The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 128 : Coward’s Crucifix

Episode Date: June 5, 2026

Lot 128 : Coward’s Crucifix Consigned by Chris Hicks Starring Jessica McEvoy Trevor Shand Jarret Griffis   **Dear patron, we understand that advertisements can feel like an intrusion. But the objects we present here, each one a carefully acquired consignment, are not gathered without cost. It takes time, craft, and many hands to bring them properly before you. The ads help keep the doors of our little antiquarium open. For those who prefer a quieter experience, we offer an ad-free parlor through our Patreon. Your support keeps these consignments arriving, each one stranger than the last.   Shopify: https://www.shopify.com/tash Antiquarium shop: https://theantiquarium.myshopify.com   Theme music by The Newton Brothers   Produced by Kevin Seaman   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. A equals K. Good to see you, old friend. Oh, this is interesting. Most consigners bring us things haunted by memory. Occasionally, by regret. This one appears possessed by probability. It arrived wrapped in a letter postmarked from Cincinnati.

and accompanied by a warning written in thick black ink. Read first. Let's see what happens when we ignore perfectly reasonable advice. This is lot one, two, eight, coward's crucifix. 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 Mark J. Clanton, John Ryle, Ben Dickinson, Jordan Al-Zaharner, and Buck Wildbecks. 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 antiquarium of sinister happenings and odd goings on.

I received a package in the mail the other day. No return address, just two stamps and a Cincinnati postmark dated three days prior. Inside was this letter, rubber-banded to an ornate deck of playing cards. On the back of the letter were two handwritten words in bold, black ink. Read first. Angela. I was your next-door neighbor eight years ago. I go by Tony these days, but when you knew me, I was Jack Carlson.

Pretty sure that name still rings a bell. You probably remember when I cut out. jump in bail rather than to face the consequences. I heard that you and your wife helped Karen during the aftermath of the mess I left behind, and that's why I wanted to reach out to you. This isn't a request for help or forgiveness. I know I'm beyond redemption. But it could be a way of thanking you for what you've done for my family.

Fair warning. What you're about to read is pretty fucked up. Believe it, don't believe it, that's up to you. As is whether or not you decide to play the game for yourself. All I ask is that you take this seriously. Even though it sounds crazy, everything you're about to read is true. So, after I left, I drifted a bit before finding a permanent gig as a bartender at a hole-in-the-wall joint in Cincinnati. It's what we used to call a dive bar.

This is back before the granola crowd, no offense intended, co-opted the term. This wasn't a repurposed bike shop in the gentrified part of town, serving craft beer to gauge-eared hipsters with tattoos bought on Daddy's credit card. Now, this displace was a true fucking shithole. A place of cheap beer and watered down liquor for the low-life scum and deadbeats who live within stumbling distance. The true drags of humanity. If you had food stamps, somebody here could turn those into cash or a gun.

Something better than formula for the brat you left home alone so you could tie one on in peace. And if you wanted to offload the brat entirely, at least two guys in here could run a price check. As I said, it's a true shithole. A place where I could disappear and eke out the rest of my shitty existence. And that's where I would have stayed. If it wasn't for Mr. 13. He showed up about a month ago. An out-of-place stranger in this conclave of reprobates.

He wasn't dressed in old denim or goodwill's finest. No, not Mr. 13. He wore a black suit in bolo tie. Dressed to stand out in any crowd. His long white hair hung down to his shoulders like corn silk. I would have thought he was a wizard, but they didn't have a beard, and this wasn't Harry fucking Potter.

I don't know what I'm telling you all this, but I feel the need to give you as much information as I can so you can maybe know what you're dealing with. Lost old-timer? I said, raising my voice over the ACDC on the jukebox and angry voices around the pool table where vibrations of a brawl had been building. It had been a few days.

We were due for one. Our policy was to let him fight, as long as no one pulled weapons or broke anything they couldn't pay for. If someone did pull a piece or a blade, well, we got a shotgun under the register for conflict mediation. Why? You sell them, that? We don't get a lot of outsiders stopping in for a drink, too.

The crowd here is pretty regular. Well, every regular began as an outsider at one time, didn't they? Well, people here tend to have a certain look, which you don't have. Maybe you'd prefer a classier joint than this. He ignored my comment and took a seat at the far end of the bar near the jukebox, then wrapped his bony knuckles against the counter. Bourbon, neat. As he pulled a deck of cards from his inside jacket pocket.

I could see the silver and turquoise aglitz of his bolo tie bounced against his shirt. The clasp was a steers skull with an ornate symbol on the forehead. I nodded, then reached for the bottle in the counter behind me. He cleared his throat to get my attention. You can put that rot back on the bottom shelf where it belongs. What else you got? Well, there's some buffalo trace. The owner keeps hidden for himself.

Probably the closest to top shelf around here. He scratched his fingers against the bar like a blackjack player asking for another hit. I retrieved the hidden bottle and poured him a heavy two fingers. He held up his glass. blast to me before taking a swig, then returned to his cards. I attended to another customer. A piece of shit dickhole needing a refill on his pitcher. Called himself Hot Rod. Did a diamond county for soliciting miners in chat rooms back in the early days of the internet. Called himself a pioneer of the dark web. I gave his pitcher a sprits of club soda from the fountain

when he turned his back. With a fucking spat in it too, but he spun around and slapped a tent on the I didn't give change unless they asked for it. He didn't, so I put it in the till. I returned to watching the old timer as he shuffled his cards and arranged them in a triangle of overlapping rows on the bar. Once he had him spread out, he'd flip a card from the remaining stack and study the rest in front of him,

either using it to remove a card from the rows or putting it aside in the discard pile. Some sort of solitaire, it's not the kind my grandma used to put. play. I watched him play a few hands. Sometimes removing all the cards into the discard pile, sometimes leaving a few rows where his draw pile ran out. Every time he pulled him back up, shuffling and re-dealing in the same manner as before. What's that called? I asked as I made a return trip with the bottle to refill his glass. He ruined that. Not looking up from the cards. Made sense considering

how the cards were laid out. Kings are worth 13, Queens 12, Jack's 11, and so on. You pair cards to make 13 and put them in a discard pile. He flipped his last card from the stack, looking at the arrangement of cards in front of him shaking his head. Ah, dead end. Tossing the card onto the table. He gathered him back up and shuffled me.

Do you ever play? I don't see the point in Solitaire. Now, poker, poker I get. Even with a shitty hand, you can still win if you bet your opponent instead of your cards. But solitaire, you just fucking plan against yourself. And the deck. You have no control over how the cards are shuffled and arranged. And once they're on the table, you can only take them as they're presented.

It's a good analogy for life if you think about it. Jesus. Only one drink and you're waxing philosophical, huh? Maybe I should cut you off now, Mr. 13. You can call me Mr. 13. Place like this, people are called whatever the fuck they want. The bald monster with arms like tree trunks playing pool was Big Moe.

Even those mugshot on the evening news for roughing up his wife said his name was Lester Townsend. The guy he was playing, Sparky, was Tommy Littleton before his meth-head mother got him hooked on the crystal and then two of them began breaking into houses to feed their fix. So if he said his name was Mr. 13, well, that's what I'll fucking call him. Name's Tony. Offering mine even though he didn't ask. 13, eh? Name like that, people might think you're bad luck to have him around. Perhaps I am.

Do you believe in luck? People make their own luck. So they have something to blame when shit goes bad. Easier to blame bad luck than hold yourself accountable, right? That's a very astute observation for a bartender in a rundown place like this. Have you always thought this way about luck? Not always. But when you've seen enough people in shitty situations

You realize blaming someone else is the crutch Everyone in here probably tell you they're here because of bad luck Lawyer fucked me over parents didn't love me too many bad breaks It's all fucking bullshit And what about you? There's bad luck why you're here No I know why I'm here

And it ain't because of luck A smiling face popped into my head A glimpse of a memory tucked in the corner of my mind like a private photo stashed in the back of a wallet. I shook it off and looked back at Mr. 13. His smile spread to a creepy grin. What would you say to playing a different game with me? We can test your theory on luck.

What kind of game? A special game. One very few will get the chance to play. I had other plans this evening, but you've caught me in a gambling mode, Tony. Who should I say, Jack? My real name, Angela. He knew my real name. How the fuck can he know that?

I reached for that goddy bolow tie to drag his wrinkled bag of bones out of the fucking bar. But before I could grab him, he had me by the wrist. Move so fast I didn't even see it. He held it tight in his cold, bony fingers, squeezing as he slowly lifted his head. Maness, don't trifle me with nonsense. He let go on my hand. I massaged it. The indentations from where he grabbed it were already throbbing and turning red.

He flicked the top card from the deck. It flew in an arc behind my head, circling back to him like a fucking boomerang. The card danced across the back of his hand before it disappeared into the deck with a nifty one-handed shuffle. His fingers were surprisingly nimble for how crooked they were. were, nimble. And as I knew now, very strong. What the fuck is this? It's like solitaire, but the stakes are much, much higher.

You can win big, or you can lose big. Even the cards are different. He fan the cards in front of my face. The back of the cards erupted in a swirl of obsidian, swallowing the blue and white bicycle logo. A bleached steer skull raised from the field of black, its eyes glowing red, pulsing. The skull was an exact match for the one in the bolotai,

hanging around Mr. Thirteen's neck. Shuffled and restacked the cards, then pushed the pile towards me. Would you like a cut? I looked up at Mr. Thirteen, who smiled patiently as he waited. His skin looked pale. Taylor, less wrinkled, and stretched tight over his skull. I reached out and took a small stack of cards from the top of the deck,

setting it in a separate pile. It's in the win, I said. An attempt at levity to lighten how creep the fuck out I was. He still haven't told me what we're playing, man, or what we're playing for. Oh, yes, yes, of course. What's a card game without stakes? Think of something that you want more than anything. Picture it in your mind.

Focus on it. I didn't say a word. But my mind drifted back to that smiling face tucked away in my memories. It was a photo from the mantle. When I took on her second birthday, as she wrote her brand new tricycle down the driveway in pink saddle shoes and a tinkerbell dress. Worlds away from this shit hole.

Mr. 13 opened his eyes. Tabitha. Heart jumped into my throat. Wait a sec, how did... He waved his hand, cutting me off. She would be 12 now, right? Just starting middle school, wearing one of those plaid jumpers on her way to that private school

you and the wife picked out for, if not for the accident, at least. Stop. My voice cracked a little, but he continued. You were very drunk that night. Do you remember her screams when the car hit the water jack? Do her cries still haunt you? Or did you block them out as you swam to shore?

Your daughter still buckled in her car seat? Daddy. Daddy, help. Daddy, please. Daddy, help me, please. I close my eyes into the balls of my fists. Desperate to block it out. I don't know how the fuck you're doing this

But make it stop Please Are you still a coward Jack Or are you brave enough to win her back My jaw dropped open as I looked at him What If you win you get her back Just the same as she was

Four years old Auburn hair Missing her front teeth Hugging that stuffed rabbit She called Bonnie. It'll be like nothing ever happened. You could have your old life back too. Tabitha, your wife Karen, hell, even your old job.

No more running, no more hiding. Is that what you want? I nodded. I didn't even realize I was holding my breath. A brief message from the acquisition department. If a stranger in a black suit offered you, one chance to undo the worst mistake of your life. Would you trust the cards?

We'll wait. Oh, come back. When we left Arkinsigner, he had just been offered the impossible. One game. One chance. One daughter waiting on the other side of the death. Let's get dealt in.

Shall we? Is that what you want? I nodded. I didn't even realize I was holding my breath. Mr. 13 restacked a pile on top of my cut. He dealt the cards out in the shape of a cross. 13 cards vertical. Six horizontal.

The intersection was left empty. The game is called the Cowards Crucese. Draw the first card. I flipped a top card. My heart skipped as I revealed the jack of diamonds. But instead of holding a halberd or a sword, the jack was nailed to an upside-down cross with his throat slashed.

A symbol was carved into his chest. The same symbol on the steer skull hanging from Mr. 13's neck. There was no mistaking that the face on the card was mine. Mr. 13 took the card and placed it in the empty spot

in the corner of the cross. This card represents you. I felt my heartbeat thudding in my ears. Why are you doing this? With every gambit there is risk. How much are you willing to risk to get her back? Hmm?

He flipped. over the card at the top of the cross, revealing an aid of spades. Ace beats king, but everything else beats aces. You need to draw a nine or higher to move on. I began to flip a card from the deck, but hesitated. Or as you show me how to play, or am I playing now? You know the answer to that, Jack. I flipped the top card. Seven of hearts. Mr. 13 took the card and set it a side. Draw until you beat the eight, then move down to the next piece of the cross. Remove the vertical row from top to bottom, then the horizontal row from right to left.

The top card of your discard pile can also be played if it works. He moved his hand over his torso and the sign of the cross. You were a good Catholic, once, Jack. You remember how it goes. What happens if I run out of cards before the cross is gone? You lose the game, of course. Looking at my card in the middle, I had a good idea of what would happen if I lost. With my next draw, I removed the eight with a ten of diamonds.

Mr. 13 took the cards and stacked them to the side. He flipped the next card down, a three of clubs. I used the seven of hearts from my discard pile to remove it. Looks like you've got the hang of it. You went by removing all the... cards on the cross. You lose if your draw pile runs out first. But there is a third option. What is it? You can replace yourself on the cross. How do I do that? He tapped his bony fingertip on my jack of diamonds. Replace yourself with another card from the deck and the hand ends. You can do that at any

time before you start the last row. Once you start on that row, you have to play it out. When or lose? Okay, but otherwise I can replace myself at any time, right even now? Yes. Without consequence. Hmm. You can't tempt power like this without sacrifice. If you remove yourself, someone else will take your place. That is why the game is called Cowards Crucifix.

But who? He smiled, but didn't answer. 19 cards on the cross plus the jack for myself meant I had 32 cards in my draw pile. Not unbeatable odds, but a series of tough beats could leave me with not enough cards to finish. The next card flipped was a king of diamonds that wasted nine cards from my deck before I drew an ace. After the king, I had a four-draw queen followed by a run of low cards that I removed with a single draw or use the top card from my discard pile. I kept count of kings and aces in my head,

mentally noting when one was removed from the game. I had two cards to go before the final row. I flipped the next card. Seven of spades. One draw. The next card was the four of clubs. Removed with one draw but burned a king on it. I was down to the last.

row, six cards to go. And judging from the height of my draw pile, I had maybe, I don't know, 12 cards left. Not much margin for error. Fuck, did I count correctly? I went over it again in my head, remembering every king I played or removed from the cross. Three kings were gone, I'm certain to that. One remained, and I had no aases to remove it. If I turned over a king, I was fucked.

But if the king was in my hand, I had a chance of winning. Choices, choices, Jack? What did you say earlier about making your own luck? Do you feel as strongly about that now? No, I most certainly fucking did not. But still, if I won, I'd get my Tabitha back. My old life. Was I ready to give that up?

I looked up from the cards. Around us, the rest of the bar patrons continued their evening as usual, drowning their shitty lives and alcohol. I hadn't even noticed the sound had dimmed, as if someone had turned down the volume on the world around us. We were still in the bar, but also somehow, like, separated from it. Like we'd become unstuck from reality. Still there, but also not there.

I don't know how long I stood there considering my chances. Time seemed to slow down in the game. I held my hand over the card. Poised to flip it and stop myself every time. Tell me again how I replace myself. Ah, yes, the cowards exit. One you're all too familiar with. Top card of your stack.

Slide it under your card to remove it. Keep it face down. No peeking. I did as instructed. Sliding the top card under the crucified jack on the bar. When I picked up my card, it had shifted back to the normal jack of diamonds holding a halberd. My face was gone, as was the symbol carved in its chest.

Mr. 13 took all the cards and shuffled them back in the deck, not letting me see the card I had sacrificed or the ones I had left to beat. As soon as the cards were back in the box, the volume of the bar seemed to pop back to normal. I heard Big Mo call Sparky a hustling little bitch as he slammed him against the pool table. The crowd formed around them, unsure whether to intervene or let them have it out.

What happens now? Mr. 13 dropped a crisp 20 on the bar. I pay for the bourbon and bid you good evening. But the game, who took my place? He didn't reply. He just smiled at me and made his way to the exit. As he walked, the fight from the pool table spilled into his path. Mr. 13 didn't change his step.

Just walked on in his normal pace, as Big Moe worked his hands around Sparky's throat. Then, the crazy. this fucking thing happened. The fight. Oh, it just stopped. Big Moe stepped back from Sparky, creating a space for Mr. 13.

Sparky picked himself up from the bar and moved his feet back. They stood absolutely still as Mr. 13 walked between them. Their faces, blank expressions. And as soon as he passed, The fight started back up as if the break hadn't happened at all. The pattern continued as Mr. 13 made his way to the exit, and one just seemed to move out of his way, as if by their own choice, without acknowledging him or realizing he was even there.

I mean, could anyone else even see him? The rest of the night was uneventful. The fight ended without any damage or death. Over time, the energy of the bar shifted from the, usual high before midnight to the self-loathing den of pity as last call approached by the time i closed up for the night i'd all but convinced myself that the encounter with mr thirteen was a daydream how it had to be things like that don't happen in real life either that at one of the fuckers at the bar slipped something into my water when i wasn't looking sounds like something that dipshit hot rod

would try get me fucked up and then empty the till while i was tripping balls Pay back for watering down his picture, right? But if it was real, was it really cowardly to act in your own best interest? Even if I did condemn someone to take my place, Mr. 13 never told me who it was when I asked him. Odds were good that I would never even find out. That was all over the news the next day.

A six-year-old girl was missing. Taken from her home in the middle of the night while her family slept. I watched as they interviewed her mother on the television, fleeting through tears for her daughter's safe return. When the breaking news interrupted the basketball game to announce that the girl's body had been found, I knew all the gory details of her desecration that they left out of the broadcast.

I didn't hear it, Angela, but I knew the pain to cry her mother made when she found out that her baby was gone. I had heard that exact cry from my wife the night we lost Tabitha, the night I took her away. Could you hear her crying from your house? The deck of cards was sitting on the bar when I got to work that day.

The back design was still the steer skull with the glowing eyes. I didn't remember Mr. 13 leaving him behind, but I wasn't surprised to find him either. I opened the box and fan through the deck, praying I wouldn't find what I expected to find. I missed it on the first pass. But when I scanned the cards again, just to make sure my heart jumped into my throat, When I discovered the blood-stained six of hearts tucked in the middle, I held it up. Staring at it as tears filled my eyes, I took the cards and locked them in the bars safe. I knew if I stared at them long enough, I'd be tempted to play another hand.

That's why Mr. 13 left him for me to find. Attempt me. To have me try my luck again. I want to say I kept him locked in that safe. I want to say that if I did play again, I would resign me. my fate to the cards and not sacrifice another in my plays, but I've played the game five times now. Five fucking times. Every single time I've taken the coward's exit.

Every time I sacrifice someone else. I would tell myself this was the last time. I would lock the cards in the safe swearing never again. A few days would pass. And the idea would enter my brain to play again take another chance to make things right. Next thing I knew, I was entering the combination and retrieving the cards, swearing that if I won, not only would I get my daughter back, I'd bring back the girl who took my place on the cross, not girl, girls.

Five have taken my place now. All under the age of ten. Two of the games. I never even made it close to the final row before decimating my draw deck. The other two I couldn't commit to the cards. Too much chance. unwilling to take the risk. I feel trapped, stuck in a loop of hope,

desperation and regret. In the last game, I wasn't even using Mr. 13's deck. I just got home after a night of resisting the urge to pull the fucking thing from the safe when I got the idea to play a few practice hands to get better at counting cards. When I turned over the card to represent myself on the cross, my heart jumped when I saw the same bloody jack of diamonds.

I knew at that point I would never be finished with the game until I had played the game all the way to the end, win or lose. So that's what I decided to do, Angela. If you stayed with me this far, you're probably asking yourself, what does all this have to do with you? Once this final hand is finished, I'll put the deck and this letter in the mail for you. You and your wife were so kind and thoughtful after what happened with Tabitha. You went above and beyond neighborly duty. You were there for my wife when I couldn't, or more truthfully, when I wouldn't. You helped her through a very tough time, and I will always be grateful for that.

I also heard about your wife's cancer, how it came back and took a turn for the worst last year. I wanted to reach out then, but I wasn't sure what to say. I'm sorry for your Los Angeles. Truly, I am. And while the initial hurt might be gone, that deep ache inside your heart, it never goes away. It lingers. Eats away at you.

But if these cards do what Mr. 13 says they do, I figured you might want the opportunity to get her back. Whether I'm repaying a kindness or spreading a curse depends on your perspective. and your luck, whatever you choose to do. Please be a better person than I was. Play your hand all the way through to the end. Don't sacrifice someone else. Good luck.

Jack. After reading the letter, I opened the deck. Six of the cards were disfigured with red splotches like blood on the front. Six of hearts, three of clubs, nine of spades, ace of clubs. eight of hearts, and the Jack of Diamonds. I called my brother, who's a detective up in Michigan, to ask if he could nose around, see what he could dig up about Jack. His search led to a coroner's report of a man found dead in a rail yard 20 miles north of Cincinnati.

His body had been desecrated with a symbol linked to a string of missing children in the area. It was an ongoing investigation, so they withheld his name, but the description and age lined up, as did the date of death. same as the postmark on my letter. I had thought to tell my brother about the letter and the deck of cards from Jack, but that's where it stayed. I'm not sure I believe Jack's story, or if the cards would work for me the same way they worked for Jack.

Until I find out, the cards are locked away in a safety deposit box. Out of sight, out of mind. For now, at least. M-U-U-O-O-Z-C-C-N-Y-B. 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 128, Coward's Crucifix, consigned by Chris Hicks, starring Jessica McAvoy, Trevor Shand, and Jared Griffiths, 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 Shand. Follow us on Instagram and Twitter at Antiquarium Pod. Call the Antiquarium at 646-481-7197.