The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 124 : Psychosis

Episode Date: May 7, 2026

Lot 124 : Psychosis   Consigned by Matt Dymerski   Starring Trevor Shand Tara Kaye Burgh Mark Lapointe   Unsought Goods **Much obliged for using the Rocket Money and Shopify link below. It lends a helping hand to our little shop, and we’re truly grateful for the support. New store items coming soon! https://theantiquarium.myshopify.com Rocket Money: http://rocketmoney.com/SINISTER Shopify: https://www.shopify.com/tash   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 the obsidiancovenant.com. G equals W. Great to see you, friend. Just in time for a recent discovery I've made for you. If you'll step closer. A single sheet of paper. Creezed, hample. The writing drifts.

No corrections. And no hesitation. This is the mystery of lot 1-2-4. Psychosis. 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 Arabele and Eric Joe Vaughan Alexander Diana Fuller Ariana Fuller Ariana Cruz Erica Johnson

and Ryan Bourriaco We are ever appreciative of your devotion to The Order Go to The Obsidian Covenant dot com to receive the

sacrament Sounds harmless enough, right? Welcome to the antiquarium of sinister happenings and odd goings on. Sunday. I'm not sure why I'm writing this down on paper and not on my computer. I guess I've just noticed some odd things. It's not that I don't trust the computer, I just... I need to organize my thoughts.

I need to get down all the details somewhere objective, somewhere I know that what I write can't be deleted or changed. Not that that's happened, it's just everything blurs together here. And the fog of memory lends a strange cast of things. I'm starting to feel cramped in this small apartment. Maybe that's a problem. I just had to go and choose the cheapest fucking apartment. The only one in the basement.

The lack of windows down here makes day and night seem to slip by seamlessly. I haven't been out in a few days because I've been working on this programming project so intensively. I suppose I just wanted to get it done. Hours of sitting and staring at a monitor can make anyone feel strange. I know. But I don't think that's it. I'm not sure when I first started to feel like something was odd. I can't even define what exactly it is.

Maybe I just haven't talked to anyone in a while. That's the first thing that crept up on me. Everyone I normally talk to online while I program has been idle, or they simply not logged on at all. My instant messages go unanswered. The last email I got from anybody was a friend saying he'd talk to me when he got back from the store, and that was yesterday. I'd call with my cell phone, but reception's terrible down here. Yeah, that's it. I just need to call someone. I'm going to go outside.

Well, that didn't work so well. As the tingle of fear fades, I'm feeling a little ridiculous for being scared at all. I looked in the mirror before I went out, but I didn't shave the two-day stubble I've grown. I figured I was just going out for a quick cell phone call. I did change my shirt, though, because it was lunchtime, and I guessed that I'd run into at least one person I knew. That didn't end up happening. I wish it did. When I went out, I opened the door to my small apartment slowly.

A small feeling of apprehension had somehow, already lodged itself in me for some indefinable reason. I chalked it up to having not spoken to anyone but myself for a day or two. I peered down the dingy gray hallway, made dingier by the fact that it was a basement hallway. On one end, a large metal door led to the building's furnace room. It was locked, of course. Two dreary soda machines stood by it. I bought a soda from one of the first.

first day I moved in. But it had a two-year-old expiration date. I'm fairly sure nobody knows those machines are even down here. Or my cheap landlady just doesn't care to get them restocked. I closed my door softly and walked the other direction, taking care not to make a sound. I have no idea why I chose to do that, but it was fun giving into the strange impulse not to break the droning hum of the soda machines,

at least for the moment. I got to the stairwell and took the stairwell. and took the stairs up to the building's front door. I looked through the heavy door's small square window and received quite the shock. It was definitely not lunchtime. City gloom hung over the dark street outside, and the traffic lights at the intersection in the distance blinked yellow.

Dim clouds, purple and black from the glow of the city, hung overhead. Nothing moved. saved the few sidewalk trees that shifted in the wind. I remember shivering, though I wasn't cold. Maybe it was a wind outside. I could vaguely hear it through the heavy metal door. And I knew it was that unique kind of late-night wind. You know, the kind that was constant, cold and quiet.

Save for the rhythmic music it made as it passed through countless unseen tree leaves. I decided not to go outside. Instead, I lifted my cell phone to the door's little window and checked the signal meter. The bars filled up the meter, and I smiled. Time to hear someone else's voice. I remember thinking, relieved. It was such a strange thing to be afraid of nothing.

I shook my head, laughing at myself silently. I hit speed dial from my best friend Amy's number and held the phone up to my ear. It rang once, but then it stopped. Nothing happened. I listened to silence for a good 20 seconds. Then hung up. I frowned and looked at the signal meter again.

Still full. I went to dial her number again, but then my phone rang in my hand, startling me. I put it up to my ear. Hello? I asked immediately, fighting down a small shock.

at hearing the first spoken voice in days, even if it was my own. I'd gotten used to the droning hum of the building's inner workings, my computer, and the soda machines in the hallway. There was no response to my greeting at first, but then finally a voice came. Who's this? Joan? Yeah, sorry, wrong number. I lowered the phone slowly and leaned against the thick brick wall of the stairwell.

That was strange. I looked at my received call list, but the number. was unfamiliar. Before I could think on it further, the phone rang loudly. Shit, shocking me yet again. This time I looked at the caller before I answered. It was another unfamiliar number. This time, I held the phone up to my ear, but said nothing. I heard nothing but the general background noise of a phone. Then, a familiar voice broke my tension. John? Was the single word. In Amy's voice, I breathed the sigh of relief. Hey, it's you. Who else would it be? Oh, the number. I'm at a party on 7th Street and my phone

died just as you called me. This is someone else's phone, obviously. Oh, okay. Where are you? My eyes glanced over the drab, whitewashed cylinder block walls on the heavy metal door with its small window. Ah, you know, I cooped up. I didn't realize it was so late. You should come here. I feel like looking for some strange place by myself in the middle of the night. Looking out the window at the silent, windy street that secretly scared me just a tiny bit. I think I'm just going to keep working her.

Nonsense. I can come get you. Your building's close to 7th Street, right? How drunk are you? Amy, you know where I live. Of course. I guess I can't get there by walking, huh? You could if you wanted to waste half an hour. Right. Okay. I have to go, uh, good luck with your work. I lowered the phone once more, looking at the numbers flash as the call ended.

Then, the droning silence suddenly reasserted itself in my ears. The two strange calls in the Erie Street outside just drove home my aloneness in this empty stairwell. Perhaps from having seen way too many scary movies. I had the sudden, inexplicable idea that something could look in the door's window and see me. Some sort of horrible entity that hovered at the edge of aloneness, just waiting to creep up on unsuspecting people that strayed too far from other human beings.

I knew the fear was irrational, but nobody else was around, so... I jumped down the stairs, ran down the hallway into my room and closed the door as swiftly as I could while still staying silent. Like I said, I feel a little ridiculous for being scared of nothing, and the fear has already faded. Writing this down, it really helps a lot. It makes me realize that nothing is wrong, you know? It filters out half-form thoughts and fears and leaves only cold, hard facts. It's late.

I got a call from a wrong number, and Amy's phone died, so she called me back from another number. Nothing strange is happening. Still, there was something a little off about that conversation. I know it could have just been the alcohol she'd had, or was it even her that seemed off to me? I... I wasn't?

Yeah, that was it. I didn't realize it until this very moment. Writing these things down. I knew writing things down would help. She said she was at a party, but I only heard silence in the background. Of course, it doesn't mean anything in particular. or she could have just gone outside to make the call.

No, that couldn't be it either. I didn't hear the wind. I need to see it the wind is still blowing. Monday. I forgot to finish writing last night. I'm not sure what I expected to see when I ran up the stairwell and looked out the heavy metal doors window.

I'm feeling ridiculous. Last night's fear seems hazy and unreasonable to me now. I can't wait to go out into the sunlight. I'm going to check my email, shave shower and finally get out of here. Wait, I think I heard something. It was thunder.

The whole sunlight and fresh air thing didn't happen. I went out into the stairwell and up the stairs only to find disappointment. The heavy metal door's little window showed only flowing water. This torrential rain slammed against it. Only a very dim, gloomy light filtered in through the rain, but at least I knew it was daytime. Even if it was a gray, sickly, wet day. I tried looking out the window and waiting for lightning to illuminate the gloom,

but the rain was too heavy and I couldn't make out anything more than vague, weird shapes moving at odd angles in the waves, washing down the window. Disappointed, I turned around, but I didn't want to go back to my room. Instead, I wandered further up the stairs, past the first floor and the second. The stairs ended at the third floor. The highest floor in the building. I looked through the glass that ran up the outer wall of the stairwell. But it was that warped, thick kind that scatters the light,

not that there was much to see through the rain to begin with. I opened the stairwell door and wandered down the hallway. The ten or so thick wooden doors painted blue a long time ago were all closed. I listened as I walked, but it was the middle of the day, so I wasn't surprised that I heard nothing but the rain outside. As I stood there in the dim hallway, listening to the rain, I had this strange, fleeting impression that the doors were standing like silent granite monoliths,

erected by some ancient forgotten civilization for some unfathomable guardian purpose. Lightning flashed, and I could have sworn that even just for a moment, the old grainy blue wood looked just like rough stone. I laughed at myself for letting my imagination get the best to me, but then it occurred to me that the dim gloom and lightning must mean there was a window somewhere in the hallway. A vague memory surfaced, and suddenly I recalled that the third floor had an alcove and an inset window halfway down the floor's hallway. Excited to look out into the rain and possibly see another human being, I quickly walked over to the alcove finding the large, thin glass window. rain washed down it as with the front doors window but i could open this one i reached a handout to slide it open but hesitated i had the strangest feeling that if i opened that window i would see something

absolutely horrifying on the other side you know everything's been so odd lately so i came up with a plan and i came back here to get what i needed i don't seriously think anything will come of it, but I'm bored. It's raining, and I'm going to stare crazy. I came back to get my webcam. The cord isn't long enough to reach the third floor by any means, so instead I'm going to hide it between the two soda machines and the dark end of my basement hallway,

run the wire along the wall and under my door, and put black duct tape over the wire to blend it in with the black plastic strip that runs along the base of the hallway's walls. I know this is silly, but I don't have anything better to do. Well, nothing happened. I propped open the hallway to stairwell door, steeled myself, then flung the heavy front door wide open

and ran like hell down the stairs to my room and slammed the door. I watched the webcam on my computer intently, seeing the hallway outside my door and most of the stairwell. I'm watching it right now, actually, and I don't see anything interesting. I just wish the camera's position was different so that I could see out the front door.

Hold on, wait. Fucking wait. somebody's online. So I got out an older, less functional webcam that I had in my closet to video chat with my friend online. I couldn't really explain to him why I wanted to video chat, but it felt good to see another person's face. He couldn't talk very long. I mean, we didn't talk about anything meaningful, but I feel much better. My strange fear was almost past. You know, I would feel completely better, but there was something, this fucking something odd. about our conversation.

I know that I've said that everything has seemed odd, but still, it was very vague in his responses. I can't recall one specific thing that he said. No particular name or place or event, but he did ask for my email address to keep in touch. Oh, wait, I just got an email. I'm about to go out. We just got an email from Amy that asked me to meet her for dinner at the A place we usually go to.

I do love pizza. And I've just been eating random food from my poorly stocked fridge for days. So I really can't wait. Again, I feel ridiculous about the odd couple of days I've been having. I should destroy this journal when I get back. Oh, fuck, another email. Oh, my God. I almost left the email and opened the door.

I almost opened the door. I almost opened the door, but I read the email first. It was from a friend I hadn't heard from in a long time, and it was sent to a huge number of emails. It must have been every person he had saved in his address list. It had no subject. And it said simply, Seen with your own eyes. Don't trust them today.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? The words shock me. And I keep going over and over them. Did a desperate email sent just as something happened? The words are obviously cut off without finishing. On any other day, I would have dismissed this is spam from a computer virus or something, but the words, seen with your own eyes. I can't help but read over this journal and think back on the last few days

and realize that I've not seen another person with my own eyes or talk to another person face to face. The webcam conversation with my friend was, So strange. So vague. Really eerie. Now that I think about it. Wait, was it eerie or is the fear clouding my memory?

My mind toys with the progression of events I've written here, pointing out that I've not been presented with one single fact that I did not specifically give out unsuspectingly. The random wrong number that got my name and the subsequent strange, return call from Amy, the friend that asked for my email address. I messaged him first when I saw him online. And then I got my first email a few minutes after that conversation. Oh my God, that phone call with Amy.

I said over the phone, I said that I was within half an hour's walk of 7th Street. They know I'm near there. What if they're trying to find me? Where's everyone else? Why haven't I seen or heard anyone else in days? No, this is crazy. This is absolutely crazy. I need to calm down.

This madness needs to end. I don't know what to think. I ran about my apartment furiously, holding my cell phone up to every corner to see if it got a signal through the heavy walls, finally in the tiny bathroom near one ceiling corner. Near one ceiling corner, I got a single holding my phone there. I sent a text message to every number in my list. Not wanting to betray anything about my unfounded fears, I simply sent.

You seen anyone face to face lately? At that point, I just wanted any reply back. I didn't care what the reply was or if I embarrassed myself. I tried to call someone a few times, but I couldn't get my head. I couldn't get my head up high enough. And if I brought my cell phone down, even an inch, it lost. signal completely. Then I remembered the computer.

Yes, and rushed over to it. Instant messaging everyone online. Most were idle or away from their computer. Nobody responded. My messages grew more frantic and I started telling people where I was and to stop by in person for a host of barely passable reasons. I didn't care about anything.

By that point, I just needed to see another fucking person. I also tore apart. my apartment, looking for something that I might have missed some way to contact another human being without opening the door. I know it's crazy. I know it's unfounded. What if? What? I just need to be sure. I taped the phone to the ceiling in case. Tuesday, the phone rang. Exhausted from last night's rampage, I must have fallen asleep. I woke up to the phone ringing and ran into the bathroom, stood on the toilet and flipped open the phone, taped.

to the ceiling. It was Amy. I feel so much better. She was really worried about me and apparently have been trying to contact me since the last time I talked to her. She's coming over now. And yeah, she knows where I am without me telling her. I feel so embarrassed, man. I'm definitely throwing this journal away before anyone else sees it. Listen, I don't even know why I'm writing in it now. Maybe it's just because it's the only communication I've had at all since God knows when. I look like hell too. I looked in the mirror before I came back in here.

My eyes are sunken. My stubble is thicker and I just look generally unhealthy. In my apartment, the fucking thing is trashed. But I'm not going to clean it up. I think I need someone else to see what I've been through. These past few days have not been normal. I'm not one to imagine things. I know I've been the victim of,

extreme probability. I probably miss seeing another person a dozen times. I just happened to go out when it was late at night or the middle of the day when everyone was gone. Everything's perfectly fucking fine. I know this now. Plus I found something in the closet last night that has helped me tremendously. Television. So simple, right? I set it up just before I wrote this and it's on in the background. Television has always been an escape from me. and it reminds me that there's a world beyond these dingy brick walls. I'm glad Amy's the only one that responded to me after last night's frantic pestering of everyone I could contact. She's been my best friend for years.

She doesn't know it, but I count the day that I met her among one of the few moments of true happiness in my life. I remember that warm summer day fondly. It seems a different reality from this dark, rainy, lonely. place. I feel like I spent days sitting in that playground. Much too old to play. Just talking with her and hanging around doing nothing really at all.

I still feel like I can go back to that moment sometimes. And it reminds me that this damn place is not all that there is. One moment. We don't keep this item exposed for long. Prolonged handling has been known to

affect interpretation. We'll step away briefly. If you trust me implicitly, let's continue. Shall we? I still feel like I can go back to that moment sometimes. And it reminds me that this damn place is not all that there is. I thought it was odd that I couldn't see her through the camera I hid between the two soda machines. I figured that it was bad positioning, like what I couldn't see out the front door. Should have known. After the knock, I I yelled through the door jokingly that I had a camera between the soda machines because I was embarrassed myself that I had taken this paranoia so far. After I did that, I saw her image walk over to the camera and look down at it.

She smiled and waved. I've just, I've had a weird few days. Must have. Open the door, John. I hesitated. How could I be sure? Hey, Amy, humor me a second here. Tell me one thing about it.

Just prove to me that you're you. She gave the camera a weird look. We met randomly at a playground when we were both way too old to be there. I sighed deeply as reality returned in fear, totally faded. God, I've been so ridiculous. Of course it was Amy. That day wasn't anywhere in the world except in my memory. I'd never even mentioned it to anyone, not out of embarrassment, but out of a strange,

secret nostalgia, and a longing for those days to return. If there was some unknown force at work trying to trick me as I feared, there was no way they could know about that day. I'll explain everything. I'll be right there. I ran to my small bathroom and fixed my hair as best I could. I looked like hell, but she'd understand. snickering at my own unbelievable behavior and the mess I'd made of the place

I walked to the door I put my hand on the doorknob and gave the mess one good last look so ridiculous I thought my eyes traced over the half-eaten food lying on the ground the overflowing trash bin and the bed I tipped to the side looking for

fucking God knows what I almost turned to the door and opened it but my eyes fell on one One last thing, the old webcam, the one I used for that eerily vacant chat with my friend. Its silent black sphere lay haphazardly tossed to the side. Its lens pointed at the table where this journal lay, an overwhelming terror took me,

as I realized that if something could see through that camera, it would have seen what I just wrote about that day. I asked her for any one thing about us. She chose the only thing in the world that I thought they or it did not know. But it did. It did know. It could have been watching me the whole fucking time. I didn't open that door.

I screamed. I screamed an uncontrollable terror. A! A! I stomped on the door. old webcam on the floor. The door shook and the doorknob tried to turn but I didn't hear Amy's voice through the door. Was the basement door made to keep out drafts too thick? Or was Amy not outside? What could have been trying to get in if not her? What the hell is out there? I saw her on my

computer through the camera outside. I heard her on the speakers through the camera outside, but wasn't real. How can I know? She's gone now. I screamed and shut out. I screamed and shut out and for help. I piled up everything in my apartment against the front door. Friday. At least I think that it's Friday. I broke everything electronic. I smashed my computer to pieces. Every single thing on there could have been accessed by network access or worse. Altered. I'm a programmer I know. Every little piece of information I gave out since this started. My name, my email, my location, None of it came back from outside until I gave it up. I've been going over and over what I wrote.

I've been pacing back and forth, alternating between stark terror and overpowering disbelief. Sometimes I'm absolutely certain. Some phantam entity is dead set on the simple goal of getting me to go outside. Forgetting me to go outside? Back to the beginning. With the phone call from Amy, she was effectively asking me to open the door. and go outside. I keep running it through my head.

One point of view says I've acted like a madman. And all of this is the extreme convergence of probability. Never going outside at the right times by pure luck. Never seeing another person by pure chance. Getting a random nonsense email from some computer virus at just the right time. The other point of view says that extreme convergence of probability is the reason that whatever's out there hasn't gotten me already.

I keep thinking. I never opened the window on the third floor. I never opened the front door until that incredibly stupid stunt with the hidden camera after which I ran straight to my room and slammed the door. I haven't opened my own solid door since I flung open the front door of the building.

Whatever's out there, if anything's out there at all. never made an appearance in the building before I opened the front door. Maybe the reason it wasn't in the building already was that it was elsewhere, getting everyone else. And then it waited until I betrayed my existence by trying to call. A call which didn't work until it called me and asked me my name. Terror literally overwhelms me every time I try to fit the pieces of this nightmare together.

That email. Short. Cut off. Was it from someone trying to get word out? Some friendly boys desperately trying to warn me before it came. Seen with my own eyes. Don't trust them. Exactly what I've been so suspicious of. It could have masterful control of all the things electronic.

Practicing its insidious deception to trick me into coming outside. Why can't it get in? It knocked on the door. It must have some solid presence. The door. The image of those doors in the upper hallway as guardian monolith flashes back in my mind every time I trace this path of thoughts. If there is some phantom entity trying to get me to go outside,

maybe it can't get through doors. I keep thinking back over all the books I read or movies I've seen trying to generate some explanation for this. Doors have always been such intense foci of human imagination. Always seen as wards or portals of special importance. Or perhaps the door's just too thick. Maybe that's it. I know that I couldn't bash through any of the doors in this building,

let alone the heavy basement ones. Aside from that, the real question is, why does it even want me? If it just wanted to kill me, you could do it any number of ways. including just waiting until I starve to death. What if it doesn't want to kill me? What if it has some far more horrific fate in store for me?

A fucking knock on the door. I told the people on the other side of the door I need a minute to think and I'll come out. I'm really just writing this down so I could figure out what to do. At least this time I heard their voices. My paranoia. And yes, I recognize I'm being paranoid. Has me thinking of all sorts of ways that their voices could be faked electronically. There could be nothing but speakers outside.

Simulating human voices. Did it really take them three days to come talk to me? Amy is supposedly out there, along with two policemen and a psychiatrist. Maybe it took them three days to think of what to say to me. The psychiatrist's claim could be pretty convincing if I decided to think this has all been a crazy misunderstanding and not some entity trying to trick me into opening the door.

The psychiatrist had an older voice. authoritarian but still caring I liked it I am desperate just to see someone with my own eyes he said I have something called cyber psychosis

and I'm just one of a nationwide epidemic of thousands of people having breakdowns triggered by a suggestive email that got through somehow that's what he said I swear he said got through somehow I swear he said got through somehow I think he means spread

throughout the country inexplicably. But I'm incredibly suspicious that the entity slipped up, and it revealed something. He said I'm part of a wave of emergent behavior. That a lot of other people are having the same problem with the same fears, even though we've never communicated.

That neatly explains the strange email about eyes that I got. I didn't get the original triggering email. I got a descendant of it. My friend could have broken down, too, and tried to warn everyone he knew against his paranoid fears. That's how the problem spreads.

That's how the problem spreads. The psychiatrist claims spread it too. My texts and instant messages online to everybody I know. One of those people might be melting down right now. After being triggered by something I sent them, something they might interpret any way that they want. Something like a text saying, seeing anyone face to face lately? The psychiatrist told me that he didn't want to lose another one.

That people like me are intelligent. And that's our downfall. We draw connections so well that we draw them even when they shouldn't be there. He said it's easy to get caught up in paranoia in our fast-paced world. A constantly changing place where more and more of our interaction is simulated. I have to give them one thing. It's a great explanation. It neatly explains everything.

It perfectly explains everything. I have every reason to shake off this nightmarish fear that some thing or consciousness or being out there wants me to open the door so it can capture me for some horrible fate worse than death. It would be foolish. After hearing that explanation to stay in here until I starve to death, just to spite the entity that might have got everyone else.

It would be foolish to think that, after hearing that explanation, I might be one of the last people left alive on an empty world, hiding in my secure basement room, spiting some unthinkable deceptive entity just by refusing to be captured. It's a perfect explanation for every single fucking strange thing I've seen or heard. and I have every reason in the world to let all my fears go. That's exactly why I'm not going to. How can I be sure?

How can I know what's real and what's deception? All of these damn things with their wires and their signals that originate from some unseen origin. They're not real. I can't be sure. Signals through a camera, faked video, deceptive phone calls, emails, even the TV. lying broken on the floor. How can I possibly know it's real? It's just signals.

Waves, light, the door. Okay? It's bashing on the door. It's trying to get in. What insane mechanical contrivance could it be using to simulate the sound of men attacking the heavy wood so well. At least they'll finally see it with my own eyes. There's nothing left in here.

afford to deceive me with. I've ripped literally every fucking thing else in here. Can't deceive my eyes, can't it? Seen with your own eyes. Don't trust them they. Wait. Was that desperate message telling me to trust my eyes? Or warning me about my eyes too. Oh my God, what's the difference between a camera of my eyes?

They both turn light into electrical signals. They're the same. I can't be deceived. I have to be sure. I have to be sure. I have to be sure. I have to be sure. Date unknown.

I calmly asked for paper and a pen. Day in and day out. Until it finally gave them to me. Not that it matters. What am I going to do? Polk my eyes out. The bandages feel like part of me now. The pain is gone.

I figure this will be one of my last chances to write legibly. As without my sight to correct mistakes, my hands will slowly forget the motions involved. This is a sort of self-indulgence, this writing. It's a relic of another time because I'm certain everyone left in the world is dead. Or something far worse. I sit against the padded wall day and in

day out. The entity brings me food and water. It masks itself as a kind nurse, as an unsympathetic doctor. I think it knows that my hearing is sharp and considerably now that I live in total darkness. It fakes conversations in the hallways. On the off chance that I might over here, one of the nurses talks about having a baby soon. One of the doctors lost his wife in a car accident. None of it matters. None of it's real. None of it gets to me. Not like she does. That's the worst part.

The part I almost can't handle. The thing that comes to me masquerading is Amy. Its recreation is perfect. It sounds exactly like Amy. It even produces a reasonable facsimile of tears that it makes me feel on its life-like cheeks. When it first dragged me here, It told me all the things I wanted to hear It told me that she loved me

That she had always loved me That it didn't understand why I did this That we could still have a life together If only I would stop insisting that I was being deceived It wanted me to believe No, it needed me to believe that she was real I almost fell for it

I really did I doubted myself for the longest time In the end though It was all too perfect Too flawless and way too real. The false Amy used to come every day and then every week. You know, and she finally stopped coming all together. But I don't think the entity will give up.

I think the waiting game is just another one of its gambits. I will resist it for the rest of my life if I have to. I don't know what happened to the rest of the world. But I do know that this thing needs me to fall. for its deceptions. If it needs that, then maybe, just maybe, I'm a thorn in its agenda. Maybe Amy's still alive out there somewhere. Kept alive only by my will to resist the deceiver, rocking back and forth in my cell to pass the time. A hero, a hero.

The doctor read the paper the patient had scribbled on. It was barely legible, written in the shaky script of one who could not see. He wanted to smile at the man's steadfast resolve, a reminder of the human will to survive. But he knew that the patient was completely delusional. After all, a sane man would have fallen for the deception long ago. The doctor wanted to smile. He wanted to whisper words of encouragement to the delusional man. He wanted to scream.

But the nerve filaments wrapped around his head and into his eyes made him do otherwise. His body walked into the cell like a puppet and told the patient once more that he was wrong and that there was nobody trying to deceive him. 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. 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. 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. You have a good night.

The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings. Lot 124. Psychosis. Consigned by Matt Dimmerski. Starring Trevor Shand, Tara Kay Berg, and Mark LaPointe. Featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer. Production and sound designed by Kevin Seaman.

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.