The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 112 : Harmony Care Home II

Episode Date: February 8, 2026

Lot 112 : Harmony Care Home IIConsigned by Quincy LeeStarring Trevor ShandDee QuinteroMagda ApanowiczMike ThomsShelby Novak**Much obliged for using the Rocket Money and Mint Mobile link below. It lends a helping hand to our little shop, and we’re truly grateful for the support.Rocket Money: http://rocketmoney.com/SINISTERMint Mobile: https://mintmobile.com/SINISTER https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/181a7yh/ i_visited_a_care_home_and_theres_something_wrong/)Featuring Stephen Knowles as The Antique Dealer Theme music by The Newton Brothers Additional music byCO.AG ([e-mail]) Clement Panchout 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.

H equals R. Welcome back. Go on. Come in. Find the step. Now then. Lot 112. A handheld voice recorder.

Plastic housing. Institution issue. Light scuffing along the sides. The battery compartment has been taped shut. It was recovered from a place called Harmony Care Home. Now, what's recorded on it, that's for you to discover. 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 Alex Karen, Ed Gazda, Noelle Banda, Coupo Jimmy, Skiya Wallace, Tired Ghost, Jeremy Bernesh, and Kerry Brown. We are ever appreciative of your devotion to The Order. Go to the obsidian covenant.com to receive the sacrament. Sounds harmless enough, right? Welcome to the antiquarium of sinister happenings and odd goings on.

Old voice recorder used by a staff nurse from Harmony Care Home. And I swear I'd never listen to it before. Her voice notes are mentioned, though. in a series of old Reddit posts I made like two years ago. Posts in which I also tacked on a ciphered message. Trying to communicate in secret with someone, I guess, who was reading them. Here's the second of my Reddit posts. Dated November 22nd, 2023.

Though I don't remember writing any of these words. I wake up. Now, normally I'm not too fussy about her. who I kiss. Ask me about my preferences and I'll tell you. Generally girls, but hey, I'll boink the copy machine if it's warm enough. On this occasion, the smooch is a whisky one. And hey, not my favorite, but if I'm drunk enough, sometimes I'll be surprised while I lock lips with. There's no amount of drunkenness, however, that can explain the moist, fishy surprise that slithers into my mouth and I scream for two reasons. One, sharing my bed is a cat. I do not own a cat.

Number two, the cat has just French kissed me. From the way he yowls like a jilted lover when I fling him, this cat clearly thinks I own affection, which is weird. Since I repeat, I do not own a fucking cat. The weirdness is compounded by the bowl of kibble I kick over as I stumbled to the bathroom to scrub out my mouth, only to find the grit of cat litter under my bare souls. What the fuck?

Did someone break into my shitty little apartment and give me... Check's name tag? Prometheus here? Along with all his cat accoutrements? He rolls his big furry head into my palm while I'm checking his collar. His whole body vibrating. Okay, buddy, cute, but how did... Oh.

This is the moment I notice I've got messages on my phone from someone named Darlene. Darlene's from my old life. Back when I was pulling every scam imaginable from stealing cars to stealing identities. In Darlene's case, I can be... her to send me a bunch of money to help me rescue cats who didn't exist. And based on these texts, Darlene reached out three days ago asking me for help getting Prometheus here to the vet. And apparently, I, Jack the Catfisher, decided to actually become Jack the Cat rescuer. Yep, con man with a heart of gold. That's me. And, uh, okay, looks like I did inflate the vet bill a little

to turn a profit on the reimbursement. Old habits, am I right? Anyway, I'm not sure why I kept her cat for three days, but this fluffy guy's clearly catching feelings, so it's time to take him back to her at Harmony Care Home. It's not until I crest a hill and come in view of a massive brick building covered in vines that a tingle of deja vu creeps into my bones.

Prometheus, and the carrier next to me has gone quiet, dead quiet. When I look in, there is no cat. I squint, angling to peer through the grated door. He has crouched himself as flat as he possibly can. Nothing but an orange rug in too wide and utterly terrified eyes.

I step out of the car. Weird how in my memory this place is a warm and happy glow. Pastels and floral patterns and a smiling darlene in a hokey sequenced sweater, like on her cat rescue Instagram. But now that I'm actually here beneath the faded sign, Harmony Care Home. caring, compassionate, harmonious, senior living. Painted yellow daisy stought the border.

The paint peeling and curling like dead skin. While streaks of black grime render the slogan nearly illegible, the massive brick institution looming just beyond, looks more haunted mansion than senior living center, with vines strangling the crumbling walls, and one wing at the brink of collapse. Its bricks charred and windows shattered. I check my GPS.

Below the Google map, the reviews rave. Five stars. 11 out of 10. Bingo night. Were the reviewers writing about this same place? A chill sinks into my marrow, as I note the address. Checking the mileage reveals, I've done the long drive out here multiple times. When I open the notes app on my phone, I discover that I have literal wheems of research about Harmony Care Home,

very disconcerting research about abused patients, bodies improperly disposed of, and stranger, more disturbing claims. Most of these originate from a voice recorder I apparently swiped, with notes recorded during her rounds by a nurse named Kendra Jones. To my notes, Kendra was dismissed from her position on October 19th due to unprofessional behavior. October 20th, she checked into room 306 as a resident. And as of the past several weeks, she's been listed as a missing person.

Okay. Between my amnesia and the research, this is all sounding fissier than Prometheus's morning breath. The kind of fishy that past experience has taught me better than to mess with. And yet, here I am, clearly messing. Given a series of personal instructions I've written to myself. Stuff like, Jack, write everything before you forget. I don't bother with photos. Camera only records audio.

If Darlene's family and the cops are affected by, I whatever mucked with my memory, no wonder this place is still running despite the egregious violations. I see from my call history that I've contacted the police twice in the past three days. My last set of instructions,

underlined and bolded and dated for today, reads, one, keep your phone recording. Two, find a way to break the illusion. Three, get Darlene. The fuck. I'm sorry, only family may visit, says Lolita, the pretty blonde staffer at the check-in desk. I tried to tell her I'm here with Darlene's cat, hoisting up the carrier with its terrified occupant.

But she interrupts to inform me I'm not welcome after my previous visits, claiming I went poking into residence rooms and that items have gone missing. Her fingers stray toward the phone. Please. Okay. I raised a hand and surrender. But can I at least use the restroom since it was such a long drive? Lolita looks dubious, but points me down the hallway. Thanks, Lolita.

As I start down the hall with Prometheus, I glance back over my shoulder to the wide open common area, packed with old folks smelling around. The air thick with that stale nursing home smell. Everything, from the clatter of coffee cups to the inaudible chatter, seems pretty ordinary. But I can't shake the dread, curdling in my belly,

like spoiled food. A deep, soul-shaking sense of wrongness. As I pass a bookcase with a vase full of dusty silk flowers, I can remember the color of the flowers, but I'm struggling to bring to mind the actual events of my earlier visits. Lolita's probably not lying about things going missing. I've been known to have sticky fingers, but why can't I fucking remember?

I debate trying to sneak up the staircase to Darlene's room. But since I feel Lolita's blue eyes on me, I duck into the men's room. The moment I push open the door, a horrific stink rolls over me. It's this ghastly reek of shit and piss and febrize, all mingling with the buzzing of flies and a whiff of something fetid. Did someone forget to clean the toilet? There's a urinal and a single handicapped stall. I gag. And hold my nose as I set Prometheus's carrier down by the sink.

When I push the stall door, it's locked. Risk a glance down and, yep, someone's in there with trousers around their legs. Only a chill crawls from the roots of my scalp to the, base of my spine, the bottom of the filth splattered porcelain throne, flies, buzz around bare feet. It looks as if all the blood is pooled down there around the ankles. The skin bloated and splitting like an overripe fruit. The toenails, black. And it's like Gerard all over again.

The memories come tumbling back. It seems as if the toilet's occupant died in there. and has been left decomposing for several days. For a second, my thoughts spin on the fight, flight, or freeze dial. It takes a few moments from my racing heart to settle, which is before remembering it's pointless. Yeah, it comes out black. Are the residents actually...

Alive. Should I investigate this guy in the toilet? Um... No. Yeah. I'm not sure where that's... thought came from. I turned to leave. The hairs on my nape stand on end. Uh, yeah? I glance over my shoulder. You, um, you were, uh, you okay in there? Can you hand me a fresh roll? I'm out. There's a toilet paper

roll on a shelf, which I grab. Squat down and look at the space beneath the stall. The legs have not moved. Nothing has moved. There's no hand dropping down by those legs to reach for the paper. And I've never seen legs that shade of purple. That's splotchy on any living human being. Can you hand me the teepee? I mean, pro.

I narrow my eyes at the stall and then roll the paper so it bounces across the floor and perfectly bumps into those purple legs. What are you going to do now, dead guy, maybe ghost? Nothing happens. The man on the toilet seems 100% dead. No sounds at all. Except for the buzzing flies. Move to leave.

There's a figure looming behind me. I scream. But it's just an old man. One of the residents, who ignores me and walks right by and goes to the urine. Then there's the sound of a toilet flushing from inside the stall, rustling, and the slap of bare feet. Why is the dead guy barefoot? The metallic bang of the locks sliding open. I scurry out before the owner of those blotchy legs can thank me for the teepee.

Lowlid is no longer at the front desk, so I swing around to the staircase to head up to Darlene on the second floor. She'll be so glad to see. Ah. Excuse me. That would be the intake line. They don't tend to stop ringing on their own. Just a moment. I won't be long.

Leave a message. ...foria that made me real careful about saying anything out loud. It's a bone bead rosary, dived, like it was made that way on purpose. When someone prays with it, the cross gets a little smaller. It's enough you'd swear you're imagining it. Meanwhile, the beads get heavier, subtle at first. By the third prayer, your wrist knows the difference. I dug up some notes on the last owner, devout guy, said the prayers helped him with his anxiety,

that the weight was grounding. After a while, the crucifix fit comfortably in his mouth. He thought that meant something, so he kept praying. I found him kneeling, stended like he was mid-sleeved. swallow. X-rays showed the beads arranged perfectly down his esophagus. One by one. In order. No choking. It's like the body knew what to do. The rosary was still looped around his wrist. Cross is gone, though. I tried lifting the damn thing, nearly dropped it. Ways more than it should. Look, do you know I'm not religious, so I didn't pray. I didn't even whisper. But I still felt it tugged when I

close the case, like it wanted a turn. If you take it, I'd keep it sealed and off the floor, maybe post a sign about silent contemplation only. This one doesn't care what you believe in. Just that you finish. Anyway, well, you'd appreciate it. Talk soon, brother. You're still with me.

Good. One does grow accustomed to the language of care. It's remarkable how much can be said without ever mentioning a person at all. Shall we? Well, L'Lita's no longer at the front desk, so I swing around to the staircase to head up to Darlene on the second floor. She'll be so glad to see. Of course he's gone when I return to the men's room.

A fucking course! Now, before you berate me over such a rookie mistake, listen, I'd like to see you access the higher functions of your brain when only a wobbly stall door separates you from a putrefying corpse that has just clicked a lock open and is shambling on its rotting bare feet towards you. which I actually believe now is a trick, because when I play back the recording from that encounter on my phone, there is no voice, nor any flushing toilet, or clicking lock.

And when I look in there for Prometheus, the corpse is still on the porcelain throne, as if having never shambled. Losing Prometheus feels like the worst mistake of my life. And not saying a lot because I have made so many mistakes in my life, There was that time during COVID, when I sold reusable N95 masks that were neither reusable nor N95s, or that other time I collected donations for disaster relief, or, you know what, you probably donate a whole list.

It's enough for you to know that carmically, I'm likely to return as a cockroach. And it's because of all these mistakes that at the time seemed a way to make a quick buck. Among other things, I scammed an innocent, sweet old lady named Darlene out of her savings to rescue fake cats. But I also helped rescue her real cat, and I'm hoping to rescue her. And on some level, it's like, if I can make up for the bad shit I've done to one person, if I could do this one good thing, maybe I won't come back at cockroach. Irrational? I mean, yeah, obviously.

But however badly you think of me now, and that list of mistakes was pretty incomplete, not going to lie, you're about to think a whole lot worse. See, none of my previous mistakes hold a candle to the one. one I'm about to make. Oh, telling a lie here would be so much better. Heck with the amnesia, I might even believe it myself. How about it, Jack? Want to wake up tomorrow and like yourself? Want to look in the mirror and see a guy who's made good choices?

Oh, my kidding. I'd never fall for that. Besides, if I'm going to go making some big fuck up, the least I can do is own it. So, what is this mistake, you ask? Well, it all starts out when one of us, Lolita or me, I can't remember which, calls the police. This happens after I've escalated by threatening Lolita that I will burn this shithole to the ground if she doesn't return my cat. She replies with big scared eyes that if I don't calm down, she'll have to summon the nurse to escort me to a quiet room to lie down until I feel better.

Her comment sends my heart ratat-tat-tatting like a machine gun, and even though I know that I'm just one senator away from having my name shuffled from the visitor to the resident list, Oh man, I am a mess. I'm not even on anything, but I feel like I'm all cracked out, and I cannot bring myself down. Fortunately for me, the cops show up before the nurses do. Lolita tearfully tells the police I'm harassing the residents, and I tell them there's a guy on the toilet who is unresponsive. The unresponsive part piques their concern, and I lead them to the men's room, all the while explaining the research I've collected about Harmony Care Home, including Kendra's voice recordings and the missing person report.

As before, the smell just about knocks me over. I cover my nose, and the two officers, a man and a woman wrinkle up their faces. Flies, buzz, wings whirring. The air reeking of methane. A male cop, whose name is Fitzroy, clears his throat and says, Sir, you all right in there? Flies. Purple legs.

Even the toilet paper is still in the exact same position rolled against those legs. Sir? Officer Fitzroy knocks on the stall door. It swings inward. Apparently it wasn't locked very well. He pokes his head in, then quickly ducks out. Sorry, sir. We had reports you might be in some trouble. You okay in there?

Cox his head. Listening. and I check my phone to make sure I'm recording. Officer Fitzroy's head nods and he says, You got it, sir. Sorry for the disturbance. Gives me a hard look and motions me to follow him out. Reprimands me while his partner goes to speak with Lolita. I play the recording back for him,

pointing out how there's only his own voice and nothing from the unresponsive guy, but he just says the microphone didn't pick it up because the guy in the toilet was too far away. Only I'm not even listening anymore because right there on the recording, just after Officer Fitzroy says, sorry for the disturbance,

there comes a soft, pitiful mew. Almost inaudible. We got it, sir. Sorry for the disturbance. My gaze drifts to the front desk, to Lolita, babbling to the female officer, and her eyes meet mine,

and her lips curl up in a smile, and lose it. All terror washes away. And in that void with a fear used to be only a desire to blow everything the fuck up, even if I kamikaze myself in the process. And while normally, I'm both hopelessly self-centered and shamelessly prone to self-preservation,

read cowardly. It doesn't matter anymore how reckless I'm being because I'm going to make them fucking pay. Now, right now, I'm going to break the illusion. I've only got a few minutes while the police finish up their conversation with Lolita. And once they're gone, so is my chance to turn a spotlight on the horrors of Harmony Care Home. Back in the men's room, I pushed the stall door, but it jingles, futilely.

I dropped down to peer under the stall. Body's still there. Tangling with something like this without really knowing how it operates is an easy way to end up dead. or in my previous case, in a coma. And I haven't made a complete study of this place, nor do I have confidence that I know its rules. Even so, I can think of two plausible ways to break the illusion. One is to have the resident attack me and the police intervene.

My hunch is that touch, much more than sight or sound, reveals the truth. That the illusion is mostly for our eyes and ears. The cops already reacted to the smell, after all. And if Officer Fitzroy grabs the same, a rotting corpse during a physical altercation, he'll probably notice the rotting. The other option is, Harmony Care Homes' influence has a limited range. The interference with my cell phone, for example, only extends about a thousand feet from the

building. So, what happens if I bring a resident, or a piece of one, outside the bounds of the care home? I bet if I sent the tow from deadlakes here to the cops for forensic and analysis, the results would be interesting. Might try attention to Harmony Care Home. It'd be hard for it to stay running, that, wouldn't it? The only reason it's still operating is because it's in the authority's blind spot. I slip a knife out of my pocket and reach under the stall,

heart slamming my ribs like a sledgehammer as I growl. Give me back, my fucking cat! The skin is cold and slick like a slab of meat. eat under my grip. Oh my God, the smell. Gagging through the sleeve held over my nose. I slide my knife across that splitting purple foot. Press the blade into the toe, and it squelches and congealed liquid spurs.

A hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. And even knowing this would happen. Duh, inevitable right? Still, I shriek and drop my knife. No! Grabbing that arm and trying to pry myself loose. And it janks me under the stall. No!

No, no, no, no, no! What's going on in here? Booms a voice. And oh God, I've never been more grateful for the popos. I'm slammed up against a tile. The thing on the toilet reaching with its other hand from my neck and, good God, its face. The eyes and lips are gone. Its sockets all flies and maggots and liquefying flesh.

On its wrist is a bracelet and alphabet letters like this sort of gift of grandchild might. make for their aging relative, spelling J-A-C-O-B. I'm pretty sure it's Jacob Mortimer who has me choking under the grip of his rotting fingers. And then Officer Fitzroy is barking. Let him go. Let him go now. And then I'm being lifted. My vision blackening.

I don't even feel myself fly through the air, just the impact as I hit the wall. And my head rings with a bank. Got shots. I'm not even certain. but on the officer's face is horror. Shear horror, and he's shouting. What the fuck? And unloading the entire clip into that body on the toilet

because the illusion is broken. He sees it now. He sees it! And then Jacob Mortimer lunges forward, grabbing him and jamming fingers into his eyes. Oh, my fucking God! I'm screaming and screaming, and then I'm scrambling out of the toilet into the hall,

and pounding down the hallway to the lobby. The second officer, the woman, draws her weapons and radios for both. back up and then rushes to the toilet. Lolita stands at the front desk with her lips and an oh of shock. Hand to her mouth. I think I'm crying. I did not mean to get that officer killed.

I did not. I can't even breathe. Oh God, Jack. Breathe. And then, as I'm finally catching my breath. Cop lady comes out and her face is serene. Like she's relieved. And even laughing a little as she radios and tells the others to forget it.

Jimmy is fine. false alarm It's that same guy in his pranks again Ran in there and screamed apparently And Jimmy thought it was an emergency and rushed in to save him Am I still recording? Record everything She comes over and gives me a stern talking to

Warning me about how pulling any further stunts like this Will be risking arrest And then I need to leave these old folks alone I don't answer Just stare And finally A last ditch effort I ask, can I speak with Officer Fitzroy?

I tell her I want to make a statement to him. She smirks and shakes her head and goes back and enters the men's room again. And I hear her call out to Fitzroy, hoarding Jack. That Jack guy wants to speak with you again. I'll be in the car. And then she leaves. She goes out to her school. squad car. When my heart finally stops racing, a sing-song voice calls out to me from the front desk.

Which one do you want? The horror in my soul deepens, the dread suffusing my body so I can scarcely breathe, scarcely hear her impossible next words. Which one do you want back? The cat or the cop? Which do I? Oh no, I stare at her and can feel myself disassociating. My brain can't process. How could I make a choice like that? How can there be a choice like that? I whisper.

I can't explain, but he's the one thing Darlene loves, and I brought him into danger. And the police, they're sworn to serve, but the cat's just a cat. And I was responsible for him who caught him such a bad person. Such a fucking awful, terrible person. Outside, the cop car pulls out of the parking lot and drives away. She just left. A beams at me. And I scrubbed tears from my face and get up and stumble into the men's room to see what has become of Officer Fitzroy.

Jacob Mortimer's body is gone. There's no one in the stall. My knife is gone from the floor. I find it when my eyes sweet. the bathroom, it's there. In Officer Fitzroy, his body lies against the wall,

mouth open in a scream of horror, face contorted in fear, the knife handle sticking out of his mouth and through his throat, a hand across my lips, step back from the door.

But then that inner voice, whispers, Jack. The knife has your prints. So I grab it by the handle and have to hold his skull to wrench it out. Officer, and hear someone giggling nearby. And whoever he is, he sounds really unhinged. From behind me, a fate. I snatch up Prometheus's carrier.

Back at the car, open the carrier to check him over. Big guy is fine. traumatized, but fine. Squirms when I hug him too hard. You lucky little shit. By any moral measure, the choice I've made is the wrong one. And you know I don't even like cats. But I'm just so relieved to have him back.

Him and his terrible fishy French kisses, I laugh hysterically. And the fluffy guy. The fluffy guy throws back his whiskery face and howls. We're both here, howling. And I laugh so hard, I'm crying. Can't stop. I can't tell which anymore. Crying or fucking laughing.

Thank God for the amnesia. So tomorrow I can wake up and look myself in the mirror and at least until I read this, not know what a fucking asshole I am. 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, only for you, our Best customer. The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings. Lot 112, Harmony Care Home Chapter 2. Consigned by Quincy Lee. Starring Trevor Shand, Magda Apinovich, D. Quintero, Mike Thames, and Shelby Novak. Featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer.

Engineering production and sound design by Trevor Shand and Lauren 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 646-481-7-197.