Lot 091 : Discharge

K equals T.

Ah, there you are.

I had a feeling you'd wander in tonight.

There's a restlessness about you.

The same kind I see in travelers who've gone too far down roads they weren't meant to walk.

Sit.

Sit.

I've got something peculiar to show you.

Lot 091.

A note.

Paper yellowed.

Edges curling.

Stained by something I would not care to test.

Written in a shaky hand as though the author knew their time was near.

They say it was found in the waiting room of a hospital no one admits exists.

And what was written upon it?

Well,

that's where the story begins.

This one's a medical anomaly I like to call...

discharge.

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 Holly Fajron,

X-Link777,

All hail, Cthulhu,

Kiki Bones,

Taut Carabina,

Dulce,

De Blince,

Nagnora,

Jelrain,

and

the Ambassador of Worlds.

We are ever appreciative of your devotion to the Order.

Go to theObsidian Covenant.com to receive the sacrament.

Now,

where were we?

Oh, yes.

Welcome to the Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings

and Odd Goings On.

I took my friend to the ER late at night.

I think we went to the wrong hospital.

It was past midnight when Chris and I left the old 24-hour diner at the edge of town.

We had spent the evening catching up over burgers and coffee, talking about high school memories and future plans that would likely never materialize.

As we strolled toward my car, parked a little further down the block, Chris

slowed his pace.

I glanced over and noticed him rubbing his temples.

He was pale.

Shit, everything okay, man?

Too much greasy diner food?

Chris shook his head, wincing as he leaned against a nearby lamppost.

No,

it's

different.

Everything's spinning.

He grimaced, clutching his stomach as he swayed on his feet.

I rushed over and grabbed him by the arm just as his legs gave out.

His breathing was ragged, each breath shallow and strained.

A jolt of panic shot through me.

I wasn't sure what was happening, but it was more than just a bad murder.

Come on.

We need to get you to the hospital, I said, guiding him toward the the car.

We barely made it to the passenger seat before he collapsed completely.

I managed to push him inside, buckling his seatbelt as his head lolled against the window.

His breathing had grown faint.

His skin cold.

I didn't waste any more time.

I jumped into the driver's seat and sped toward the hospital.

The roads were empty.

The entire town blanketed in a pale bluish light that made everything look strangely surreal.

When the hospital finally came into view, I pulled up to the emergency entrance and skidded to a stop.

The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, and I half dragged, half carried Chris inside.

The bright fluorescent lights inside the emergency room burned my eyes as I shouted for help.

Somebody!

A nurse and a security guard rushed over immediately.

Chris was placed on a gurney and whisked away into a triage room.

I tried to follow, but the nurse held up a hand.

You need to stay in the waiting room, sir.

Reluctantly, I turned back and made my way into the waiting room.

It was a small, uninviting space lined with rows of faded plastic chairs.

The harsh lighting overhead buzzed like a hive of angry bees, casting a cold, sterile glow over everything.

The air smelt faintly of antiseptic, with a hint of something stale.

like old coffee or cheap hospital food.

The reception desk sat at the far end of the room, cluttered with stacks of paperwork and a dusty computer monitor.

Behind the desk, a tired-looking receptionist typed away with little enthusiasm, barely glancing up as I entered.

She looked like she'd been working the night shift for years,

with deep shadows under her eyes and a weary slump in her posture.

A glass partition separated her from the waiting area, with a small sliding window used to speak to patients.

Aside from the receptionist, there were only a few other people scattered around the room.

A middle-aged man in a wrinkled jacket sat slumped in a chair, staring blankly at the floor tiles, his face pale and drawn.

Across from him, a young woman scrolled through her phone, her foot tapping rhythmically against the leg of the chair.

In the far corner, an elderly woman with a hunched back knitted quietly, her lips moving as she murmured to herself, though I couldn't make out the words.

The wall-mounted TV flickered above,

showing a muted news broadcast with closed captions scrolling across the screen.

Next to it, a clock ticked irregularly,

the second hand jerking with each movement as though struggling to keep time.

The room itself seemed caught in some liminal state.

I chose a seat near the corner, trying to calm my breathing.

My heart was still racing from the rush to the hospital.

The seat beneath me was stiff and uncomfortable, offering little relief from the tension gripping my body.

I shifted when I felt something crinkle under my leg.

Frowning, I reached down and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper that had been wedged into the chair.

It was old and yellowed at the edges, like it had been left there for a while.

Curious, I unfolded the paper and smoothed it out of my lap.

The handwriting was rushed, uneven, as if whoever wrote it had been in a hurry or panicked.

The list was numbered.

And as I began to read, I couldn't help but feel a mix of surprise and amusement at what was written there.

Rule one.

Avoid making eye contact with a receptionist between 2 a.m.

and 2.30 a.m.

I raised an eyebrow.

That seemed oddly specific.

Why would anyone write something like that?

I glanced over at the receptionist who was still tapping away at her keyboard, oblivious to the rest of the room.

Was this some sort of prank?

The idea made me smirk a little, despite the heaviness in the air.

Rule two.

Never walk past the reception desk without greeting the receptionist after 2:30 a.m.

I let out a short, dry laugh.

So I'm supposed to be polite now.

It was also ridiculous.

Maybe someone had written this as a joke to mess with the people stuck here at odd hours, bored out of their fucking minds.

I could imagine some night shifter scribbling out these rules as a way to pass the time.

Rule three.

If a visitor arrives asking for directions, do not help them.

I paused.

That one was...

strange.

It carried a different weight compared to the others.

Who wouldn't help someone lost in a hospital, of all places?

Wolve 4.

If you hear your friend's voice calling from down the hallway, do not leave the waiting room to look for them.

The amusement drained from my expression.

I felt a chill run up my spine, as if the temperature in the room had just dropped a few degrees.

I glanced toward the dimly lit hallway that led to the ER rooms.

It seemed to stretch into darkness.

I shook my head, pushing the thought away.

This list was just some random nonsense,

wasn't it?

I continued reading, my curiosity now tinged with unease.

Rule five.

If a power outage occurs, stay seated and do not move.

Rule six.

If a door that should be locked is found open, close it immediately and do not look inside.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

I couldn't explain why.

But each rule seemed to grow darker, more foreboding as I read on.

It wasn't just the content of the rules.

It was the way they were written.

As if someone were trying to warn me.

Rule 7.

Do not look through the glass doors leading to the courtyard after 4 a.m.

Rule 8.

If you feel a sudden chill, do not look over your shoulder.

That one made me swallow hard.

There was something inherently unsettling about the thought of a chill creeping up on you from behind and not being able to turn around to see what or who might be there.

I couldn't help but glance behind me, but there was nothing there.

Just the same sterile room with its faded chairs and buzzing lights.

I reached the last rule.

And for some reason, my heart beat a little faster.

Rule 9.

If a security guard tells you it's time to leave, check the clock.

It's not safe to leave until after 6 a.m.

My gaze flicked up to the wall-mounted clock, its second hand twitching with every tick.

It read 1.30 a.m.

At the bottom of the paper, written in shaky red red ink, were the words.

Trust me.

I learned the hard way.

There was a dark, crusted stain on the corner.

One that looked disturbingly like dry blood.

The sight of it made my stomach twist.

I rubbed my fingers over the words, feeling the rough texture of the ink beneath my skin.

I couldn't help but let out a short, nervous laugh.

What the fuck kind of place is this?

I slumped back into the chair.

It was hard to shake the nagging feeling in the back of my mind, but I forced myself to dismiss it as a weird prank.

The list couldn't actually mean anything, just someone's twisted idea of a joke.

I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, trying to calm my thoughts.

Part of me couldn't stop thinking about Chris and the way he collapsed in the parking lot.

The quiet hum of the waiting room wrapped itself around me, making the place feel even more isolating.

That's

when I heard it.

My name.

Adam.

Spoken in a low, barely audible voice that seemed to drift down the hallway.

My eyes shot open and my body tensed.

The voice was unmistakable.

It was Chris.

I jerked my head towards a corridor leading to the ER rooms, but there was no one in sight.

Just the pale, overhead lights flickering.

I jumped up from the chair, the sound of my name sending shivers down my spine.

My feet were already moving before I realized it.

I took a few steps into the hallway.

I glanced back at the waiting area, now a few steps behind me.

The other visitors, still scattered about, seemed completely unaware.

Oblivious to the voice echoing down the hall,

Chris's voice was more desperate now, laced with pain.

I took another step down the hallway, my footsteps echoing against the floor.

As I walked deeper into the corridor, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed louder, some of them flickering out completely, leaving long stretches of darkness.

The ER rooms line the sides of the hallway, their doors slightly ajar.

I hesitated as I reached one of the open doorways.

I peered inside and immediately wished I hadn't.

Standing in the center of the dimly lit room was a man in a patient's gown, facing me.

The man's head moved in quick, jerking motions, shaking from side to side so rapidly that I couldn't make out any details.

It was just a blur.

A sickening blur.

Then, without warning,

the door slammed shut with a deafening bang.

And I stumbled back in shock.

My breathing grew shallow as I tried to make sense of what I'd just seen.

But there was no time to process it.

Chris's voice came again, further down the hallway.

I pushed forward, forcing myself to continue.

The unsettling darkness around me seemed to press in from all sides.

I came across another room, the door half open.

Inside, I could see a doctor standing over a patient, his back hunched as he examined something on the table.

The doctor wore a white lab coat and surgical mask, his features obscured.

But there was something off about the way he moved.

His motions were robotic.

Then I noticed a tool in his hand.

A bone saw.

He raised it slowly, the harsh metal glinting under the dim light.

And then I heard a gut-wrenching scream on the patient on the table.

I stumbled backward, slamming into the wall behind me, my eyes wide with terror.

I looked back into the room.

It was empty.

There was no doctor.

No patient.

Just a dark, vacant space.

My hands trembled as I rubbed my face,

trying to snap out of whatever hallucination I was trapped in.

This can't be real.

The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of me, and Chris's voice continued to call out,

drawing me further in.

As I turned the next corner, I froze.

There,

Hanging in the doorway of a nearby room, was a mass of dark hair, long and tangled, spilling down from just beyond the doorframe.

It looked like someone was standing behind the door,

peeking around the corner.

A single eye, black as pitch, stared directly at me from the darkness.

I felt a wave of nausea wash over me.

The figure remained there.

Still and silent, just watching me.

I took a slow step forward, and then the eye pulled back into the shadows, disappearing from view.

The hallway was deathly quiet,

save for the low hum of the lights.

I forced myself to move past the doorway, my pulse hammering in my ear.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the figure again,

just around the corner of the room.

Her head unnaturally high, as if she were crunched against the ceiling.

I could see more of her this time.

Her elongated arms stretched out.

The bony hand reaching towards me.

Before I could react, the hand brushed my shoulder.

Its fingers scratched into my skin like claws.

My shoes squeaking on the tile as I raced down the hallway.

I had no idea where I was going.

I just wanted to get away from whatever that thing was.

I threw open the first door I saw and stumbled back into the waiting room.

My heart pounded in my chest as I staggered to a stop.

Everything appeared normal again.

The reception desk, the plastic chairs, the other visitors who hadn't moved an inch.

It was as if none of it happened.

But my skin prickled with the lingering touch of that hand.

Glancing at my shoulder, I noticed three faded scratch marks.

A reminder that something was very,

very wrong.

I slumped back into a chair, catching my breath, trying to make sense of the nightmare I'd just experienced.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled list of rules, my hands trembling as I unfolded it.

I glanced at Rule 4 again, the words seeming to taunt me.

If you hear your friend's voice calling from down the hallway, do not leave the waiting room to to look for them.

I had ignored it.

And now I was starting to believe that those rules weren't a joke after all.

I tried to calm myself, my breathing coming in short, ragged gasps as I leaned back in the chair.

I ran my hands through my hair, trying to force myself to think rationally.

Maybe I was just sleep-deprived, or...

Maybe the stress of seeing Chris collapse was catching up to me.

I don't know.

I told myself that I'd only imagined the things I saw in the hallway.

But no matter how hard I tried to convince myself, the feeling of that cold hand brushing against my skin lingered.

I glanced at the clock.

1.45 a.m.

The minutes seemed to crawl by.

I couldn't shake the dread that had settled in my chest.

My thoughts drifted back to the list of rules.

Each one seemed ridiculous on its own.

But after my experience in the hallway, I found myself paying much closer attention to each word.

That was when I noticed him.

A man who hadn't been in the room before.

He stood near the entrance, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his long coat, his eyes scanning the waiting room like he was searching for someone.

His presence sent a jolt of unease through me.

I was sure he hadn't been there earlier.

I would have remembered his tall, lanky figure and the unsettling way his gaze seemed to linger on the other visitors one by one.

The list.

I pulled it from my pocket and read the third rule again.

Could be one of the old lanterns again.

Can't have the whole shop going up in flames.

Not with you here.

And this note in your hands.

Don't move.

Don't breathe too loud.

I'll be back.

Why, hello there.

You've reached the antiquarium.

If you wish to leave a message, please do so at the town and have a great day.

I bought a painting of a beautiful Victorian woman from your shop.

She's

alive in there.

She's trapped.

And she's my friend.

She says,

I only have to kill one more innocent and she'll be free.

I think I will.

I will.

End of messages.

Ah, false alarm.

Just a wire sparking in an old radio.

Nasty habit of that one.

But where were we?

Yes.

The hospital note.

The handwriting grows more erratic here.

Like whoever held the pen was being hurried along by something pressing in close.

Listen carefully, because once the words turn, you will feel the air in this room shift with them.

I pulled it from my pocket and read the third rule again.

If a visitor arrives asking for directions, do not help them.

The man's gaze found me, and he started walking toward where I sat.

My body stiffened, every muscle tensing involuntarily.

There was no mistaking his intention.

He stopped a few feet away, leaning slightly forward as though inspecting me.

Excuse me.

Could you help me find the ICU?

I seem to be a little lost.

The tone of his voice was polite enough, but there was something off about it.

Something that put me on edge.

It was as though he was trying to mimic normal speech, but wasn't quite getting it right.

I glanced around the waiting room, but no one else seemed to notice the man's presence.

The receptionist didn't even look up.

I shook my head, gripping the list tighter in my hand.

I'm sorry, I can't help you.

The man didn't move.

He just kept staring at me, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Are you sure?

His voice growing softer, almost coaxing.

It won't take but a moment.

It's just down the hall,

right?

I didn't know what to say.

Part of me felt guilty for not helping him.

But the words on the list kept flashing in my mind.

Do not

help them.

I forced myself to look away, hoping he would take the hint and leave.

But instead,

he took a step closer.

It's not very kind to ignore someone who needs help.

I glanced at his face, and for a split second, his features seemed to shift.

His mouth stretched into a wide, unnatural grin, the kind that didn't belong on a human face.

The corners of his lips seemed to extend too far.

The teeth behind them slightly jagged.

I shot up from my chair, stumbling backward.

The man's smile didn't waver as he turned his head slightly, like he was examining me from a different angle.

Then, he turned towards the reception desk and started walking, slowly and unnatural.

At one point, his head snapped towards me, but the same grin on his face as he continued walking.

I froze.

I couldn't look away.

Then, as he reached the reception desk, he just passed through it.

And then he suddenly disappeared.

My gaze darted around the waiting room.

The other visitors were still exactly where they'd been moments ago, their expressions unchanged, their movements as mechanical as before.

I glanced back at the receptionist.

She was still at her desk, her face illuminated by the pale glow of the computer screen.

My gaze flickered up to the clock on the wall.

It was 1:58 a.m.

And Rule 1 flashed in my mind: Avoid making eye contact with the receptionist between 2 a.m.

and 2.30 a.m.

After a few minutes, I glanced toward her, my eyes drifting out of habit.

It was just for a second.

The receptionist

was staring

straight at me.

Her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my heart skip a beat.

She wasn't moving.

It was as if

she'd been waiting for this moment.

I tore my gaze away, my pulse quickening.

As I turned my head out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her get up from her chair.

Her movements oddly stiff, as though her joints didn't bend the right way.

She walked forward, but not around the reception desk.

She passed through it, like it wasn't even there.

I froze, not daring to look directly at her again.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

I felt the air grow colder, the chill pressing against my skin.

It felt as if you were getting closer.

I could hear the faintest rustle of fabric, the light creak of footsteps on the floor, growing louder with each passing second.

Don't look, don't look, don't look, don't look.

My hands gripping the edges of the chair, I sat there,

tense and unmoving, my eyes squeezed shut as if I could

wash her away by sheer force of will.

Then

everything went still.

The room fell into silence.

The buzz of the fluorescent lights the only sound left to ground me in reality.

I opened my eyes slowly, half expecting to see her standing inches away from me, her face contorted into something inhuman.

But the receptionist was back at her desk, looking down at the monitor.

Her posture was unbothered as if she hadn't moved at all.

The other people in the waiting room seemed unchanged, as though nothing unusual had happened.

I glanced at the clock:

2:40 a.m.

My shoulders sagging as the tension finally started to leave my body.

I forced myself to my feet, my legs still shaky beneath me.

I couldn't just sit there, feeling like a trapped animal.

I needed to move, to clear my head.

As I got up to walk around the room, I remembered Rule 2.

Never walk past the reception desk without greeting the receptionist after 2.30 a.m.

I wasn't about to take any more chances.

I turned toward the receptionist and gave her a nod, trying to keep my voice steady.

Um,

hi.

She didn't look up, didn't react at all, just continued to type away on the keyboard.

I took that as a good sign and began walking a slow circle around the waiting room, forcing myself to stay calm.

to pretend that everything was normal.

The chill in the air hadn't entirely left.

As I walked, I could feel a subtle shift in the temperature, a lingering cold that seemed to follow me.

The overhead lights flickered faintly, casting brief shadows along the walls, giving the impression that the room was expanding and contracting with each pulse.

As I rounded the corner, I felt the presence behind me,

something that wasn't there before.

I didn't hear footsteps, but I sensed it nonetheless,

like Like the weight of unseen eyes pressing against my back.

It was close.

Just out of reach.

My instinct was to turn and look, to confront whatever was creeping up from behind me.

But I clenched my jaw and kept my gaze forward, remembering Rule 8.

If you feel a sudden chill, do not look over your shoulder.

I walked faster, my pulse quickening as the chill seemed to grow stronger with every step.

The lights buzzed louder, the flickering more erratic.

I felt something brush against the back of my neck, cold and light, like a breath.

I didn't stop until I reached the chairs again, sinking into one with a shuddering breath.

The presence faded, though the air remained icy, and I rubbed my hands together to warm them.

I glanced back toward the reception desk, half expecting to see the receptionist watching me again.

But she remained focused on her monitor, her face lit by the soft glow of the screen.

I leaned back in the chair, my heart still racing.

I couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

That the rules on that crumpled piece of paper weren't just random scribbles left behind to scare people.

Whatever game I'd found myself in, it wasn't a joke.

And now, the only way out seemed to be playing along.

I sat there for a long moment, my body trembling, trying to calm my nerves and slow my breathing.

That's when I heard the automatic doors slide open with a soft hiss.

I looked up.

expecting to see another late-night visitor or a nurse making rounds, but my heart almost stopped when I saw who stepped inside.

Chris's eyes found mine, and he broke into a small smile as he walked over.

Hey, Adam.

Well, they let me out early.

The relief was so overwhelming that I laughed out loud.

Chris, fuck.

Man, you scared the shit out of me.

Are you sure you're okay?

He shrugged, giving a dismissive wave of his hand as he settled into the chair next to me.

Yeah, I'm fine now.

Whatever it was,

I guess it passed.

They ran a few tests and said there was nothing serious.

He flashed that familiar grin, the one I'd seen a thousand times.

Guess I'm just too stubborn to stay sick.

As we talked,

something in the back of my mind itched.

There was an unsettling quality to the conversation, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

Chris was acting normal.

Too normal.

He was speaking in a calm, deliberate tone, his words perfectly measured.

I brushed it off, figuring it was just my nerves playing tricks on me after everything that had happened tonight.

Still, as Chris continued to talk, a strange sense of deja vu settled over me.

It was as if the conversation was looping back on itself, repeating the same phrases.

His voice had the same rhythm, the same inflection, almost like a recording on a loop.

Suddenly,

I turned to see a nurse walking briskly down the hallway pushing a gurney.

My stomach dropped when I saw who was lying on it.

It was Chris.

He was unconscious.

Hooked up to a heart monitor, an oxygen mask over his face.

My gaze darted back to the seat next to me,

but the chair was empty.

The Chris who'd been sitting beside me was gone.

Vanished as though he'd never been there at all.

My skin prickled as a wave of cold panic spread through me.

I stared at the empty chair for a long moment, my heart pounding in my ears.

Then,

I saw the nurse walking by the waiting room.

She glanced over at me briefly, her expression neutral.

I jumped up from my chair.

Wait,

is Chris okay?

My friend Chris, he was.

he was just sitting here.

What is going on?

The nurse slowed, turning to look at me with a small, tight-lipped smile.

Your friend is stable,

but he hasn't woken up yet.

Her words hung in the air, leaving me cold and confused.

I glanced back at the empty seat, then at the nurse as she continued down the ER hallway.

My head was spinning.

Had Chris really been here?

Or had I just imagined him?

I sank back into my chair.

My body heavy with fatigue and fear.

I glanced at the clock again.

3 a.m.

Time was moving, but not in the way it should have.

I felt trapped, as though the minutes were pulling me further into the unknown.

I pulled the crumpled list of rules from my pocket and unfolded it with trembling hands, my eyes scanning the lines again, looking for answers that weren't there.

I needed to understand what was happening to me.

What was happening in this place.

But the rules only deepened the mystery.

The words twisting in my mind like a riddle I couldn't solve.

Time seemed to move strangely now.

I couldn't tell how long I'd been sitting in that chair, how long I'd been wandering the room.

The clock above seemed to skip minutes or stall entirely, and my sense of reality continued to blur.

Trying to shake off the fatigue that clung to me like a shroud, I glanced at the clock again.

It showed 5:55 a.m.

Almost there.

Almost free.

That was when a security guard appeared in the doorway, the silhouette casting a long shadow across the waiting room floor.

He was a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed mustache and a calm, almost reassuring presence.

He walked toward me with an easy stride and stopped just a few feet away.

Sir.

It's time to leave.

The ER is closing for non-patient visitors.

I blinked.

My thoughts caught up to me slowly.

But my friend, Chris, he's still.

Just then,

I saw Chris

walking out of the ER hallway.

He waved to me, a tired but genuine smile on his face.

Relief flooded through me, and I started to get up.

Then hesitated, the words from Rule 9 echoing in my head.

If a security guard tells you it's time to leave, check the clock.

It's not safe to leave until after 6 a.m.

I turned my gaze toward the clock above the reception desk.

6.01 a.m.

My shoulders sagged in relief.

I was finally free of this place.

I nodded and followed the security guard toward the exit, Chris walking beside me.

As we stepped into the cool morning air, I felt like I could finally breathe again.

We got into my car and I started the engine.

I felt a small smile tug at my lips.

I pulled out of the hospital parking lot.

The tension in my chest slowly began to fade.

But as I drove, a strange unease crept over me.

The world outside the car windows seemed darker than it should have been.

I glanced at the sky.

It was still the deep, inky black,

with no trace of the early morning light.

It was too dark.

Too quiet.

I squinted, peering between the trees lining the road, and my heart skipped a beat.

In the shadows, I saw faint figures standing there, their forms barely visible, distorted as if they were made of mist.

Panic surged through me.

I glanced at the dashboard clock and my stomach dropped.

4.3 a.m.

How is that possible?

It had been well past 6 a.m.

when we left the hospital.

I turned to look at Chris in the passenger seat, my heart pounding in my ears.

But it wasn't Chris.

There was a shadow there, sitting beside me.

Its form was a vague silhouette, its face obscured.

But I could feel it watching me, feel its eyes boring into my skin.

My grip on the steering wheel tightening as my vision blurred with fear, I slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt in the middle of the road.

Suddenly, I was back in the waiting room, seated in the same stiff plastic chair.

The security guard stood in front of me, a grin spreading slowly across his face, his eyes unnaturally wide and gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light.

Come on, time to leave.

I felt my mind start to unravel.

Had I ever left the hospital at all?

Was I trapped here?

Destined to relive those twisted events over and over again?

I buried my face in my hands as a sense of hopelessness washed over me.

It felt like hours passed.

But it could have been minutes or even seconds.

I don't know anymore.

I was dimly aware of a nurse standing in front of me, her voice calm and soothing, pulling me back from the edge.

Sir, your friend is stable.

He's going to be okay, but he needs rest.

He'll be transferred to a hospital room soon, and you can visit him during regular visiting hours.

I looked up at her.

My vision clearing slowly.

The waiting room was just as it had been.

No sign of the security guard or anything out of the ordinary.

I glanced at the clock.

It read 6.30 a.m.

And a soft glow of morning sunlight filtered through the glass doors, filling the room with a warm light.

The nightmare was over.

I nodded to the nurse, murmuring my thanks and stumbled out of the ER,

the cool morning air a welcome relief.

As I reached my car, I glanced back at the hospital, half expecting to see something out of place.

But it looked like any other hospital in the early light, mundane and unthreatening.

I got in the car and drove home, the sun finally rising to chase away the last remnants of darkness.

Later that day, I returned to the hospital to visit Chris.

He was awake, sitting up in bed and looking surprisingly well for someone who had collapsed so suddenly the night before.

Hey, man,

how you feeling?

Better than I should, I guess.

But I had the weirdest dreams last night.

It was like I was half-conscious the whole time.

My heart skipped a beat.

What kind of dreams, man?

Chris frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall.

One of them was, uh, I came in the ER and saw you sitting in the waiting room.

You looked pretty freaked out.

And there was another one.

We were leaving the hospital together.

Just driving away into the night.

A cold shiver ran down my spine, but I forced a smile and nodded.

Yeah, that's

looking weird, man.

My mind racing with the memory of the night's events.

As we sat there talking, I glanced at my shoulder,

where a constant pain kept tugging at me, and saw the three scratch marks from last night.

I couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere...

Out there in the darkness of the night I had just escaped.

Something was still waiting.

And the rules of this place

would not be so easily forgotten.

C-Q-N-R-E-M-A-R-Y-B-O-X-A-N-E-N-A.

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 antiquariumshop 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.

You have a good night now.

The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings.

Lot 091.

I took my friend to the ER late at night.

I don't think we were in the real hospital anymore.

Written by Creepy Stories JR, featuring Trevor Shand as Adam, Conan Freeman as Chris, Gwyneth Glover as the Note, Mark Lapointe as the Man, Jared Rivet as the security guard.

Visit Creepy Stories JR on YouTube for more, featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer.

Engineering production and sound design by Trevor Shand.

Theme music by the Newton Brothers.

Additional music by Coag, Vivek Abishek, 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.

Hello, and welcome to the world of Scare You to Sleep.

I'm your host, Shelby Novak, a show for those of us who need something a little stronger than counting sheep, who find horror to be a strangely relaxing escape.

Here you'll find a myriad of fright-filled tales, from fictional to true stories, to high strangeness to guided nightmares, where I take you on a journey through your own personal nightmare.

So come get lost in the terror with me.

Listen to Scare You to Sleep, wherever you listen to podcasts, Sweet Screams.