The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 118 : Don’t Hold The Doors

Episode Date: March 26, 2026

Lot 118 : Don’t Hold The Doors   Consigned by Fattha Mahmud Narrated by Trevor Shand Theme music by The Newton Brothers   **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. Shopify: https://www.shopify.com/tash Rocket Money: http://rocketmoney.com/SINISTER Mint Mobile: https://mintmobile.com/SINISTER   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 the obsidiancovenant.com. Hello, welcome in, friend. Something came in recently just for you that I'm thrilled to be able to pass along. Didn't arrive with anything else. No box. No paperwork. Just the car. Worn down from use.

Magnetic strips peeling. Still says transport system on it. barely. Doesn't validate, but it opens the gate anyway. Now departing from the antiquarium, a transitional tale called Don't Hold the Doors.

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

Maroon Maiden, Chris Hicks, Isaac Harker, Gretchen Correa, the Eldrick Skiffozoa, Lucy Oliva, Bobo Jenkins, and Tina Cook.

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. Unlike what most people say, commuting is not the worst part of my day. It's a 35-minute window where I remain isolated, yet in a way, part of a collective.

part of a collective routine that I get to witness from the comfort of my suggested daily playlist. On my way to the subway, I usually look out from one of my typical chronological landmarks, the windows of the local drugstore. If they're closed, I get to walk slower, or maybe even grab a coffee from the stand next to the subway entrance. If they're open, maybe I skip the coffee. Today, as I approach the entrance of the subway, The bitterness of overly toasted beans felt welcoming. At the turnstiles, I'm not greeted by the usual green checkmark sign signaling its approval of my offering, but the turnstile gives way anyway.

Still, I wait on a familiar platform. Naked cement in a few spots. Dark stains forming a mosaic with the paper and glue remains of old ads and posters. Weird. The small screen that shows a time until the next subway flickered. Instead of the destination, a few glitched letters appeared. The A-F. I glanced at the rolling ad stand next to me,

where a grinning man in a blue suit stared back. His smile was too wide, the kind that seemed pasted on, frozen mid-pitch. The ad cycled through frames, but for a second, Just a second. His eyes seemed to shift, meeting mine. The next frame rolled in, something about a bank or a real estate agency, the same corporate cheerfulness. A low rumble signaled and approaching train.

But the screen still flickered, offering no confirmation. I adjusted my bag strap and stepped a little closer to the edge of the platform, peering down the tunnel. The air was heavy. heavy, a mix of dust, metal, and something damp I'd rather not name. Maybe using taxpayer money to fix this shit would actually get you some votes. As a subway pulled into the platform, the scattered fuse standing there were stabbed by the screeching noise of the carriages breaking. I couldn't help but notice how much less crowded it was than usual. I didn't even bother sitting down.

My destination was just a few stops away. Instead, I tucked myself into the small nook by the opposite set of doors from where I'd entered, stashing my backpack between my feet, pressing against the glass window. I let my body settle into the familiar rhythm of the train. Before succumbing to my usual disassociative state until my stop, I scanned the carriage quickly. Just me at one end? and a small middle-aged woman sitting a few seats away at the other end.

I stared blankly at the dark gray plastic flooring. My mind slipping into nothingness until we arrived at the next stop. This felt a little longer than usual. I was pulled away from my thoughts as a stream of bodies flooded the carriage. And I silently thanked myself for predicting this scenario. It wasn't a rare occurrence. and I followed my usual protocol. Turning my back against the rush and zoning out until my stop.

Three more stops in the platforms on this side. Uncomfortable, but I'll live. Maybe I should have sat. We arrived at the next stop surprisingly faster than usual, and that's when it hit me. What started as a slightly unpleasant pressure against my back quickly became an oppressive warmth. A wall of bodies plastering me against the window.

Forcing my gaze outside. Couldn't turn. Couldn't shift. Even if I wanted to. The small bubble of space I had moments ago was gone. Sealed to the limits of my shoulders. I shuffled my backpack between my legs to protect my work laptop and tried leveraging my back against the wall behind me.

Only to gain a few extra millimeters and earn an annoyed grove. from someone behind me. To my right, I was enclosed by the black plastic shine of a puffer jacket. Just as the doors began to close, the pre-recorded safety message started playing, only to distort halfway through. As if being imprinted against the subway door wasn't uncomfortable enough. The distorted message scraped its way down my spine, setting every nerve on edge. I forced myself to collect my thoughts, to fight the seed of dread blooming in my stomach.

I tried to rationalize the situation. Maybe there's some issue going on, a strike or some sort of malfunctioning that tracks. Maybe I... This wasn't unheard of. Delays could snowball, causing a build-up of passengers at each station, throwing off the usual flow. I latched onto that logic, letting it soothe me. even if just a little. I reached for my phone, needing to check the time,

needing some distraction to settle the nervous itch in my gut. But as soon as my fingers closed around it, something felt wrong. Phone was unusually warm. Almost my palm. I unlocked it, and that's when the seat of dread fully expanded, clawing its roots up my spine, twisting around my wrist.

The screen was glitching. The time read Zero Zero, Zero. And beneath it, where the date should have been, was a single word. Clear. Undeniable.

And it hid me like a freight train and the cocktail of fear and dread made my handshake so violently I dropped my phone and reached it. But the lock screen still mocked me with that word. Sweat slowly pooled. on the back of my neck and my breathing tightened.

I shifted, struggling against the crush of bodies pressing in on me. Hey, Sarah, can you please just move a little bit? I gruntled as I tried to give myself a little more room to breathe. Nothing. The puffer jacket gave in ever so slightly until I was met with a warm, immovable back. Nothing. The back of the head didn't turn. No flinch, no breath, no sound.

I pushed my back against the gray suit behind me. No sound this time. No movement. And as the warmth of my body started to become indistinguishable for the musty heat exuded from the bodies around me, I noticed the signs. Better yet, I noticed the lack of them. No low vibration of the wheels rolling in the track,

no occasional signaling almost brushing the window. No screeching sound every time the metal scratched itself on the tracks. The subway wasn't moving. Excuse me, can you please move? Hello? Do you have any idea what's going on? Nothing. Hello?

Fuck's sake, what the fuck is going on? Nothing. I shoulder-checked the puffer jacket beside me, only to be met with swift merciless retribution. The moment I made contact, the wall of bodies weaponized my own momentum against me, swallowing the last remnants of space I had left. I was slammed against the subway door, hard.

My skull cracked against the corner. One of my earbuds flew out, vanishing into the tangle of legs and feet. Tears started pouring down my face, starting to mix with the sweat pooling around my neck. My throat tightened. The panic surging in my chest like a caged animal. I need it. to scream. Fucking move!

Someone just fucking move! Tears bled into my scream. Nothing. Forgive me. I'm noticing a bit of that platform noise creeping in here, and I'd rather not have it follow us any further. Just a small matter to tend to.

Stay close. I'm talking about that cowboy painting I got. You know, the one with the spooky-looking old cowboy, playing harmonica by the camp. fire. Well, I hung it in the living room next to the bird cage. I thought it looked good there. Apparently, my parent, Enzo, did not feel the same way. He immediately starts kind of squawking. Not chicken! Not chicken! I thought, cool. I got a defiant, brave bird here, but hey, it's my house so Inzo can deal. Anyways, later that night, I'm watching the game, and Inzo starts screeching again,

non chicken! Not chicken! I looked over, and I don't know, maybe, maybe I just remembered it wrong, but I could have sworn that the cowboy was on the left side of the fire. Now it's on the right, closer to the cage. So, fast forward to 4 a.m., I'm sleeping in bed, and bans, he explodes from down the hallway. Sounds like metal banging, crunching, ungodly squawking, and... Reach the living room. We about to be nowhere to be found.

Cowboy isn't playing harmonica anymore. What he's got in his hands now, right beneath his mustache, not a harmonica. but a drumstick. And get this, now there's a spit over the fire now with some kind of bird roaching on it. And I don't know what that cowboy's cooking. Now then, let's step back inside and see where this line is taking us.

Shall we? I need it to scream. Fucking move! Someone just fucking move! Tears bled into my scream. Nothing. Just massive turned backs. Silent.

They had me pinned so tightly against the door that when the subway finally lurched forward, rolling, undulating. The sway of the crowd squeezed the breath from my lungs. The wheels rolled over a new section of track. The mass convulsed. A slow, peristaltic movement. I was being swallowed.

digested. Each sway granted me just enough air to keep breathing. Just enough hope only to rip it away again. The friction of bodies, the heat, the breath thickening in the air, the smell of people, sweat and fabric and damp exhalations creeping into my nose, saturating. My lungs tainted until every inhale felt wet and visceral. How's being eaten? Chewed up by this distance.

Pressed and released, pressed and released against the glass, against the wall, against the bodies. My shoulders throbbed, my back screaming as my muscles ground against themselves. Strand by strand, unraveling. The pain didn't just sink into me. It tattooed itself into my nerves. An agony so constant and unrelenting that the ache blurred into something worse. Something raw and unholy. The pressure, the heat, the breath, the endless suffocating weight.

I started slipping in and out of consciousness, but the train never stopped. The waves kept coming, relentless, unyielding, unending. This can't be happening. What the fuck is going on? I'm going to pass out. Am I going to die here? Fuck! I don't understand. Fuck, I'm going to die. My mind raised through every thought. Every rationalization, a desperate prayer, anything to make sense.

sense of this hell. As my mind darted, so did the speed of the carriage. The sway's faster and faster, each more violent than the next. It inhales. Each wave threw me against the wall. It exhales. My head smashed the glass, making my brow bleed. The pain seared through my skull, keeping me conscious as the blood trickled down my cheek to my mouth. It inhales. I raised my hand trying to stop the bleeding to protect my head and brace myself. It exhales. The position of my arm protecting my head served as a perfect leverage as I was smashed again, so brutally that the only reason I remained standing was a pressure. Another body's propping me up as the corner met my chest.

My elbow became the perfect fulcrum. A pop. No resistance. The dull, slick rip of separation. I could feel the fibers of my shoulder being peeled off one by one. The bones separated itself from the cartilage, turning me and my arm into two pieces connected by elusive skin. in connective tissue and torn muscle strands.

The pain seared through my body, mixing itself with my screams. The tears. The pleads for this hell to end. The high note of the screech of metal coming from the tracks and the low thump of bodies being grinded against each other created an unholy symphony. Wet, warm, flesh.

It inhales. It exhales. It exhales. It exhales. It exhales. I twisted and crumpled and unnatural directions. It's thrown violently from side to side, but no matter how I turned, I never saw a single face. Always backs.

No. Something or someone with their backs turned to me. All shapes and forms interlocked together and swaying as one. Indifferent to my pain and my ordeal. An unholy mass of flesh disguised by clothes and human features turning me into its next meal. And then. And then they... It, it made me face the other side of the carriage.

My eyes darted across the sea. Struggling and sweat and blood dripped into my eyeballs and pain and focused my vision. It inhales. I saw her sitting. Her torso was contorted at an inhuman angle. One arm hanging limply. Too long. Her face pressed against the metal handrail in the back.

of the seat. Bloodshot eyes looking desperately at mine, screaming for help and answers. Not with sound. God, I wish I could have heard her. But with everything else, her pupils, wide and panicked, her lips trembling, drooling, the quiet, desperate plea buried beneath bruises and swelling. She got the worst of it, sitting down. The mass. It surrounded her, trapping her against the the plastic of her seat. The subway slammed the brakes. Any semblance of normalcy. Any rational explanation I could have concocted

it was pried out of me. They... No, it. It wanted me to see this. It wanted me to know. It knew that I hadn't accepted this ordeal. It fucking knew. As the train screeched to a halt,

I watched, forced to watch. As the woman's head slowly, mercilessly caved against the guardrail, slowly imprinting the metal in her temple until her eye finally escaped her skull. A slow, deliberate squeeze. Her bones, slowly crumpling in itself as blood, thick, black, red ribbon spilled from her nose, from the empty socket, from the line splitting her forehead and two. A growing fracture started in her forehead, slowly growing as her brain fried itself out of her skull.

If there was any sound, any scream, it was muffled by the noise of my heartbeat and panic ringing on my ears as the doors hissed open. I threw up on myself, bile and acid burning my throat and tongue. This time was different. The station was a pitch, black bodies coming from the empty darkness, leaking itself into the carriage. The mass kept coming. layer upon layer stacking, pressing, clothes in the warmth of the...

Wanted me to see It made sure I could see the small display Where the stations are announced Saying the shrinking gap Between shoulders and fabric It made sure I could see pieces of her Her jaw dangled

The remaining muscle strands Pulling against gravity Blood's still leaking down her shirt A slow, patient leak Her left eye was still in place, staring blankly at nothing. At everything. I spat the remains of bile in my mouth. My leg shaking violently out of fatigue and fear.

As the door slowly closed, a distorted voice ripped through the thick, wet, silence. This time the door would open on my side and I would be pushed out by the pressure building up. If I survived a trip. The subway started inching forward. The swaying returned. Blunt pain from my shoulder, drilling into my chest, and sharp stings from the ripped ligaments. Nerve endings screamed.

A jagged lightning bolt of pain burrowing into my chest. Endless. I lost track of how long had been from when I left my house. My phone smashed. Somewhere in the plastic flooring, I would slip in and out of consciousness. Thirst and fatigue fighting against pain and panic. My sanity chewed up as my body was digested.

I sobbed silently. I didn't know how long this had been happening. I didn't know if it had ever started. My hair was soaked with sweat. My skin red and burned from my bile. My legs spasming from pain and fatigue weren't holding me up anymore. The pressure was. The mass was

It was Someone Please someone Someone please help Nothing Despair wash over my mind And screamed in pain and fear The sounds from the metal wheels outside

Started to resemble some kind of Unholy screaming As the subway accelerated once again A cacophony of metal screeching as it clod its way into my ears My heart pounded itself out of my chest as my whole body started to shake violently. I felt urine trickling down my leg. Warm.

My chest numb from the pain in my eyes, bloodshot, and stinging from all the sweat. The waves of body shifted again. It turned me again, pressing me against the glass part of the door. My face pressed against it as I felt a cut on my brow starting to imprint my face with blood against the glass. smearing my scream into a grotesque self-portrait. The motion, brutal, disorienting. Every inch felt like a mile. Each sway a suffocating blow.

The pressure built again. The heat from the mass of bodies turning unbearable. Every second felt like it was being squeezed out of me. I could barely move. There was nothing left but the pounding of my heart. The noise of the train, the horrific weight of all the bodies pressing him. and I didn't know if I was still alive or if I had simply become part of the suffocating mass

an empty shell carried by the unstoppable tide. And then, just as everything felt like it was about to break, the subway began to slow. The wheels faded, so body shifted. The crushing heat slightly lessened, but the silence that followed felt even worse. The absence of noise, Pressure didn't let up.

But there was something, something about this place. This moment that told me it was nearly, we had reached my stop and slowed to a crawl. And I felt the familiar click of the brakes. 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 118, Don't Hold the Doors.

Consigned by Fatha Mahmoud, narrated by Trevor Shand, 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 chand. Follow us on Instagram and Twitter at Antiquarium Pod. Call the Antiquarium at 646-481-7-197.