Lot 080 : Knock, Knock (CHAPTER 2)

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A equals U.

Well, hello.

Thanks for stopping by, old friend.

I was wondering if you'd return after the last time.

Most hear the knock and decide not to answer.

But here you are.

Here you are indeed.

Drawn to the next piece of the story.

Whether by choice or by something else entirely.

Come this way.

No, no, no need for gloves.

The blood's long since dried.

Or at least it should be.

A rather menacing-looking knife, wouldn't you say?

It's not the blade itself that unsettles me.

It's the way it arrived.

Wrapped in plastic.

Delivered without a return address.

In fact,

the thing was still warm.

What do you say we log back on to Knock Knock,

Chapter 2?

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 Crimson V,

Tass,

Jamie Segara, Vlad the Wolf,

Cheyenne L,

Stacey Alexander, Brittany Turner, Luca Goodlaxon,

Kelly Wilson, and

Nicholas Johnson.

We are ever appreciative of your devotion to the Order.

Go to theObsidianCovenant.com to receive the sacrament.

Now,

where were we?

Oh yes.

Welcome to the Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings

and Odd Goings On.

I am in a lift with Boo the Cat, who I rescued from the apartment of Lucia Tanner.

One of the latest people to disappear after accepting a friend request from the wrong guy on Discord.

Lucia is dead.

I am next.

Here's what I know.

Anyone who accepts a friend request from this guy hears a knocking at their door.

The knocking follows them

everywhere.

As in, it shows up at other doors.

Every door.

It's not a normal knocking.

And as soon as you open the door,

you disappear.

At least, that's what this Discord guy, Tim, told me when he hired me to find out what's going on.

He claims that every time he tries to chat with a person, within about five minutes, they type BRB or hang on a sec, and then they ghost him.

Personally, I have to think there's more to his role than just some innocent guy who can't keep a conversation going because people keep exiting.

When I agreed to investigate for him, I had him send me all the chat histories with the people who friended him over the past two weeks and disappeared.

And the first person I ID'd from the chats was Lucia.

So, that's how I wound up in the lower level of a duplex snooping around an empty apartment while a cat screamed at me.

I finally checked where Boo the cat kept meowing and looking, which was under the bed.

I cannot unsee her.

Lucia's dead.

Screaming face will be in my nightmares for the rest of my life.

Which might not be that long since I'm hearing the knocking now, too.

Been hearing it since chatting with Tim this morning.

And unless I can solve this thing,

my next update will be my obit.

After the lift drops me back at home, I climb into my basement office with Boo through the egress window since I can't use doors.

Releasing the cat to hide under the sofa.

Then I pull up the list of Discord usernames Tim gave me

eight missing people,

but I've only managed to confirm the deaths of two of them: Lucia Tanner and Quentin Sweeten.

Did I mention his email address, quinton.sweeten at gmail.com?

A boomer whose recent birthday will now be a funeral since a neighbor found him tucked in his closet.

His mouth was open in a scream.

I can't stop thinking about it.

The way his eyes were bulged out,

I'll never forget it.

Those were his neighbor's words describing him.

Same way I found Lucia.

Same way I'll probably be found.

The thing about the supernatural is, there are always rules.

They're just not the same ones we're used to governing our world.

The trick to surviving is figuring out a particular entity's playbook before it takes your life.

So, based on the fact that Lucia, Quentin, and I all live in the same geographic area, one of the rules of this knock-knock entity is range.

The knocker's influence in the physical world is restricted by distance.

And this here is the key point.

It's restricted by distance.

But distance from what?

I checked Tim's IP address, compare his location to Quentin and Lucia and me, and lo and behold, he's smack dab in the middle of us, the center around which we all turn.

Either he's the knocker, or he's its first victim.

Next, I run some searches through local news using what I've learned about the deaths so far.

And boom, another victim.

Questions linger in the death of a 15-year-old boy who disappeared after what police described as a prank gone wrong.

According to authorities, Dwayne Skent and two other teenagers boys were live-streaming their reactions to a Discord server where people describe supernatural encounters.

The teens told police that Dwayne was spooked by a story of a ghostly entity knocking on a door.

In a video that has since gone viral, Dwayne can be seen opening the door, screaming, and running from the room.

He was later found unresponsive in the crawl space beneath the house and was pronounced dead at the scene.

Authorities suspect his death to be from natural causes, but an awful

beating on my forehead because

a viral video.

My fingers fly across the keys.

One of Dwayne's friends posted it and removed it, but nothing posted is ever truly gone if you know how to search.

And there.

Got it.

Dwayne's reaction to the prank.

It doesn't show his actual death, of course.

No.

It shows a moment that, from my perspective, is even more important.

I'm about to watch him open the door.

Three teens crowd the screen.

Yo, yo, yo, check this, says one, braces glinting as he flashes a cocky smile.

Seizing the camera.

Blurry footage as a lens zooms in on a laptop with a Discord chat up.

Then the viewpans back to the teen with the silver smile, narrating, explaining they're about to debunk this supernatural bullshit while the second teen aims the camera at him.

Laughter from both.

And then, the view panning to the third, sitting by the laptop.

He waves.

Shy smile.

Pushes his glasses awkwardly up the bridge of his nose.

And my heart sinks.

Because I know what happens to him.

The sweet, nerdy kid.

He's toast.

The wannabe influencer with the silver smile says, This is my man, Dwayne.

He's checking out these scary stories.

Supposedly, in the next five minutes, we're gonna hear a knocking.

What the shit?

Holy shit.

Everything okay up there?

A chubby middle-aged guy with glasses pokes his head into the room.

And the boys groan because

Wannabe influencer and camera boy argue about whether to keep recording or restart.

Meanwhile, half out of view, Dwayne cocks his head like a golden retriever.

His eyes dart to the door.

Can't you hear it?

Seriously, you can't hear that?

Hear what?

He's bullshitting.

Just open it, bro.

How can you not hear that?

It's so fucking loud.

He's really fucking scared.

We're about four minutes in, and I'm at the edge of my seat.

Don't open the door.

I silently will the trio, as if it weren't a done deal.

As if there were any hope for this poor fucking kid.

The others keep ribbing him, and he shrills.

Why don't you open it then?

I feel his panic because I hear the same knocking right now from the door at the top of the basement stairs.

An incessant drumbeat out of sync with my galloping heart.

The other two tell him to quit being such a pussy.

Aw, look at him, crying

Dwayne can't take it anymore and stands up.

My heart rages.

I don't want to see this next part.

He grips the knob.

His buddies hoot and holler as Dwayne straightens his back and flings the door wide.

The shrill scream that erupts from my laptop all but shatters the speakers.

It lasts only a couple seconds.

That shriek.

And the camera dropping.

Black screen.

Then

the camera snatched up again and Dwayne is gone.

And the view ends on a pair of sliding doors.

One flung open to the wintry porch.

I'm staring at a blank screen.

The video is over.

I rewind, pause and play back the moment he opens the door, freeze it, and advance frame by frame until I have a clear view of the open door just after the camera is picked up.

I stare.

I stare and stare, numb with shock and horror in a sort of directionless rage.

There is nothing visible in the doorframe.

I'm no closer now than I was early this morning to figuring out how to beat this thing.

I messaged Tim.

What do you mean they die?

How do they die?

They die of fear.

Of total fucking terror.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

This is so messed up.

What is happening?

I send him the viral video.

Oh, Jesus.

I don't want to watch this.

What the hell?

Listen, you asked me to tell you what happens to people who disappear.

This is what

we're playing a game, and I don't know the rules.

Tim,

your your Discord is somehow part of the playbook.

I'm gonna need access if I'm gonna survive this fucking thing.

Access?

You mean my login info?

Dude, I don't know.

Like,

I don't even really know you.

Come on, man.

These people died because you friended them.

Whether you intended that to happen or not, these deaths come down to you.

And so will mine when I'm next.

The knocking won't quit.

I need to solve this.

But why do you need more than screenshots?

Sorry, bro.

I'll send more screenshots if you want, but not my login.

This fucking guy.

Screenshot this.

I type with a pick of my middle finger.

But I don't send it because if I do, I might as well marinate myself, lie down on a platter, and ring the dinner bell, because I will definitely be cooked.

I look again at the video.

How there's nothing there.

If there's a way to beat this thing, it's in Tim's account, and I'll need his cooperation.

So, I unclench my jaw, sit back in my chair, and smile.

Here's a little confession.

My reformation from a con man to a paranormal investigator isn't so much a revolutionary change as it is the same old tune with some new lyrics.

Yeah, it's been a couple years since I cleaned up my act, but even reformed, I'm still a coyote wagging his tail to convince the world that he's a friendly dog.

And whether I'm swindling some poor sap out of his savings or just whining over my girl's skeptical family, it's the same performance.

Because you see,

it's not actually that difficult to get people to trust you.

I do what I call the triple-A's.

Ask, agree, affirm.

First, I ask about you.

Something simple and easy.

Whatever you say, I agree with you.

And then, I affirm your feelings.

Rinse and repeat.

Babe, I gotcha.

I'm going to validate all your feelings, just like when I'm catfishing.

I'll glean little bits of information from the things you tell me.

Build my profile of you from that so I know what you want to hear.

I'll make you feel so seen.

I delete my middle finger message to Tim and say,

Hey man, I get it.

You're just being cautious.

If you can help me with screenshots, you're a lifesaver.

The screenshots he sends me are absolutely worthless, but I use them to learn more about him.

In one of them, he confides, I swear my attempts at conversation repel people.

I wish I could meet someone online who cares about actually talking to you.

Amen.

I care.

Right now, Timmy boy, I care about you more than anyone in the world.

Yeah, it's almost impossible to make a real connection.

I agree.

It's demoralizing, man.

I feel you.

I affirm.

Then, I ask.

So,

serious question.

When you friend people online, what are you actually looking for?

Like a salesman with a foot in the door, but what I'm selling is that sense of belonging.

Hoping he'll open that door a little wider until I can step inside and convince him to hand over his motherfucking password.

His keys.

Whatever I need.

Okay.

You and me, Tim.

Let's get this Brodeo started.

Hold a moment.

Something's

not quite right.

I keep the blade under glass.

Sealed.

Watched.

And yet just now I could have sworn it shifted.

Like it.

remembered something.

You know, some objects don't like being spoken of.

They prefer to keep their history sealed.

Quiet.

Buried.

Let me grab the key to lock its case.

Don't wander.

And if you hear anything,

don't

answer.

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.

Trevor, hey man, how's it going?

Listen, I think I found something you might want to take a look at.

I picked it up at this stage sale out in the middle of friggin' nowhere.

Place smells like mothballs and regret.

Anyway, it's a pair of old ballet slippers.

Real worn, real old, but

they're red, but like

not a happy red, like a, well, you know what I mean.

So here's the crazy part.

As soon as I touched them, I could swear I heard music, like real soft, like some creepy music box tucked away in the back of your head, constantly playing.

Lady running the estate sales said her sister used to dance.

Couldn't stop herself towards the end.

Wore these things till her toes snapped like twigs.

Died still trying to dance.

So, uh, no idea if that's just a spooky sales pitch, but uh, gotta tell you, Trevor, these things feel off.

Anyways, if you want them, I can lock them up and get them sent your way.

Otherwise, I think I'm gonna bury them in a lead box out back and pretend like I never saw him.

Let me know, brother.

Catch you later.

End of messages.

So sorry about the interruption.

It's just that you.

Oh.

Seems as though the blade is

pointing the other direction now.

No matter, things settle strangely in this shop, especially when a story is unfinished.

On that note, let's pick up where we left off,

shall we?

In about an hour, Tim and I are having the bromance of the century.

No, I did not get his Discord login info, after all.

I did one better, and got his home address.

So we can go from Discord buds to beer buds while figuring this thing out.

And while I sneak onto his computer and snoop.

I tell him I'll be there in 25 minutes and I'll call a lift.

And now, as I pace outside in the chill winter air waiting for my ride, with Boo peeking out the window after me anxiously, now comes the really hard part.

Letting my girl know where I'm going without really letting her know where I'm going.

Because I don't want her at risk.

But I also don't want to go missing.

She made me promise once never to do that to her, never to disappear without telling her where I'll be.

You see, I need her to know enough to find my corpse if I die.

Oh my god, Jack, I'm gonna kill you!

What?

Why?

I haven't even said anything yet.

I changed my iPad lock screen to a picture of you naked with a flower in your mouth.

I did do that.

I thought it'd be funny.

And also, Emma's iPad lives in her room and usually doesn't go out, but behind her, patrons are seated around a cafe.

The shop bell dinging as people flow in and out, her face close to the screen so she can whisper.

And I'm distracted by the way her hair cascades over her bare shoulders.

She's stunning as always, like a K-pop star ready to shoot an album cover.

Sometimes I look at this girl and wonder how I ever batted so far out of my league.

Emma's smart and successful.

and has more academic accolades than I can count.

Me?

I'm a scruffy short dude, 5'6 if I'm honest, 5'9 if you're dyslexic, like I am when I write my dating profile.

No job, not even a GED, just a checkered past and a nose for trouble.

The only award I'm in the running for, and pretty sure I got this thing locked down now, is a Darwin Award.

Emma checks over her shoulder to make sure no one's listening.

Her cheeks flush to pretty pink as she whispers.

I had a meeting with Yara and left the iPad on the table when I went to use the bathroom, and the whole fucking Starbucks saw your bare ass.

Okay, did you give out my number and tell my charge by the minute?

Seriously?

I'm gonna bunch you.

Ooh, kinky.

You promise?

I imagine her bawling her hands into tiny, cute fists as she exclaims, Stop flirting while I'm scolding you.

You know, I take kickboxing.

I will hurt you.

Yes, please, babe.

Come home and punish me.

There's the hang-up tone.

A moment later, a text message.

I am filing for divorce.

This is our love language.

I look at the text and smile.

But then my heart sinks because I know now that I'm not going to tell my girl the truth about any of what is going on.

Because if she knows, she'll want to save me.

And saving me would put her at risk.

And the one thing that matters most in the world to me is not putting Emma at risk.

I know it's stupid.

She's dependable and resourceful and Honestly, she's fucking brilliant.

I could really, really use her help.

But I picture Lucia's face, crammed in the darkness, claw hand covering her wide mouth in a stifled scream.

And in my mind, it morphs into Emma's.

And no, no.

Fuck that.

Of all the bad decisions I've made so far today, and I made plenty, this is the one stupid decision I actually feel good about.

Because knowing she's safe, my heart beats just a little easier.

Time now for me to go and pay a a house call to my new best bud, Tim Sanders.

When I near the little cul-de-sac matching his address, I start to feel it.

It could be anticipation.

Could be just ordinary fear or uncertainty over what I'll find.

But I've got that sour taste in my throat too.

That metallic tang.

And the slight chill in my skin.

And by the time my lift drops me off at the edge of his driveway, I'm sweating.

And the pit of dread in my stomach has hollowed out.

And there aren't even any doors around, but I hear the knocking in my skull now.

A persistent hammering.

A thud, thud, thud just under the beating of my own heart.

And when I approach the front door, It gets louder until the knocking is almost deafening.

The windows are dark and the blinds closed.

There's trash piled up in the yard.

It hasn't been brought to the curb.

Just left to fester.

I type into Discord.

I'm here, I think.

That's me ringing the bell.

Excuse me for not getting up to greet you.

My back's been killing me.

But I'm here and back.

Any chance you got an open window?

Might be a tight squeeze, though.

The kitchen window is indeed tight.

It's one of the few times I'm glad for my weasly size.

The hardest part is getting my shoulders through.

And when finally I'm able to squeeze in, I find myself crouched on a filthy counter stacked with dishes.

There's old pizza boxes, cartons of half-eaten noodles covered in gray fuzz, fucking disgusting, dirty mugs developing their own ecosystem, and a half-empty bottle of Mr.

Clean.

His face so covered in crud only his eyes peek out, desperately begging for release.

Mr.

Clean, Mr.

Clean, you look fucking disgusting.

Perched on the tip of the bottle is a cockroach big enough to serve up on a platter.

Sorry about the mess.

I tell him compared to my last apartment, this place is the Ritz.

It's not.

No matter what, Emma claims about my bachelor days.

Mainly due to the stink, an overpowering reek of mold, rotten food, BO, and whatever garbage juice is seeping from the pile of trash bags.

Who knows, but it is rank.

I could cocoon myself in my unwashed sheets for weeks, wake up and shove my face deep into my armpit and sniff, and it'd still smell fresher than in here.

And beneath all the ripening odors, there's maybe another smell, but I can't be sure.

I can't be sure through all this stink.

Grab a beer if you want from the fridge.

I'm about as tempted to grab a beer from his fridge as I am to pluck that massive roach off the counter and pop it in my mouth.

But I snatch a couple of beers and as I make my way through the house, living room, bedroom, bathroom, Cautiously poking my head in each open room, the atmosphere is dead.

Silent.

Finally, there's only one room left.

Down a narrow hallway toward a door at the end, slightly ajar.

Still no sounds.

No tapping keys, no voice calling through the door.

Not even a hello.

Something is horribly off about all this.

I should hear breathing, creaking, the squeak of a chair or a voice or something.

Yo, Tim, I got the beer.

Silence.

Tim?

There's no answer, except for the ping on my phone.

Come on in.

Every instinct screams at me to not come on in.

I lean closer to peek through the cracked door,

only to gag and stumble back.

Oh, the stink.

Fuck.

The smell is so much worse inside that room.

Like a slaughtered pig carcass left to rot.

And as I lean against the wall, choking on that horrific stench,

Tim

is still typing,

asking me what sort of beer I like.

Seriously, what the fuck is going on here, man?

Run, Jack.

Run.

I know it would be a mistake to go inside.

Probably the worst mistake in a day full of bad mistakes that I could make at this moment.

And I know what Emma would say to me.

Everyone makes mistakes, but Jack, for the love of God, you do not have to make a career out of it.

But I think of 15-year-old Dwayne.

I think of Lucia and Boo the cat howling for her.

I don't believe in vengeance, but someone's got to stand up for him.

Someone's got to make sure no one else is next.

And even if going in there is risky, Emma knows as well as I do.

If Stupid were a career, my resume would be a mile long.

Guess today I'm really gunning for that Darwin award because I slipped through the ajar door.

Pitch dark.

I slip my shirt over my nose,

my skin crawling as if covered in a million centipedes.

My sensitivity to the supernatural triggered so hard.

Every hair stuck on end.

Every nerve vibrating like a plucked cord.

Oh, this is bad.

This is so, so bad.

At the corner of the room glows a monitor.

As my eyes adjust, I make out the silhouette of a slouched figure, hands resting on the keyboard.

The hands are not moving.

Even in the bluish glare of the screen,

the flesh looks bloated, patchy, and dark.

My shirt muffles my voice.

Tim,

what's up, man?

Jack, nice to finally meet you.

You okay?

Tim is not good.

I fumble along the walls for a light switch.

Finally flick on the overhead lights.

In the sudden illumination, So bright it sears my eyeballs.

Adrenaline ignites my veins like lightning, and I slam backwards into the door.

A door that bumps closed and begins pounding with a thunderous knock, knock, knocking that hammers my bones and threatens to splinter the wood.

A knocking I can barely hear over my sledgehammering heart.

All air sucked from my lungs because, oh, fuck me, on every surface in that room are symbols.

They cover the walls.

The ceiling.

They circle in a mad spiral, circling and circling around the slouching figure in that chair.

A figure whose eyes have melted out, and in that rotting skin are carved arcane markings.

And now I understand.

These symbols are painted in the murdered man's blood.

That's the reason his home stinks so bad.

The beer bottles fall from my grip and clatter to the floor as I notice his right hand.

Oh,

my bad.

My bro alliance with Tim really was a mistake.

Another one for the resume.

Because his right arm, it has no symbols carved into it.

Instead, those bloated fingers rest on the keyboard curled around a bloody knife.

This is no murder, and he is no victim.

No,

he did this to himself.

And in true Jack Wilde fashion, I've just locked myself in with him.

By the way, to be continued.

H.

R.

U.

U.

J.

U.

V.

K.

T.

K.

J.

C.

N.

K.

M.

G.

Z K

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 080, Knock Knock, Chapter 2.

Written by Quincy Lee.

Featuring Trevor Shand as Jack.

Addison Peacock as Emma.

Jeffrey Allen Sneed as Tim.

Owen McEwen as the neighbor.

Romy Evans as the reporter.

Ethan Strowman as Teen 1.

Everett Shand as Teen 2.

Matthew Ackemire as Dwayne.

Michael Strowman as Dad.

Featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer.

Engineering production and sound design by Trevor Trevor Shand.

Theme music by the Newton Brothers.

Additional music by COAG and Vivek Abishek.

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.