The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 116 : Harmony Care Home IV

Episode Date: March 3, 2026

Lot 116 : Harmony Care Home IV   Consigned by Quincy Lee Starring Trevor Shand Addison Peacock Magda Apanowicz Fiona Thraille Conan Freeman   Unsought Goods **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. Mint Mobile: https://mintmobile.com/SINISTER   https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/183ni4d/ i_visited_a_care_home_and_i_found_a_terrifying/?sort=new   Theme music by The Newton Brothers   Additional music by CO.AG ([e-mail])   Clement Panchout   Vivek Abhishek   SUBSCRIBE to them on YOUTUBE: / vivekhsihba   LIKE them on FACEBOOK:  https://rb.gy/nhgn0i Follow 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.

For an ad-free experience, visit theobsidiancovenant.com. All equals H. Come in. Yes, mind the step. You've been here often enough to know the floor doesn't always agree with newcomers. Now then, lot 116. A thin volume. The pages are dense with notes and symbols in multiple hands.

Some ink, some graphite. Some impressions that are made without pigment at all. The paper is dry, unusually dry. And when you hold it for too long, you'll notice a faint sensation, like static on the skin. This is Harmony Care Home, Chapter 4. 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 king-sized tong, Sadangri Crab Man, Skivvy. Let's get it, Bruce. Susie Still Jake Manney Black Cat

23 and Rebecca Wadsworth We are ever appreciative of your devotion to The Order Go to The Obsidiancovenant

com to receive the sacrament Sounds harmless enough, right? Welcome to the Anteastern Covenant. Aquarium of sinister happenings and odd goings on. I'm digging through these old relics from Harmony Care Home, and there's one item that even I'm reluctant to touch. The atmosphere around it is, and I feel a faint, buzzing.

I don't like static. It stands my hair on end when I reach for it. It's a book. A thin volume inscribed with arcane rituals. In its very pages are flashes of the dark and hidden history of the care home itself. The book is mentioned in my fourth Reddit post dated November 25th, 2023. It reads as follows. Insert terrifying music here.

Harmony Care Home was constructed in 1907, originally as an asylum, before being converted to a care home in the 1960s. By the late 70s, it was a home. at the brink of closure, after allegations of abuse made national headlines. The original director, Roderick Crane, had an obsessive interest in the occult. One of the advantages of running such an institution he wrote in his notes is that he could observe death in all its permutations. I bet he was a fucking blast of parties. Sometimes he would perform rituals around the dying residents. Many of them participated voluntarily.

You see, there was a popular. movement at the time related to witchcraft, Ouija boards, seances, spiritualism, the whole nine yards, but rumors spread that he also had other less, much less voluntary investigations into the afterlife. There were even whispers of a secret room, accessible only by the elevator, or through a hidden staircase in Roderick's office,

going down to a sub-basement where rituals were reportedly held. and from which patients only emerged in. Roderick's activities came to an end when a disastrous fire in 1981 killed many of the residents and staff. Roderick himself disappeared, along with funds he embezzled, of course, and the care home closed permanently.

It has never been officially. Emma threatens me literally every fucking time we meet. We always start in the visitor lot of Harmony Care Home where she warns me about exposing my past scams. I've now taken to filming her rants and showing her preemptively just so we can fucking get on with things. It usually takes about

an hour before she finally remembers me and even then, the shade of skepticism always lingers. Kind of like the way the stench of death always lingers at Harmony Care Home. I can't believe I actually found all this stuff. We spend most of our time looking over our notes at a local

coffee shop and it's where we are when Emma squintz at her own handwriting and throws her hands up. Christ, what else? have I forgotten? What? Kidding. I smile. Oh, she's so mad.

Probably going to punch my... I don't even trust working with a guy like you. Generally speaking, you really, really shouldn't. Yeah. So, why are you even helping Grams if you only know her through scamming her? You ask that every fucking time. And?

I point her to her own notes, which read. Jack acts like a total jackhole, but you can trust him. He was a bad person, but now he is, in his own words, trying to be a less worse person. And also, you've agreed to not expose all his past scams if he helps you.

And if you can help you get grams out, you've also agreed to pay him $10,000. She squints. Isn't this last line in your handwriting? Yeah, but only because I haven't been able to convince you to... The arm is sure getting sore from all the time she smacks it. I lean forward. Okay, let's see what we got here. What have we got here?

Man, what haven't we got? Property taxes, permits, city and county records, internet and utility records, insurance and vendor contracts, blueprints, missing persons report, checked against Tarmony Care's own records of staff. We even visited the local historical society and library to read crumbling, yellowing letters and manuscripts. That's actually how we found out about Roderick Crane, including an unpublished book he wrote about his activities.

It's made for fascinating and disturbing reading, by the way. Probably not going to find it at Barnes & Noble, but definitely number one bestsellerate your local occult store. Per Roderick's account, most of his rituals were conducted with the aim of reaching the afterlife, or what he called, the other side. Really fucking original, Roderick. He sought the usual sorts of things, power, eternal life, wealth. But all of his rituals, well, they failed.

My speculation is that Roderick went bigger, and the fire in 1981 that destroyed Harmony Care Home was not an accident. but a final grand attempt that at last successfully made contact with the other side. But, after escaping the fire, Roderick fled with his embezzled funds. There's not even any evidence he further dabbled in the occult or gained any benefit from it. He passed away on June 19, 2002. The place of his demise? You guessed it. Harmony Care Home.

It would seem whatever he invited from that other side, I'd found him and made him a resident. Instead of gaining awesome power, he just became a meal for it. Emma has been contacting experts who might help us decipher the ritual. Incidentally, God I admit, all of this research is Emma. When she asked me where I'd look so far and I replied, Google, she told me I have the academic skills of a fifth grader, which I would have taken offense to if she hadn't immediately started gathering all this stuff.

First time, I've sincerely regretted my skipped education. Anyway, I'm sure Emma will rock the hell. out of that master's in public policy she's going for. We are now drowning in data, and due to the amnesia, it takes us half a day just to know what we already fucking know. The problem is we still haven't figured out the exact nature of the ritual and whether or not we can reverse it.

And we're running out of time. Just this morning, Emma got a text from her grandmother. Her eyes well up as she shows me. M. Micles is telling me it's time soon. I love you. I messaged some friends of mine. Lucas and Aaron.

They're big guys. They're going to come help get her out. What's a plan? I ask. Fully aware she doesn't have one. Walk in. Sign her out. Fight anyone who tries to stop us.

That is not a fucking... So come up with a better one. You're the plan guy. I gave you all this stuff. Gramps can't wait. anymore. Jack, she said goodbye. So come up with a plan or I will. So, I come up with a plan. Given that, you already know where I'm writing from, Room 313 at Harmony Care Home, I don't think I need to tell you it all goes to hell. For the record, I say for the upteenth time as we wait in the parking

lot huddled against the autumn chill. I think this is a really, really bad idea. Isn't it your idea? asks one of the big guys. Lucas and Aaron are both muscle-bound tanks, clearly have it bad for Emma and are way too interested in impressing her to care about any warnings of mine. I might as well be a mosquito whining in their ears. I just have to hope my plan is as good as I promised Emma it is. She's just made the call. The one on which our entire plan hinges. Sharing with police the recording of Fitzroy's death, which she claimed was taken by her grandmother, a witness, and who also found the knife that was used to stab him. But because Grams is afraid of retaliation, she will only speak at the station. The cops are on their way currently to come

collect her and the knife and bring her out of Harmony Care Home. And not a small contingent either. Emma has warned them that her grandmother is afraid of retaliation from Fitzroy's murderer, whom she believes is still at the care home. I'm genuinely curious how Lolita's going to react to an entire escort of authorities removing one of the residents. And the answer, at first, is, well, it's cooperatively. When Emma and the rest of us enter with the officers, Lolita points them all at this staircase, as well as to the men's room where the alleged incident took place. From the behavior of both police and Emma's two friends,

everyone sees a perfectly happy carer home full of perfectly happy seniors. As Aaron and Lucas help Emma collect Darline, I linger in the lobby, keeping an eye on Lolita. So far, she's just sitting at the desk, answering questions from the police. When they leave her to speak with other residents, she smiles at me. working at something under her desk. She pulls it up to show me. A stuffed toy parrot,

thick yarn sewn over its eyes and around its beak. Cute, huh? Hello, Lita, what is that? It's a parrot. But this one talks too much, so I close its eyes. They do that to birds to tame them. Sometimes with hoods, but I didn't have a hood.

It's funny. Don't even think it kind of looks like you. Subtle, Lolita. Huh? I don't get it. I say, just because I'm not going to give her the satisfaction. Also, come on. No way I'd ever be a parrot.

I'm a jack. Daw, obviously. Way to miss the mark, Lolita. Jeez. It's while I'm talking with Lolita that Aaron, or is it Lucas, I don't know, comes trotting down the stairs, grabbing a wheelchair from an alcove and wheeling it down a hallway. I almost don't notice because Lolita is praddling to me about how...

I'd offer you a room, but someone else already has a claim to you. And it would be rude for me to take you. Then I hear it. The sound of elevator doors. Funny, I've never noticed an elevator before. Of course, there must be one, given it's a care home and some patients are wheelchair bound. Not to mention that Emma and I read the history about how they'd use the elevator to bring residents down to the sub-basement where Roderick performed his...

fucking rich, you... Fuck! Don't use the elevator! I spring to my feet, dashing down the hallway to where the janky doors are closing. Lolita's prattle was a distraction. I reached the doors just in time to shove my arm through and grasp it Emma's friend.

Don't use the fucking... A hand shoves me, and I stumble in, collapsing into the wheelchair as Lucas or Aaron cries out. I jumped to my feet as the doors are closing on a snarling. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Oh, fucking no. God.

Jerking my fingers back as the steel nearly shuts on them. The last thing I glimpsed through the closing doors is Lolita's wide blue eyes above a pearly-toothed grin. The elevator creaks and sways. I slam my palms against the doors as Emma's friend blinks at me in confusion. The elevator goes.

I feel so stupid falling for this. Do I have a weapon? No. Am I about to be trapped in the basement of this building to never ever leave and become the next Girard? sure or shit hope not. Shit. My intestines winding into knots as every muscle

taught as we go down, down, down. To hell, Jack, it's taking you to hell. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. The tingles, like ice chips rolling down my spine, like a million skittering centipedes. Whatever is down here is tripping my senses so, so bad. I spam that second floor button, while Emma's friend says, Hey, bro, chillocks.

The elevator shutters to a stop. As the doors jerk open, even Emma's body goes silent. The corridor beyond sits swathed in blackness. The kind of blackness so thick you can't breathe. A handful of dusty ceiling lights offer puddles of illumination that barely cut through the dark. At the very far end of the hall stands a door. a wide door with strange sigils on its surface

a door that I will never ever be going through down a darkened hallway that I have no intentions of ever setting foot in no matter how long I have to wait in this fucking elevator because behind that door is the reason for the hairs on my entire body standing on end the skyrocketing of my thrumming heart

and every cell screaming No, no, no, no, no! The elevator belatedly dings, as if to say, your floor, sirs. Nope, nah, no fucking way. Forgive me, there is a lower-level door in this shop that should remain closed unless it's being actively watched. And it has just been opened. One moment. Leave a message.

Please do so at the time. How they're going, man? I've got something that looks like that. harmless enough until you give it a minute to settle. Framed family photograph. Suburban backdrop, front yard, two parents, a couple of kids, real estate flyer energy. Except one face is scratched out, not torn, deliberately removed. I hung it up in a spare room just to see what it'd do. That was a mistake. First night, clothes changed. Second night, the house in the photo matched the one it was hanging in. Same siding, saying porch light the flickers. By the third

day, I recognize the dog. I don't have a dog. Now here's the part that gets under your skin. There's always one face missing. Doesn't matter how many people live in the house. The photo updates anyways. Smiles shift, posture's change, but somebody always ends up unnecessary. Folks who lived with it say it starts small. You forget who locked the door, who took the trash out, who was supposed to be home. But conversations just seem to rout around someone. I tracked the last place it was displayed. Family still lives there.

Neighbors swear there used to be another kid. No name, no photos, no room that looks empty. The picture they found in the house took the frame down and wrapped it. but it keeps getting heavier, like it's holding on to a decision it already made. If you take it, I'd keep it out of shared spaces and never hang it where people eat. And whatever you do, don't try to figure out who's missing. That's how it starts choosing. Anyways, thought you'd want it. Talk soon, brother.

You're still with me. Good. Institutions have a talent for building downward, and for calling what they keep below maintenance. What do you say? shall we? A door that I will never, ever be going through down a darkened hallway that I have no intentions of ever setting foot in, no matter how long I have to wait in this fucking elevator. Because behind that door is the reason for the hairs on my entire body standing on end.

The skyrocketing of my thrumming heart and every cell screaming. No, no, no, no, no! The elevator belatedly dings, as if to say, your floor, sirs. Nope, no-uh, no fucking way. Relax, dude. Someone probably called it down here, then took the stairs. Says the guy I decide is named Lucas. He claps a hand on my shoulder and pushes his second floor button.

Nothing happens, of course. The elevator does not budge. Huh? He looks around. I think it's stuck. There's a small hysterical part of me that wants to scream. Oh, Do you? Do you think it's stuck?

But I keep that part hushed as I raise my eyes to the ceiling. What are the odds we can bust the panels open and climb back up? Judging by how long it took to descend, that'd be a long climb. And I'm not confident we'd be able to pry the doors open on an upper floor if this place doesn't want us to. The cops could probably force them open if they knew we were in here, but I tried to message Emma. The Wi-Fi doesn't work down here, of course. Show Lucas my phone. He frowns and checks his own phone, but it's not better.

Shouldn't there be a stairwell somewhere? He wonders. Um, yeah, I say reluctantly, recalling the blueprints in my mind. You know what, there's a hidden stairwell up to the basement if we go through the door there. But it's at the end of that pitch black corridor. Through Roderick's ritual room. I eyeball Lucas and say, Ten bucks one of us gets sacrificed.

Come on then. Lucas steps into the corridor. When I don't immediately follow, he taunts. Maybe it'll hold your hand? Oh, would you? That'd be great. I actually go for it. He pulls his hand back. Bro, don't offer if you don't mean it. Much as I'd definitely rather wait in the elevator,

Emma would kill me if I did. So, mutually assured doom it is. R.I.P. Jack. I flick through my notes quickly for anything that might tell me what we might meet in there. Even though I know there's nothing in Roderick's manuscript. I skim my early notes from the first. first couple days when I barely knew anything and freeze. Heart stopping. It says, Jack, whatever you do, don't use the elevator. There's something in the sub-basement. Lolita calls

him the custodian. Says he doesn't like the light so he only works a night shift. If you do wind up in the elevator, do not leave. I swivel my head to peer back. Behind us, the elevator remains open. The pitiful overhead lights showing the path back to safety. A couple steps. steps ahead of me, Lucas shines his phone light on the door and reads, Custodian's closet. No! I lunch and catch his wrist. Don't fucking open it!

We both turn at the same moment as the elevator doors close, and it departs with the janked gank. Lucas tells me to take a chill pill, and yanks his wrist-free and knocks on the door while I'm mourning our imminent deaths. The door says, Custodian's closet in Lucas's eyes, but that's not what I see. What I see is a... series of strange symbols that swim before my watery gaze. And now, that horrific sensation returns,

like insects marching all along my skin, buzzing from the base of my skull and causing every hair to stand upright as if I've been electrocuted. I barely hear Lucas's sigh, as he says we might as well try the elevator again since it's working now. And then we both hear it. The creaking as the elevator once again comes down. The lights of the hallway overhead flickering. The soft, as the doors slide open, light closest to the elevator flickers out, plunging the end of the corridor in blackness. But just for an instant, before it's extinguished, I glimpse a figure emerging from the

doors. Something too tall to be human. elongated and stretched like Taffy as it emerges and the buzzing in my mind gets louder. The fuck? Whispers Lucas.

Then again, the second light is gone. We can't see any figure at all now. But there's only one light remaining between us and the pitch dark that extends seemingly forever. Whatever that thing is, it's not like Gerard or any of the corpses. It's not even remotely.

There's nowhere to flee but into the fucking custodian's closet. I ram the door open, dragging Lucas with me, barking. Hurry! As we squeeze through, the last light in the hall flickers out behind us, plunging the corridor in perfect pitch. I slammed the door, leaning my back against it and we aim our lights around the ritual room. Lucas inhales sharply. There are no illusions here. He sees what I see.

Symbols carved into the ceiling and walls, inscribed with a ceiling. script that seems to be forever flickering and changing under our beams. It's no familiar language, and something about those squiggles is obscene, burning into our eyes and yet impossible to look away from. There's also this smell of blood and musty death. His shoes scuff the concrete floor as he shuffles onto a matted and stained rug muttering. What the hell? In the center of the room sits a marble table.

skulls and remains from all manner of humans and animals decorate the shelves some knitted into strange figures hanging from the ceiling and if it weren't clear enough would all this is four a thin volume inscribed with notes and symbols sits open on the table describing a ritual the hell kind of place is this Lucas whispers peeking up a skull get something to barricade the door I'm still holding a Cut. Lucas obliges, grabbing a bookcase and hauling it over with impressive ease. But even as he blockades the door, the hairs on my neck stand on end again.

Run, shrieks my lizard brain. I whirl, and my beam catches on... Something. Something like I've never seen. Like shadow. Like hollowed skin. Stretched. Indescribable. I don't know why I thought it looked like a figure. It's more like... It's more like those squiggles on the wall. An impossible shape. Impossible for the eye to really see. I can't tell you what it looked like only that it made my mind scream. And the whole where its face should be swallowed me into my room.

When I regain consciousness, I cannot see. And my thoughts are sticky and swirling together. And I smell blood. Underneath me is a padded, creaky chair, a wheelchair. I realize groggly as I try to move. My whole face is numb. I don't know why it's numb. Everything is completely black.

I fumble, trying to catch my bearings. Am I still in the sub-basement? Try to feel my way around only to stub my knee against a table leg. I swear. Or would. If I could speak. But for some reason, all that comes out are inarticulate nasal sounds. There's no noise beyond my own labored, panicky breathing.

Lucas? Lucas, I don't hear him. My nasal grunts don't get any response. The fact I can't feel my face is disconcerting when I touch my cheeks, my nose. Is my whole body numb? I'm definitely unsteady like I've been drugged. I fumble along the table's edge following the peeling wood, curving edge, round table.

So I'm not in that room anymore. The table in the ritual room was square. My shoes scuff across cheap carpet And then my fingers brush against a hand And yes, it's But it's cold Withered Like an old dead hand

I jerk back Then shakily reach forward again In fabric of a sleeve Loose around the thin forearm A sweater I traced the arm up the bony frame Whips of hair on a cold skull. I'm feeling a dead body. A long dead body. Still clothed. Mummified. Is it night time?

Pitch blackout? Is there not even moonlight? Are the curtains drawn? I followed the circumference of the table. Find another body. Light. Flimsy shawl over a linen shirt. A skeleton shrink-wrapped in dried skin This is really fucking gross I move further along and find another table Low and square An end table this time And an old plush chair that when I push on the cushion

Sends up a puff of mildew-scented air Okay definitely the common room Where the fuck is everybody? What time is it? Trying to shout does no good My mouth still is not working I stumble through the dark, hoping for a wall so I can orient myself. When I bump into a large potted plant, I cuss inwardly, rubbing my knee. The plant is fake, and the leaves, stiff, dusty fabric.

Dilty. I picture the carolome where the potted plants by the entrance are on the opposite wall. Hey! Emma's voice calls out, along with the creek of a door swinging and then rapid footsteps. She grabs my arm. What are you doing? Where's Lucas? I try to respond, but can't.

I can't see, Emma. It's only now I'm starting to panic, wondering what has happened to my eyes. My face. My numb face that can't make words. I should have figured it out by now, but my brain is sludge. And I'm trying to tell Emma about the custodian,

but I can't. Jack, I don't have time for your games. Would you quit goofing off? The cops didn't find anything. They'll take great. Graham's a statement after she's seen at the hospital. Look, fine, Lucas. I'm going to drive Grams.

I grunt as her footsteps walk away, and I try to follow, but my legs won't cooperate, and I trip and stumble to my knees. Fuck! After the doors close, it's quiet again. Dead quiet. No chatter from the common room.

Without my eyes working, the illusion isn't manifesting. Or maybe it's because of whatever's been done to me. In any case, there's only mummified dead at those tables. And that's all that's ever been there. Every time. I just didn't know until now. I kneel on the ground, weeping. Because I'm so frustrated and scared.

I can't find my way, and I don't know what's happening or where Lucas is, or if Emma is real. Does she just leave me here? I crawl towards the doors, hoping I haven't gotten myself turned around, but even if I make my way out, How will I leave? I have my keys, but I can't drive. Not without my eyesight. I can't speak. How will I communicate what's happening?

The whoosh of the doors. Emma's footsteps again, and she exclaims. Jack, what's going on? Where the fuck is Lucas? And why are you acting like this? And suddenly it strikes me. She's seeing an illusion. She's seeing the chicken soup dust jacket version of me

just as she is the rest of this place. She can't see that it's dark in here, that there are only corpses at the tables in the car. common room and she responds to someone, I can't even hear. Oh, it's all right, thanks. He doesn't want a room. I'll take him home. Did Lolita just offer to get me a room? Fuck you, Lolita. I flip off the general direction of where I think Lolita's desk is and Emma tells me to stop it and drags me out the doors and says in a tone that suggests she has figured out something is wrong. What they do to you? Where's Lucas? Jack, can you talk? Talk to me. But I can't respond and I can't see where we're going and

stumble off the curve and slam into the hood of a car. Fuck! Emma don't ever be a guide for the blind, you fucking suck at it. The impact rings my skull. I'm still groaning and clutching at my faces. Emma gasps and helps me up. I hear her say to somebody. They did something to him. I don't know what.

Let's get him to the hospital too. Help me get him in the car. Then I'm hauled into the back of what must be Emma's car. And next to me, I hear distress mumbling that has got to be Darlene. And I definitely smell her. I don't think she's showered since they first brought her. her in. Or maybe it's her dead cat Mickles. I smell. I don't know. It sounds like she's still stroking that tiny rotting body. Do I got to sit here? Tina preferred the mummified old ladies at the table.

I'm kidding. Don't kick me out. Jack. Jack. My hand patting my cheek and Emma says, we're going to take you to the hospital and we'll figure out what they gave you. I'm just going to run in and find Lucas. I seize her wrist. No, no, no, no, do not look for Lucas. Do not. Shake my head vehemently. Jack, I have to find him. I shake my head hard. Why aren't you talking? What's wrong with you? But I know what's wrong with me now. And I put her hands on my face so she could feel the stitches holding shut my lips, my eyes. And a moment later, I know the illusion is broken.

Because Emma is screaming and screaming and screaming. And I would be too if my mouth weren't sewn tightly fucking shut. Thank you for your patronage. Hope you enjoyed your new relic as much as I've enjoyed passing along. its sorted 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 116, Harmony Care Home Chapter 4, consigned by Quincy Lee, starring Trevor Shand, Addison Peacock, Magda Apanovic, Fiona Thrail, and Conan Freeman, 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 646-481-7197.