The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 153: Headlights On….Headlights Off

Episode Date: October 8, 2026

Lot 153: Headlights On….Headlights Off Consigned by T.J. LeaStarring Laura LockwoodJarret Griffis Featuring Stephen Knowles as The Antique Dealer Theme music by The Newton Brothers Produced by Kevin Seaman Additional music byCO.AG ([e-mail]) Clement Panchout Vivek Abhishek SUBSCRIBE to them on YOUTUBE: / vivekhsihba  LIKE them on FACEBOOK:  https://rb.gy/nhgn0iFollow them on Spotify/ iTunes/ Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/rxdcjqt Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome back. This rain does not let up. There are rules we follow because they make sense. Stop at a red light. Look both ways before crossing. Don't put your hand into anything with teeth. Then there are rules whose purpose is somewhat less obvious. Don't whistle after dark.

Never answer a voice calling from the woods. and apparently never turn on your headlights. Today's acquisition is a rather weathered roadside, hand-painted, poorly spelled, and accompanied by a small hand-ridden note bearing one rather emphatic instruction. Do not turn on your headlights. Personally, I've found that the less explanation accompanying a rule, the more inclined I am to follow it,

it. The account accompanying your new sign is entitled Headlights on, Headlights Off. 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 Della Tango, Calypso's mom, Nathan Castle,

Bobe, Lab Lizzie. We are ever appreciative of your devotion to The Order. Go to The Obsidiancovenant.com to receive the sacrament. Now,

where were... Oh, yes. Welcome to the antiquarium of sinister happenings and odd goings on. They say this trail covers ancient land that the things you find

along here aren't for the normal-minded to see. Honestly, I just took a detour after a rough night and decided that this was a good excuse to lengthen out my drive and listen to some good music. But now I'm dictating my thoughts to my notepad like a neurotic asshole because a stream of consciousness spoken to nobody seems too weird to me. I'd rather be

Dale Cooper than Jack Torrance. The in-car system still lets dulcet tones from my lo-fi playlist hang in the air, the wonders of modern technology, I suppose. Not so loud that it drowns out my thoughts or interrupts the beauty of the drive, but enough to allow me to be introspective and feel like I'm going on my own trip of self-discovery. Right, the trip, of course. The first thing you see as you come off the last exit, turning on the finely paved concrete, is a series of signs that lead off onto a dirt road

that stretches into the darkness and dips out of sight. The first was the normal highway sign, standing at the back with a slight crook to the side, the paint flaking away at the edges, but the sign shimmering in front of my car's lights. A705N A705S M Road 300 yards west There was a crude sign hanging in front

Practically peering down at me From a clearly damaged pole in the dirt The letters scratched and blotchy Stretching out in front of you is a featured oddity Within UB. Dedra's dusk light circus The transfixing allure of the myopic road beckons all. Simply start your journey and let the delights find you. A small post-it note had been attached to the bottom, hastily scribbled. Remember, do not turn on your headlights. Do not expose the

trail ahead. Drive slow and drive safe. It's the dead of night. This part of the country doesn't have many folks out to these back roads at the best of times, and quarantined simply exacerbated that. I took a deep breath and looked at my knuckles as they gripped the steering wheel. Skin tearing away and raw flesh exposed, stinging in the wake of the biting cold. I thought of what I had driven away from, what I'm always trying to get away from. I close my eyes and see the looming red shapes, the haze of anger and the hot flush of pain. I gripped the steering wheel tighter. and clench my teeth as I put my foot down and turn the wheel towards the road.

The myopic road is simply an unofficial title, of course. No planning committee would sign off on such a strange name. Not even a very subtle one, for that matter. Short-sighted because of the sheer darkness enveloping the trail from side to side, inevitably causing accidents. Our ancestors have a very ugly sense of humor. But it was fitting. The road was something of an anomaly in my hometown, and while nobody had been actively dissuaded from going down it, nobody ever needed to reinforce the fear we all felt.

The accidents were a frequent enough reminder. If you drove down the road with respect and patience, they say it's just a good place to cleanse the mind and help you focus. Plenty have come out the other side without problems, or so they say. but there were many, far too many, who didn't obey the rules, didn't heed them or even see them. Be it someone intoxicated behind the wheel, those escaping the law, joyriders are just general thrill seekers, they all would inexplicably find themselves coming down the myopic road,

and they would almost always find themselves mating an ugly end. Sometimes patrol cars would find the wreckage after a couple of days. Scraps of their clothing, maybe an identifiable piece of the person. Other times, a single liver could find itself draped over the sign leading into the trail 10 years after its owner went missing. But oftentimes, most people didn't get found at all. No vehicle. No trace.

When police officers would pursue. offenders towards this trail, they'd simply stop at the threshold and flash their headlights, desperately trying to convince them to come back, that any fate is better than what lay down that road. Or maybe they were hoping, wishing in vain that the driver had seen the one rule when traversing down the myopic road. Do not turn on your headlights. So, here I am. I've been driving for about 10 minutes now at a relatively slow pace. The moonlight above has helped me see just a bit ahead, and I can feel my mind wandering. I remember one of the last things I said out loud to a living, breathing person.

How dare you? I'm not standing for this bullshit anymore. You hear me? I hope you fucking choke. I remember the hot bile in my throat and my shaking fists as I spat venom in their face. Their eyes wide and full of fear and rage. I remember my fist connecting with their jaw over and over before I finally, I had to stop.

There's something in the road. The clearing is narrowing. These huge trees permeate every aspect of my windscreen and tower over me. They're old, and some are gnarled. The bark is blackened and small insects crawl over them. I think I see birds perched on a pair of branches just above me, but I can't recall ever seeing birds with necks that long, or eyes that white.

The moon's light is beginning to wane, and the further I traverse, the harder it is to make things out. But it didn't stop me seeing the thing some 20 feet ahead of me, hunched over, as if vomiting, shoulders rotating and shuddering. as the hind legs rear up. My hand instinctively goes for the little dial that turns on my headlights, and I stop myself. Do not turn on the headlights.

I take a look back and try to figure out if I can reverse on the trail, do a three-point turn, and go back. But by now, it's obvious that the embankment on either side is high, and the trees are too close to allow for space. Shit, nothing else for it. I tell myself. I push down on the pedal and move forward slowly,

revving the engine in hopes that this deer-like creature gets the hint and scampers. It doesn't. I see its hind legs rise off the ground and twist toward me, a single bulbous eye fixing on me. I honk the horn on instinct, and this thing immediately drops down to all fours and runs off for the woods. I've been driving again now for a few minutes. The road is getting darker, but I'm doing as instructed and letting my mind wander.

Every kick, shove, punch, and barbed jab, brings me a new wave of renewed anger and disgust. That filthy pig, thinking they could ever make things right, that it was just a one-off, promising, never again. Pathetic. I can still feel my clenched fists gleefully smashing into their face over and over. The crunching of their nose and the tears in their eyes as they begged and pleaded for mercy. Mercy should never be given to scum like that.

A smile curls around my lips as I feel my thighs sear with hot pain. My neck tightening and my entire frame reliving the muscle memory of fights long past. The road was beginning to dip, and I can sense a bend was coming up, not something I expected. It's only when I take a look in my rearview mirror on instinct that I see it. Bloodshot eyes, black fur, eclipsing all of its features, save for the tusks protruding from its top lips. Viscous black liquid dripping off of them. This thing was matching my smile And I watched its fucking pupils dilate

As if it were getting ready to pounce I floor it without thinking And fuck I made the most critical mistake Headlights on It was just for a moment Just to get me away safely from this thing And see where the fuck I was going

But it showed me what was lurking On the sides of the trees clinging to the branches, crawling at the depths of my peripheral vision. I saw flesh move in ways it shouldn't. Human bodies devoid of features, save for long, dark streaks of red. I saw too much. I saw something I didn't wish to see. Their body broken and battered beyond repair, laying in the road,

mangled as if as if they'd been run over by they looked up at me for just a moment headlights off I checked the locks were on the door and burst into tears

shameful, angry tears my knuckles hurt more than ever and razors lined my throat as I hold back a scream I remember grabbing my things and leaving they were choking on the floor and begging me to stay. I remember the fear in their words as they struggled to move broken fingers and speak

between mouthfuls of blood and broken teeth. I remember the hatred I felt for them when I took one last look at them and had all the power in the world, telling them the one thing I knew would haunt them forever. I will go to the one place you cannot follow. You will never have me. I heard them stumble to get up as I went for the door. A slip, a grunt, a bump, a crack, and a slump to the floor. But I did not look back. Not once. I don't like to think of what happened to them, not out of fear for the repercussions, but for fear of returning to my old self that sympathized with them, that coddled to them, that depended on them. Something moved in the trees by my window. It was gangly, small, and flung itself from the base of the trees with arms too wide for its frame,

like a comic book character and shrouded in darkness. The birds overhead are still on that same branch. They've grown in number, and their necks are twisting as they look down at me. I know they're eyeing me up now, the drool from their beaks, coating my windscreen, and hissing as it makes contact. maybe I deserve to be here. Maybe this was my punishment for letting my temper get the better of me and inflicting pain on someone I was supposed to love.

That age-old adage of they deserved it seems hollow in my throat even now when I dictate it. Words crumbling to dust as they pass my teeth and echo when succeeding my lips, hanging in the stale air of my car as a mocking reminder of my pure weakness. I'll show them weakness. Rules are curious things, aren't they?

Eventually, everyone reaches the moment when following one becomes considerably more frightening than breaking it. And that's usually when you discover why it existed in the first place. Forgive me, I should turn off the lights in the front gallery. One moment. Much better, although I don't recall it being quite so dark outside.

No matter. Now then, shall we? I wipe my tears away and look ahead to the now barely lit road. It continues to descend, and I see no signs of it leveling out, but I put my foot down and accelerate regardless. quicker I go, the more begins to reach out from the sides of the car. Sometimes I think I recognize them in that fleeting moment. An old friend I once said something cruel to and jest,

a university roommate whose food I surreptitiously ate when they had little to no money. An ex I'd cheated on. My lover. All of them momentarily highlighted by nothing more than natural lighting and waning instincts. Their faces contorted into hideous expressions of words. rage, malnourished bodies, reaching out with frail limbs as they try to get a hold of my car. I almost don't see them in the road. I slam on my brakes and stare at them.

Their towering figure all the more imposing on the isolation of this road. Not a single scrap of skin left on their body. Only pure, red flesh. Their face full of blood. bruises, a black eye and tears of blood running down their face as what remains of their jaw intonates the same words. Never again! They take long, powerful steps toward the hood of my car.

Never again alone. They place two broken, mangled hands on the sides of the hood and leap forward. Their broken face frozen beyond despair and rage as they rear their head back. and careen their skull into the windscreen over and over as their pained shrieks get louder. The glass threatening to shatter as it distorts under the pressure. Everything floods back, and in that moment I am once again my old self and full of an incalculable fear. But it is only when they speak aloud that full sentence, do I snap out of it?

Never again will you be alone. I will not be that person again. I accelerate fast, break hard and watch as they go flying. Their body greeting the pavement with a vile crunch as they twist and crunch coming to a stop some 15 feet ahead of me, twitching. I feel my knuckles burn as they grip the steering wheel, and I resist the urge to get out and finish the job with my bare hands. Broken promises from a broken person. You will never be anything more. I push hard on the accelerator as the car thunders over them,

offering no resistance as they slip under the tires, and two short, sickening bumps follow as I continue on. It didn't take long for the bravado to slip, however. Ten minutes down the road, I slow to a crawl and roll the window down to vomit between sobs. The air is thick with iron, and I can hear. hear a croaking emanating from the embankment opposite my window. It fills my head with nauseating thoughts and my eyes start to glaze over. But the jerking sensation of my engine stalling is enough to pull me back inside. The road is leveling out now, the moon overhead casting a powerful

yellow glow over the pathway. Now, not dissimilar to that of a super moon, maybe even bigger. I can see the jagged cracks on its surface. Thick blots and... Was the moon always so split? I feel like it's pulsating when I stare at it. Or is it simply getting closer? That is not the moon. There's a small black dot in the center of it,

following me as I start down the road. A low drone, growing in volume. as I pick up speed down this stretch of road, desperate for an exit. How can this go on for so long? Surely there's an end in sight. I feel my thoughts start to spill out and dissipate before I can fully comprehend them, like my mind is a sponge being squeezed of all moisture.

When I look up at the orb, I see thick red veins around the sides, splitting it. It's an eye. Their eye. Never letting me out of their sight for a moment, as was always the way. That drone, their incessant call to action. A threat of what would occur if I didn't respond in a timely fashion. Think what you will of me, but I did what I had to do and I am not sorry for it. They can follow me to the ends of the earth. but I will not apologize for taking a stand. When you love someone, you're supposed to protect them, to make them a part of your heart and entrust yours in kind.

It is safety, trust, vulnerability, and so much more. It is never meant to be a microcosm of fear, subjugation, and pain. I know what the road is doing, what it is showing me. My sins. My failures, my fears. They all go back to them, as they always have done. That last night they had followed me incessantly from room to room, not allowing me a moment's respite,

and like a shadow they clung to me, seeping into my skin and making it burn from the inside out. I could not breathe from the suffocation, both metaphorically and inevitably literally, when I would request space. I don't know what triggered me to finally stand up for myself. Perhaps it was the way they'd been acting

in our latest quarantine staring at me like a predator sizing up a meal. Maybe it was the constant humming over me while I slept, as if grappling with their own instincts to kill. But either way, I felt their thin fingers

wrap around my neck and their barbed words as they spat expletive after expletive. You pathetic pig. Nobody will ever want you the way that I do. You belong to me, and I will do with you as I see fit. You're less than the roadkill birds feed on. They grin and watch as the life faded from my eyes just enough that they could let go

and know I was on the verge of passing out. I heaved as they let me go, still clawing at my thick. throat in a desperate attempt to rid their presence of me, and my soft sobs filling the room. They didn't like that. Oh my God, I don't fucking care. Can you shut up? A powerful kick met my stomach as I lay prone on the ground, their hands over their heads, and genuine anger on their face, as if I'd just spat on them.

You don't ever think about the consequences of your actions, do you? Hmm? Did you ever consider that you wouldn't be here? We wouldn't be here if you just didn't fuck up all the time. I remember they kneeled down, and their bright blue eyes shimmered as they gently cupped my face and flashed that smile that immediately put me under their spell. But I may as well have been face-to-face with a crocodile. You know, I could kill you, and nobody would care about a freak like you, right?

Nobody will ever love you. Never again, you will always be alone. My right hand connected with their jaw, and the force was strong enough to dislocate it in one fell swoop. They collapsed back and looked at me in bewilderment, their eyes full of fear. If anyone walked in on us at that moment, you'd think I was their lifelong tormentor.

They had no understanding of why they deserve to be punished, why they deserved pain and torment. They truly believed in their hearts that they were above such things, and that made me angrier. I can see the thing above growing red. The road is becoming dim, and I can sense that wide-eyed beast is gaining on the car, but I will not relent.

I will not stop. With every successive strike, I felt them wither under my weight. They kept bleeding out that same pathetic line. Never again will always be alone. When they stumbled and fell, I was sure they were close to death from sound alone. Yet I refused to go back and help.

I wanted them to know true loneliness in those final moments, callous, as it may be. I must sound like such a horrible person to you, in spite of everything I endured. But my hands are shaking as I grip the steering wheel. The road has darkened, and as I go slower, I can feel this thing gaining on me, determined to do God knows what once it catches up to me.

The road is beginning to climb now, and the dim light left, I can see a steep curve going up. I will need to push on the accelerator and pits across the road. numerous potholes that could easily stall the car if I'm not careful. I cannot do it in the darkness. Perhaps myopic road is not unlike the journey of self-discovery. We start our maddening descent. We face our troubles at the middling road,

and we continue our road to healing and betterment with the uphill struggle. Or maybe I'm simply terrified beyond belief and wishing to make sense of a place that is, devoid of almost none. I can't go back now. The police will have discovered the body, and no matter what defense I offer, I will be trading one prison for another.

No, this road is all I have left now. I think I will put on some music for the last leg of the journey. The red eye above is pulsating, but I think it is not dissimilar to my lover. If you fight against it and show defiance, it will hold no sway over you, even if fear grips every fiber of my being. Perhaps I won't find anything, and I'll simply go until my car runs out of gas, letting the beasts of this wood take me. Maybe I'll get to the other side and be a free person for the first time in my adult life.

Maybe the shape some ways up the road, towering over the trees with long antlers, jutting out of its skull, will be helpful, not a hindrance. Either way, I must drive. Whatever happens happens. Put yourself before anyone else. Do not let their anger and fear become a catalyst for pain and suffering. You will always have the power to take agency back and break free. Hopefully in a less violent way than I did. The myopic road will be waiting for you when you wish to make your own journey.

Perhaps I will be too. Headlights. 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 right now.

Antiquarium of sinister happenings. Lot 153. Headlights on, headlights off. Consigned by T.J. Lee. Starring Laura Lockwood and Jared Griffiths, featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer. Production and sound design 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 646-481-7197.