The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 101 : You Have 1 New Friend Request // The Prank

Episode Date: November 11, 2025

Lot 101 : You Have 1 New Friend Request // The Prank You Have 1 New Friend Request Consigned by: Blair Daniels Starring Michelle Weiser https://www.reddit.com/r/blairdaniels/comments/1ons4r5/you_have_1_new_friend_request/ The Prank Consigned by: Quincy Lee Starring April ConsaloAdditional voices by Lauren Shand, Shelby Novak and Trevor Shand https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1nyot0n/my_friend_died_in_a_horrible_prank_i_wish_i_never/ 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.

I equals W. Hmm, careful there. Mind the threshold. It sticks when the weather fidgets. Now, may I tempt you with something newly arrived? A modest thing, but unsettling in its modesty. Have a look. A photograph.

An honest-to-goodness film print. The kind you'd have collected at the drugstore. Glossy from the drying rack. No name on the back, no date. And yet, it has a habit of feeling familiar to those who handle it. Do study it closely, though not for too long. We've been told it tends to invite attention. This one's called, You Have One New Friend Request.

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 Yee. Yee. Zhang, Rex, Nicole DeBase, Adam Hoekstra, Amaya Nix, Jerry Gerald's, Michael G4.8 and Tristan Fertl. 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. You have one new friend request. I don't know when Facebook introduced the feature. Friend suggestions, it used to be called.

But now it's people you may know. A bunch of Facebook profiles suggested to you to add as friends. Usually people who have mutual friends with you or someone you've searched for in the past. What creeps me out is how accurate it is. It's clearly taking time. data from somewhere, because it's suggested people to me that I've only ever interacted with in real life, the woman that cuts my hair, or the guy who does my taxes at H&R Block.

Sometimes, though, it really is a random person that Facebook thinks I know for some reason. That's what happened on Thursday evening. A new friend's suggestion. A.R. Winters. No mutual friends. No apparent. connection to me. But this one caught my eye for a few reasons. First, the photo was of poor quality.

It looked like a photo from the 90s. Something that had been developed on real film and then scanned or photographed. Second, it had been taken from far away. The man, or possibly woman, was wearing dark clothing, standing against a tree so far away I couldn't make out their face. It didn't occur to me until just then. But generally, profile pictures aren't taken from that far away, unless they're traveling and showing off some landmark.

But this person was just leaning against a dead tree. Out of curiosity, I clicked their profile. All their info was hidden, though. No cover picture. No other profile. pictures, know about me info. The next time I loaded Facebook, he wasn't a suggested friend anymore. It was just the usual never-ending wheel of 30-something women that had a smattering of mutual friends with me. So I forgot about it for a few days, until they popped up again. People you may know.

A.R. Winters. The same photo of them leaning against the dead tree. Or was it? As I stared at the photo, I realized they were standing straight up. No longer leaning. I shook my head. They were so far away. How could I tell whether they were leaning on the tree or just standing underneath it? Later that night, I checked Facebook again.

People you may know. A.R. Winters. One mutual friend. I froze. A. R. friend? The mutual friend was some girl I went to high school with. I didn't know her well. We'd been close in the eighth grade, but then she'd started hanging out with the more popular girls, and we lost touch. Still Facebook friends, though, because I never went through my list of

2,000 plus people and pruned some off. It didn't say he had a mutual friend with her before, so they just became Facebook friends. Like, today, this evening. Maybe there's someone from our school. Maybe they just joined Facebook for the first time now. Or maybe they lost the password to their old account and are creating a new one. A few more days passed, and I didn't see A.R. Winters show up in my feed. But then, on Saturday night, there they were. People you may know. A.R. Winters. Three mutual friends. Not one. One. Three.

And the photo was definitely different. It was still the dead tree, the overcast sky. Everything looked exactly the same, except the person. They weren't against the tree anymore. They'd taken a few steps closer to the photographer. They appeared to be a woman, tall and pale, dressed in a flowy, black shirt and long black pants. Wavy, long, dark hair parted neatly on the left side.

Because of the film quality, I still couldn't make out there her face. Is she? I glanced at our mutual friends. One was a guy I had chemistry lab with in college, and the other... No. The other was our English teacher, Mrs. Flowers. She'd been the teacher, mentor of our literature club, and she'd been dead for five years. I sat there, staring at the screen, all of it slowly sinking in.

Her account can't even accept new friend requests. Why would this random person friend request her anyway? A horrible, creeping dread tugged at the back of my mind. I clicked on the other two mutual friends, Jessica Marie and Michael, scrolled down their timelines and It also passed away. Their timelines were scattered with messages like, I miss you and two years since you've been here. Quick Google searches showed that Jessica Marie died in 2020,

from complications with COVID, and Michael had died in 2023 in a motorcycle accident. I clicked back to my feed, to the friend's suggestions, to AR's profile. She was standing closer, much closer. Her face was pale, almost pure white. Like all the blood had been sucked out of it. Her eyes were dark, pupil and Iris indistinguishable, and they seemed too big for her eyes.

She had no eyebrows. Her long, dark hair twisted around her. As if there was a terrible wind, I jumped. There was a little red one over the bell icon. A.R. Winters sent you a friend request. My hands began to shake. I stared at the two buttons. Confirm. Cancel.

I clicked cancel. Closed out of the window, slammed the laptop shut. I sat there in the dark, panting. Sweat covered my arms. I felt like I couldn't breathe. Calm down. It's obviously just some stupid prank. The photo's probably not even real.

AI. I pushed out a breath and got up. Put on my hoodie. Left the apartment and went for a walk. I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked along the walking trail at the local park. My breath came out in clouds of mist. I shivered. It was almost dusk and the street lamps glowed across the road.

Orange amber. Then I stopped. I'd never noticed it before. At the edge of the park, There was a big oak tree, barren of leaves now. But it looked... It looked just like the tree in A.R. Winter's photo. A million trees look like that.

Stop it. As I stood there, staring, something peeked out from behind it. White face, dark, flowy clothing, barely visible in the dying light. But I knew it was her. I knew it was her. I ran back home, locked my apartment door, opened the laptop. Went to Facebook. A.R. Winters sent you a friend request.

The profile photo. Her face filled the entire photo. Right up against the screen. Like she was staring right at me. And maybe it's just the stress. But I feel sick. Really sick. I've thrown up twice.

in the past half hour. My stomach hurts so much more than I ever remember it hurting before. And I can't help but think. Forgive me just a moment. Something's just come in through the back. Related to this lot, I'm told?

Or at least, bound to it in spirit. Let me see what the porter's dragged in. We'll continue shortly. The message. I'm so tired. I don't want to so many times. I don't even think I have a job anymore. Bave, I don't want to sleep. I thought that I bought from your shop.

It's so comfortable. It's out of the bed. It's a part of me now. I think it's my blood, my tissue. It's a part of me now. You for your patience. It seems Lot 101 is not a solitary affair after all. A second piece arrived, unexpected but fitting. A large suitcase, scuffed, older than it ought to be.

And if you look closely near the zipper there, hmm. A few strands of hair caught and left behind. No one has yet claimed it. No one, I suspect, ever will. Now then, shall we? The worst deaths, in my opinion, are accidental. I read last week about a mother who rolled onto her newborn and suffocated it.

Every year, toddlers die from being left in hot cars. And then you hear stories of kids playing games, like one boy who hid in an unplugged freezer and suffocated to death during hide-and-seek. You imagine? You imagine being the person responsible in any of these situations. To me, this is so much more terrifying than the prospect of the paranormal. I'd much rather be haunted by a ghost than by guilt over unintentionally hurting someone. My husband Wade is the opposite.

He's unbothered by accidents, but petrified of horror movies about demons or vengeful ghosts. But as I told him, none of those things are real, so why be scared? He counters that accidents are without malice, therefore not as scary as murderous ghosts that might be real. I guess he has a point about the lack of malice, not about ghosts that might be real. I know they're not, because if they were, my best friend would definitely be haunting me.

I guess in some ways, she is. You see, whenever I read about a prank gone wrong, I stop breathing for a moment. I'm choked by guilt. After all these years, I still don't know if it was my fault. I was never charged, and my friends insist that I need to stop blaming myself. But how can I? How can I move on, not knowing if it's because of me?

Rosa got into the suitcase on her own. Lakeisha and I helped her. We were all drunk, giggling. She was supposed to surprise Bolin. She had a huge crush on him. Let me back up. Let me try to explain. We were at a party. Our friend group had been together for years, and we rented out this lodge. Me, my husband Wade, who back then was just my crush. his buddies Bolin and Tucker and J.B. And the girls, who are my besties,

Lakeisha and Rosa and Kay. There were also some other friends who stopped by who we'd met earlier in the day while hiking. I can't remember their names anymore. What I do remember is that we all had a lot to drink. And Rosa, she was in her flirty face. Rosa was my best friend, but she wasn't perfect. She was like a butterfly who sips from every flower.

a real heartbreaker, beautiful and passionate. I was a little bit jealous of the attention she had, and also kind of in awe of her. Whoever she was with fell hard, like she was the love of their life, but she never committed. She'd been on again, off again with J.B., then seduced Wade,

which was kind of bitchy because she knew I had a crush on him. She even flirted with bisexuality with Kay. Now her eyes were on Bolin. I forget whose idea it was for her to hide, in the suitcase. Mine or hers. All the luggage was in the basement, because that's where the boys had put it when we'd arrived to the lodge. Lakeisha had said something like...

Boland's suitcase is big enough to hide a body. And that's when Rosa, or me, had the idea she'd hide in it. And Rosa decided to spice up the prank by wearing lingerie. When Boland took the suitcase up to his room and opened it, he'd find a sexy surprise. We were stupid. Stupid. Stupid. None of us had good judgment,

especially since we were tipsy. We dumped out Boland's clothes, and while I snuck them upstairs and into his closet, Lakeisha helped Rosa get into the suitcase. When I came back downstairs, I heard Rosa inside whining about her hair being stuck in the zipper and about the suitcase being cold. So we unzipped her,

and she put on a pink cardigan over the lingerie and was careful to keep her hair clear this time as I zipped her in. As we left, we heard the suitcase giggle and say, Hurry up. This thing's stuffy. Lekeisha and I badgered the boys to bring everyone's bags to their rooms. I remember Boland delivered mine. I was staying outside in a tent with Kay since the lodge didn't have enough bedrooms for everybody, and I wanted to sleep under the stars.

Kay had no idea about the prank and was confused when I kept urging Boland to go inside and check his bag, wink-quink. After he left, I told her about Rosa. And because Kay was actually sober, she told me to go make sure Rosa wasn't actually stuck in there. So I checked to make sure the suitcase wasn't still at the bottom of the stairs. At least, I think I checked. Like, I really think I checked, but I was drunk. All of us were sitting outside watching fireworks later.

I noticed Bolin missing and asked Wade where he went. Bolin had gone up to his room early. Since he hadn't come back, Lakeisha and I assumed Rosa was in there with him and that her lingerie stunt had worked. In fact, Lakeisha and I were whispering about it all evening, quietly, so it was not to make any of the boys jealous. In the morning, when Boland came down, we asked him about last night, all smirks.

He looked clueless. Then, Lakeisha asked where Rosa was, and he was still clueless. But what about his suitcase? Hadn't he opened it? He said someone had shoved all his clothes into the closet in a pile. He wasn't sure why. He assumed he was being pranked or something and hadn't seen his suitcase. So you never opened it? Dread bloomed in my belly.

Oh God. Oh God, oh God. Lakeisha was telling him how Rosa had hidden inside, hoping to surprise him in her lingerie. And Boland blushed and said he was gay. Gay? But his coming out to us hardly even registered because where was Rosa? None of us knew. We quickly went to wake everyone else up, hoping someone

had seen her last night. Oh God, oh God, I checked. Didn't I check? I swear, I checked. Prayers ran through my head. But I was drunk. I wasn't sure if I really had. I went downstairs to the basement, and there was the suitcase, still tucked away at the bottom of the stairs. It was exactly where we'd left it when we'd set to Rosa inside the night before. Nobody wanted to open the suitcase. The boys argued about who had left. left it there. J.B. said he'd lifted it, but noticed how heavy it was and asked someone else to take it. Each of them had thought another of the guys was going to grab it. Boland didn't think to check because he found his clothes piled in the closet. I had a shame to say I went outside when Lakeisha

reached for the zipper. Wade came out and joined me. He told me dead bodies, gore, things like that scared him. While the others checked the contents of the suitcase, Wade and I sat outside. As we heard the gasps and whispers of, oh God, his fingers gripped mine tightly, and I put my head in my hands and sobbed. She'd suffocated, of course, but it had taken a long time. The police wondered why none of us had heard her gasping for help, but Kay sheepishly told him about the fireworks. A prank gone wrong, authorities ruled.

My friends said then and still say now that ultimately, Rosa was the one most responsible for her own misfortune. that she'd made her own decisions, that all of us were a little guilty, but none of us was wholly responsible for a tragic accident. It was my hand that closed the zipper. I've lain in bed thinking about her,

gasping for air. Why didn't she scream? Why don't we hear any muffled shouts? I imagine her, squeeze into the darkness while her pleas for help go unanswered, and I can't breathe. The real reason I'm sharing this

is because this morning I saw a story in the news about a woman in her underwear found strangled on the beach. The smiling photo of her they showed above the headline was of a beautiful young woman wearing pink. My husband switched away from the reporting

and when I asked why he looked surprised and said that he thought it might trigger me. Why? It wasn't a prank. I thought it might remind you of Rosa, the pink sweater, the lingerie. I suppose that aspect was similar. to be honest, I hadn't thought of Rosa in such a long time.

I'd almost forgotten the details. But now, now I think about the gossip that went around afterward. How it traveled in whispers, even beyond her friend group, that she died in her lingerie as part of a prank for the boy she had a crush on. It was the only thing most people knew about her. Later, Rosa's death became a taboo subject among me and my friends. Almost like she'd never been with us at all.

We all silently agreed to forget her. But the more I think of that report on the news, the more I'm getting that feeling from that day, that top of the stairs feeling. Like I'm looking down and seeing something I don't want to see. That, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, sense of impending dread. And I'm about to be sick.

Because Wade dated Rosa once and loved her. And I'm more and more certain I look down the stairs. before the fireworks and there was no suitcase there. And now I'm wondering, if Wade never saw what was in the suitcase, never picked it up or opened it or moved it, and the only thing everyone remembered or discussed or knew about her was that she died in her lingerie.

How did he know about the pink cardigan? 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 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 101, The Prank. Consigned by Quincy Lee, starring April Consolo. Additional voices by Lauren Shand, Shelby Novak, and Trevor Shand. You have one new friend request. Consigned by Blair Daniels,

starring Michelle Wiser, 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.