cure_for_my_fathers_grief/ Starring April Consalo as LeanneMark LaPointe as MikeFiona Thraille as The RepresentativeDee Quintero as The Message Featuring Stephen Knowles as The Antique Dealer Theme music by The Newton Brothers Additional music byCO.AG ([e-mail]) Vivek Abhishek SUBSCRIBE 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.

W equals D. Ah, there you are. Welcome back. You've caught me in the middle of cataloguing a new arrival, something that still carries a bit of scent if you lean close. A small perfume bottle, violet glass with a silver sprayer. No maker's mark.

No label. And? No, best not to try it. Whatever fragrance remains has a way of stirring what ought to rest. It was sent to us by a woman who said it once brought comfort to someone who'd forgotten how to feel. Her note didn't say whether that comfort lasted. Here's her account. Lot 096.

Dose. 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 Lauren Gamboa, Sarah Chattolomna, Kat Meert,

Mahaji Gillespie, Georgia Haynes, Woe, Ash, sorrow, Fira Ult, and Amber Said. 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 Antibson. Aquarium of sinister happenings and odd goings on. Sent me a cure for my father's grief. When the bottle ran out, their final automated message told me to kill him. My life has been on hold for a year. A year ago, I was supposed to be moving out, starting my own life.

I had an apartment lined up, a job waiting. Then my mother died. And my world, along with my father's, simply stopped. She was the sun in his sky. They were one of those couples you see in old movies, completely utterly devoted to each other. When she died suddenly from an aneurysm, the light just went out of him.

Brief was a physical thing, a crushing, heavy blanket that smothered our entire house. At first, it was what you'd expect. Crying, a refusal to talk about her or an inability to talk about anything else. He stopped going to work. He stopped seeing his friends. I made the decision to stay.

I couldn't leave him like that. He was my dad. I put my own life on pause, telling myself it would just be for a few months until he got back on his feet. But he never did. The grief didn't lessen. It plasticized.

It started with him not eating. He'd just pushed the food around his plate. Then he stopped getting out of bed. The vibrant, strong man who had taught me how to ride a bike and build a bookshelf was replaced by a hollow-eyed ghost who just laid there

staring at the ceiling, wasting away. We went to doctors, so many doctors. They ran every test imaginable. Physically, they said he was fine. There was nothing wrong with him. It's psychological. One of them told me, with a detached

clinical sympathy. Severe prolonged grief reaction. He needs therapy, maybe medication. We tried that. The therapist would come to the house, and my dad would just stare at them, his eyes empty, refusing to speak a single word.

He wouldn't take the pills. He was just giving up. He was letting himself die, following her into the dark. It's been a year now. He's a skeleton, a fragile collection of bones under a thin, papery skin.

He gets his nutrients through an IV drip that I learned how to set up myself. He hasn't spoken a word in six months. I spend my days changing his sheets, cleaning him, watching his chest rise and fall with shallow, ragged breaths, and just waiting. Waiting for the end. My own life has become a ghost, a half-remembered dream of a future I was supposed to have.

Then, three weeks ago, the phone rang. It was a private number. I almost didn't answer. Hello? Morning. Am I speaking with the caretaker of Mike Davis? A cold knot of unease tightened in my stomach. Who is this? I'm calling from a private biomedical research firm.

We specialize in unique solutions for profound psychological trauma. We've been reviewing your father's medical case, and we believe we can help. My dad's medical records? That's private. How the hell do you even have that? That is not okay. I'm reporting you.

I understand your concern, and I do apologize for the unorthodox nature of this call. Our methods of data acquisition are proprietary. But please, before you hang up, just consider your father. The prognosis is not good, is it? The doctors have given up. They're just managing his decline.

He's going to die. You know that. We are offering you a chance. A cure. Her words cut through my anger like a scalpel. She was right. He was dying. I was just his hospice nurse waiting for the inevitable kind of cure.

Our treatment is based on the principle of sensory anger. We believe that in cases of extreme grief, the psyche becomes untethered. It needs a familiar, powerful anchor to pull it back to reality. We can create that anchor. And as our treatment is still in the final trial phase, we would be happy to provide it to you completely free of charge. Free. A cure. It sounded too good to be true.

It sounded like a scam. sounded like a scam, but I looked at the doorway at the skeletal figure lying still and silent in the dim light of the bedroom, and the desperation of feeling I'd been living with for so long won out over my skepticism. What do I have to do? It's a very simple process. We just need a biological sample from the object of his grief, your mother. Something she had close contact with, something that would retain a strong personal essence. A hairbrush is ideal. A piece of well-worn jewelry.

A favorite article of clothing. It was morbid. It was ghoulish. But I was beyond caring. And what do I do with it? She gave me an address, a PO box in another state, and told me to mail the item there. That was it.

Once we receive the sample, we can synthesize. the anchor. You should receive the treatment within a week. Hmm. Even seal that scent does travel. I should open a window before it finds something to cling to. Leave a message, please do so with the tone and have a great day. I just wanted to play my guitar and in front of people. I didn't want the thing. I didn't need money. I just wanted to play my guitar and in front of people. I didn't want fame. I didn't need money. I just wanted to. to be able to play my music in front of people. The guitar I bought from your shop was beautiful. It spoke to me. It called to me.

It promised me this. It promised me these things I wanted, so I bought it, and it worked. I played, and people came, and people clapped, and sang with me, and the joy was overwhelming. It was beautiful, but That was four nights ago, and I haven't been able to stop playing.

My hands, what's left to them is blood. Blood, so much blood, I can't stop. I can't stop. That's better. Though it's funny, the air feels sweeter, doesn't it? Or perhaps that's just suggestion.

Either way, Hey, let's get back to the matter of lot 96. Shall we? It was morbid. It was ghoulish, but I was beyond caring. And what do I do with it? She gave me an address, a PO box in another state, and told me to mail the item there.

That was it. Once we receive the sample, we can synthesize the anchor. You should receive the treatment within a week. That night, I went into my mother's closet for the first time since she died. I had kept her room exactly as she had left it, a perfect heartbreaking time capsule. The air was thick with her scent, a faint mix of her favorite perfume and something that was just... I opened her jewelry box. On the top, lying on a bed of velvet was her old silver-backed hairbrush. I could still see a few of her long, dark hairs tangled in the bristles.

My hand was shaking as I picked it up. It felt like a grave desecration. I put it in a padded envelope and mailed it the next day. A week later, a small unmarked cardboard box arrived. There was no return address. Inside, nestled in a bed of black foam, was a single, small, elegant perfume bottle. It was made of a dark, violet-colored glass with a simple silver atomizer. There was no label. Tucked alongside it was a small folded piece of paper with a single line of instructions, printed in a clean, sterile,

font, administer one spray into the air near the subject once per day. That was it. I opened the bottle, my curiosity overriding my unease. I sprayed a tiny amount onto my wrist. The scent that bloomed in the air was beautiful. It was a complex floral with notes I couldn't quite place, and underneath it, there was something else. A warmth, a softness, a scent that was a scent that would was so deeply, achingly familiar, it made my chest tighten. It was my mother. It wasn't just her perfume. It was her. The scent of her skin after she'd been working in the garden, the faint smell of the vanilla she used in her baking, the very essence of her presence. It was all there, perfectly, impossibly recreated in this little bottle. It was a liquid memory. I went into

my father's room. He was lying there, the same as always, his eyes open but seeing nothing. I held the bottle a few feet from his face, and with a trembling hand, I pressed the atomizer. A fine, fragrant mist settled in the air around him, and his eyes focused. It happened instantly. The vacant, empty stare was gone. His eyes, for the first time in a year, locked onto mine. a flicker of recognition. He took a breath, a deep, rattling breath that was stronger than any I had heard him take in months. Tears streamed down my face. I couldn't speak.

I just nodded. I had a terrible dream. Where's your mother? It was the most painful question he could have asked. But it was a question. He was back. The next few weeks were a miracle, a resurrection. Every morning I would give him a single spray of the perfume, and every day he got stronger.

He started eating solid food again. He sat up, he started walking at first with a walker, then on his own. The color returned to his face. He gained weight. The hollow-eyed ghost was gone. He cried. He apologized over and over for the year I had lost, for the burden he had been. We talked.

we mourned my mother together properly for the first time. Our house, which had been a tomb, was filled with life again. I was so full of a profound, grateful joy. The strange company, the ghoulish methods, it didn't matter. They had given me my father back. But as the initial euphoria faded, I started to notice the new routine that had formed. The perfume was the linchpin of his existence. He couldn't function without it.

He would wake up in the morning, groggy and disoriented, his eyes holding a trace of that old, vacant look. He would be listless, confused. Then I would administer the spray. The effect was immediate. His eyes would clear, his posture would straighten, and he would be himself again. It was like winding up a clockworked man every morning. He was completely, utterly dependent on it. It was an addiction, but it was a little.

It was a life-saving one, or so I thought. Yesterday morning, I picked up the bottle. It felt light. I gave it a shake. It was almost empty. There was maybe one, two sprays left. A cold, hard knot of panic formed in my stomach. I had tried calling the company's number before just to thank them, but it had always

got into a disconnected tone. I gave my dad his morning spray. I had to tell him. The, the medicine, it's almost gone. The color drained from his face. The cheerful, recovered man I had been living with for the past month vanished, replaced by a stranger. His eyes went wide with a raw, animal panic. No, no, I need it. I need her.

It's okay, you're better now. You're strong, you don't need it anymore. You don't understand. He roared, his voice suddenly full of a terrifying strength. I can't lose her again. I can't. He was a different person. This wasn't grief.

This was a raw, desperate, violent need. A junkie's rage. He spent the rest of the day in a state of agitated, paranoid terror, pacing the house, constantly asking me if I'd found more. This morning, I gave him the last spray. He calmed down instantly, but the moment was bittersweet. I knew that in 24 hours, the monster would be back. I spent all day trying the company's number over and over.

Finally, someone picked up. It was a cold, automated female voice. Due to a recent government investigation and a cessation of our operations, this company is now permanently closed. We are no longer able to provide our services or products. Oh, please. If you are a former client and your treatment supply has been depleted, we sincerely apologize for any inconvenience.

we are unable to synthesize any further doses. It has been noted in our late stage trials that discontinuing the treatment can result in acute psychological distress and unpredictable aggressive behavior in the subject. The sensory anchor becomes a psychosomatic necessity. The subject will not recover. Their decline will be rapid and irreversible. We strongly advise you to secure your own safety

If you are unable to contain the subject, our final recommendation is euthanasia. We are sorry for your loss. Have a nice day. I'm writing this now from my bedroom. I have the door barricaded with my dresser. My father is in the living room, or the thing that used to be my father is in the living room. The perfume wore off about an hour ago. I can hear him.

He's destroying the place. I hear the crash of furniture. the shattering of glass, and I hear his voice screaming. He's not screaming my name, he's screaming hers. He's screaming for his wife, for her set, for the anchor that's no longer there. A few minutes ago, he started throwing himself against my bedroom door. The wood is splintering. He's stronger than I could have imagined.

This isn't grief. It's something else. The cure didn't just bring him back. It twisted him into something that cannot live without the object of his grief. The recording's final words are echoing in my head. Our final recommendation is euthanasia. Kill my own father. I don't know what to do.

The police, they'll just see a sick, violent old man. They'll take him to a psychiatric hospital. He could hurt someone. He could hurt himself. He's in so much pain. A pain so much worse than the quiet fading he was in before. Is it the merciful thing to do? The banging on the door is getting louder.

the wood is cracking It's going to get in soon. I don't have much time. 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 position. 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 Zero96. A company sent me a cure from my father's grief, written by Frank Gamal, starring April Consolo as Leanne, Mark LaPoint as Mike, Fiona Thrail as the representative, D. Quintero as the message, 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 and follow us on Instagram and Twitter at Antiquarium Pod. Call the Antiquarium at 646-481-7197.