Lot 077 : Knock, Knock

Welcome back, dear friend.

I was wondering when you'd wander in again.

The air's turned a little colder since your last visit.

Perhaps you felt it too.

A chill that slips through the seams of the world.

When something...

forgotten begins to stir.

Now now, come closer.

I've just finished dusting off a rather curious piece.

You see it?

Nestled here in the velvet-lined case, glinting like moonlight on still water.

A silver cat collar.

Delicate, yes, but don't let that fool you.

Look closely, and you'll see the name engraved on the tag.

Boo.

There's weight in this little thing.

Not of gold or gem, but of memory, of mischief.

Settle in, won't you?

The hour grows strange, and our tale is just beginning.

This

is Knock

Knock.

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 the members of the inner circle of the Antiquarians.

We go by the Obsidian Covenant.

Recent initiates include Kim Chi,

Steph,

Harleen,

Andy,

Amanda Moore,

Jess,

Scotty,

Preston Davidson,

Air,

and Sean.

We are ever appreciative of your devotion to the Order.

Go to the Obsidian Covenant.com to receive the sacrament.

Now,

where were we?

Oh, yes.

Welcome to the Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings

and Odd Goings On.

Alright, so here's the deal.

This guy on Discord keeps trying to message people.

But each time someone accepts his friend request, the moment he starts a conversation, the person he's messaging gets a knock on the door.

Then they type BRB or back in a sec or sometimes just hang on.

Only

they never come back.

Now he doesn't know what happens to them.

Never gets enough details to figure out real names, where they live, or who's knocking even.

Just that someone is at their door.

Knock, knock, then boom.

Ghosted.

Gone.

I'm about to find out why.

See, I'm the next guy to chat with him.

He claims he wants to hire me to solve the mystery.

And he's promised me 50 bucks if I can tell him who's at the door.

It's always within the first five minutes.

All right, so let me get this straight.

Someone's gonna knock and make me disappear.

I mean, yeah, that's what keeps happening.

How many people so far?

Eight.

And you're sure you're not just accidentally disconnecting.

I'm sure.

You definitely disappear.

But if I don't, you'll Venmo me fifty bucks.

Yeah, just tell me why everybody else vanishes.

I check my watch.

Now only a sucker would believe him, but, you know, just call me Jack Sucker Wild.

50 bucks is just big enough and five minutes just short enough that even though I know I'm being strung along, I linger like a jackal eyeing a plump bird overhead, waiting in the impossible hope it'll fall from the sky.

I ask him if he could tell me anything about the eight others who disappeared.

He claims he knows nothing about him except their usernames, which he can't remember accurately, of course.

It's only been two minutes.

Hey, it reminds me of a joke.

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

Jack Juicy.

Jack Juicy, who?

Of course I don't see who.

Nobody's knocked yet.

Bro.

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

Jack Waddleweed.

Do you only know jokes with your name in them?

Jack Waddleweed Who.

What do you mean, Waddleweed Doo?

I told you, we gotta wait till they knock.

Stop.

Yeah, I get a million of these.

My favorite is actually a Britney one.

Like most of my material, it's not a Jack original.

Want to guess where I uh

read it?

I know.

I suck.

I'm about to tell it anyway when my phone pings, and

nope, nothing related to knocking.

It's just my girl asking how studying is going.

I should probably get off Discord before she actually comes down here into my basement office to check on me.

And I hover the mouse over the chat tab to close it, keeping one eye on the clock.

Right as I'm about to click,

there's a knocking at my door.

The number one rule of the paranormal is, it's not real.

99.9% of the time, anyone telling you a ghost story is selling you fiction.

They might believe in that fiction themselves.

In fact, it's why these things travel so well.

Nothing sells a lie like a true believer.

But at the end of the day, that chain email is not going to curse you.

That creepy doll is not going to come to life.

There'll never be a knocking at your door that will result in your sudden disappearance off the face of the earth.

And Jack, you're never going to get that fucking 50, so close the chat already.

Without closing the chat, I get up and go up the stairs to the door so I can let my fiancé into my basement office.

My girl, Emma, is a straight A overachiever going for her master's in public policy.

She promised we'll announce her engagement once I earn my GED, which is why I'm supposed to be studying.

Me?

I dropped out of high school and quickly found my true calling.

Raising money for charity.

Specifically charity for yours truly.

Yep, I'm a scam artist.

Spent the better part of a decade involved in everything from catfishing to setting up GoFundMes that just fund me.

The only degree I ever got was in BS.

My girl wants me to go to business school and get an actual degree.

I reformed before I met her.

Straightened out a couple summers ago after karma slammed me into a coma.

Nothing like near death to make a man reevaluate his choices.

So, the real reason I stayed in the chat?

chat, well, it's not for that 50.

I stayed on the teensy chance people really are disappearing.

Because this is my new charity work.

This is how I make up for my misdeeds.

I save people as a paranormal investigator.

Which, as I mentioned, 99% of the time is just about uncovering scams.

There's no way this dude's legit.

Everyone he chats with disappears in five minutes.

Come on.

Eight Eight people and no one noticed a connection?

Bullshit.

But also,

what kind of sucker would I be to make it nine?

I mean,

babe?

I wrap my knuckles on the door and grip the knob.

Want to hear a joke?

I wait.

And wait.

Pretending not to notice the goosebumps on my arms.

Pretending not to feel the cold knot of dread forming in my gut when she she doesn't answer.

Then I let the knob slide back into its closed position, drop down, and peek under the bottom of the door.

No feet.

Not even a shadow.

No one is there.

I trot back downstairs and type.

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

You tell me, bud.

There's knocking on my door.

Want to explain what's really out there?

And why you keep luring people to it.

Most entities I've encountered follow specific rules.

Since they don't belong in this world, they often require an invitation or a summons.

You're probably already familiar with this concept through folklore.

Stuff like vampires needing to be invited inside or the devil making a deal to swindle someone out of their soul.

The recurring theme is that whatever terrible fate befalls the victim is in some way incurred by spoken or unspoken agreement, like paranormal terms and conditions.

I accepted his friend request.

Next came the knocking.

If I open the door, next comes my disappearance.

Each step, an invitation to the next.

But what did I really invite?

And what's this guy's connection to it?

Oh, shit.

there's knocking.

For real?

R.I.P., I guess.

I peeked under the door, and no one is there.

Wait,

shit, really?

Oh, my God.

Holy shit, you're the first person who hasn't ghosts to me.

Are you shitting me or is this for real?

Who are you?

What's your real name?

Uh, I'm not comfortable giving my name out online.

Why the fuck are you luring people?

I'm fucking not, man.

I'm just Tim.

Tim.

That's my real name.

Tim.

I'm just a dude.

I have no idea why people get knocks on the door after I.

Mimi in video chat.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure.

Okay, yes.

Christ, yes.

I want to know as bad as you do.

But the video chat is all staticky.

It is very difficult to make out Tim.

His room is dark, as if all the lights are off.

Or else the video is just very low quality and the connection terrible.

I can't hear him speak.

The knocking continues on the door to my basement office.

Tim, I need names.

Nothing but static.

Dude, I can't fucking hear you.

Look, just send screenshots of your previous chats and the 50.

Are you getting this at all?

Hello?

Wait,

isn't that like a violation of privacy?

Dude, do you want to know what's knocking or not?

Tim can obviously hear me and probably sees me too, because he hems and haws and types out his responses to me on the keyboard.

It's not until I threaten to log off that he finally relents.

$50 from some guy named Tim shows up in my account, followed by a series of screenshots.

All his conversations follow the exact same pattern as mine.

A short exchange, followed by a BRB or a hang-on.

The only variation is in how he opens the conversation.

Initially beginning with, I'm looking to make friends.

But as he gets ghosted, changing it up to, I'm trying to figure out why everybody disappears.

And at one point he says, does everybody just hate me?

Seems like just a regular lonely dude baffled by the world tuning him out.

He's pitiful enough in these conversations, I might assume it's his extreme social ineptitude putting people off.

Except for the knocking.

The knocking won't fucking stop.

When I get up and walk over to the egress window to crack it open, the knocking at the top of the stairs moves to the nearby storage room door.

And when I go to take a leak, the knocking comes from the bathroom door.

Barring me from going in to use the toilet.

Good thing I have that potted plant down here that needs watering.

Oof, this is going to get real inconvenient real fast.

Jack, you're in trouble now.

Sorry for the pun.

I'd pee myself out, but as you know, I can't.

And unless I can figure out who's behind this knocking, I'm next in line to disappear.

So much for study.

Meanwhile, the search for a missing young woman continues.

Rainia Osman was last seen Thursday.

I'm watching news clips about the previous victims, digging for deeper data after reading their chats.

I identified Rainia Osman from her Discord username Rosman by using an image search to find the same profile picture on Instagram.

While the news plays in the background, Quinton Sweeten, which is also his legal name.

His email address is quinton.sweeten at gmail.com.

That's Q-U-E-N-T-I-N-S-W-E-E-T-O-N.

And I'm guessing his password is either password or 030458, which is his birth date that he publicly shares, along with his home address on white pages.

He lives about an hour away from me.

His last post was one week ago.

And friends of his are posting birthday wishes on his Facebook and asking about him, though there's nothing in local news about him being officially missing, as of yet.

The next user I identify is Tinsel Foxfire, who uses the same username for her blog, which links to her Instagram where she shares videos of herself.

Real name Lucia Tanner, walking her cat, boo.

From the landmarks in her videos, I find a redress.

And since she's in the next suburb over, only about 12 minutes away, I call a lift.

Lucia's conversation with Tim was two days ago.

And there's no missing persons report for her either.

While waiting for the lift, I search the other users, trying to find any I can identify quickly.

I'm still trying to ID these other victims when my lift arrives.

Since doors aren't an option, I go out through the egress window.

As I approach the lift,

is that rapping I hear from inside?

Muffled by the ambient noise of the wind?

Just to be safe, I ask my driver to lower the rear passenger window so I can climb graciously in.

My upper body collapsing into the seat and my legs kicking out like I'm stuck in a shitty sitcom.

Only thing missing is a laugh track.

The driver stares like I've lost my fucking mind.

Smile Jack.

Thumbs up.

This is gonna be a great day.

Ah, hold on there.

I do apologize for the interruption.

But I thought now might be a good moment to take a breath.

You see, old Jack is about to make a decision.

A rather crucial one.

And if there's one thing I've learned in this line of work, it's that the wrong decision in moments like these doesn't just end in regret.

It echoes.

Much like these knocks seem to.

More importantly, what happens when and if Jack Jack answers?

Speaking of, let me go get that,

and I'll be right back.

Or will I?

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.

Hi, hi, hello.

Um,

I bought a mushroom lamp from your store last week, and um, it's been four days, and I haven't been able to sleep.

I,

this, the, there's this weird fairy that's always sitting on it at night, and she keeps staring at me and laughing

all throughout the night.

I,

I know you don't take returns, but please, can I take it back to you?

Because I'm starting to see other things than just her.

Thank you.

Please, please, please take it back.

End of messages.

Sorry about that.

It was someone who had lost their way.

They wanted me to pass along a message that they will find their way to you

very soon.

There's a dark mystery to be had there.

I am sure of it.

So, watch your back.

In the meantime, let's return to Jack and this infernal knocking.

Let's see who's there.

Shall we?

My upper body collapsing into the seat and my legs kicking out like I'm stuck in a shitty sitcom.

Only thing missing is a laugh track.

The driver stares like I've lost my fucking mind.

Smile, Jack.

Thumbs up.

This is gonna be a great day.

Lucia Tanner lives in the lower level of a red brick duplex in an artsy neighborhood.

Someone has written a poem and marker on an upper window of the duplex.

And Boo the cat peers out at me from the curtains of a lower window.

I ascend the front steps.

Only to be immediately exasperated because, like most duplexes, Lucia's has doors.

As soon as I approach, the knocking starts up.

I back off and head to the windows, wrapping my knuckles on the frames and looking for any that might be open.

I'm standing there with my hands cupped to the glass, peeking in like the dictionary definition of shady when the front door opens and an old lady barks at me.

Hey there.

Young man.

It's Lucia's landlady and upstairs neighbor, Doreen, who according to Lucia's Instagram, adores her cat poo.

I tell Doreen I was passing by and the cat was howling, and I looked in and saw what looked like someone passed out inside.

It's a lie, I blurt right in the moment, but I have what my girl calls puppy eyes.

You know, sweet and earnest.

And I turn on full labradoodle mode as I say.

I really think we should check on her just in case.

My concern is contagious enough that Doreen wants to call the police.

But I tell her if the passed out person needs CPR, it might be too late if we wait, so she can call while we quickly check.

I suppose.

Doreen unlocks a door, seeming not to notice the knock, knock, knocking.

Nothing happens to her when she opens it.

She's not the invitee after all.

I call as I follow her in.

Nothing but a cozy living room and a wide-eyed cat.

While the landlady goes to check the the bedroom, I unlatch a window and open it just to crack.

We do not find Lucia.

I apologize profusely to Doreen and tell her I must have been imagining that I saw someone fall.

I definitely heard a thud, but it must have been the cat.

We go back outside, me babbling about how I'm so attuned to cats.

As an aside, I'm not.

Dogs are objectively better.

Have you ever seen a guide cat for the blind?

Of course not.

Even cat fanatics know the cats are assholes who let the blind walk walk right into fucking walls.

Anyway, we chat a little longer.

Then I say goodbye and head on my way.

Right back around to that window, slipping inside.

That's how you do it.

And now, I snoop.

What happened to Lucia?

There was no buildup of mail outside.

No evidence she is in fact missing at all.

But the cat's food and water bowls are empty.

And the cat is hounding me, weaving at my feet.

When I told the landlady the cat was signaling me for help, I was lying.

But now,

this distressed little animal genuinely seems to be trying to tell me something important.

Hey, buddy, where's Lucia?

A dog would recognize a name and take off in search of its owner.

The cat, of course, does no such thing.

Only meowing louder and in my face, clawing at my jeans.

Useless.

I press my hand to the door and all the hairs on my arm stand on end.

When I take my hand away, the hairs settle.

I'm not a medium, but ever since my very first paranormal encounter, I've been attuned to the uncanny.

My first encounter left me...

marked.

That happens when you catch the attention of the wrong entity.

In my case, marking is an inked tattoo of a lady in red on my arm.

She's a demon who's sworn to catch me and punish me for all my life's misdeeds.

And sooner or later, she's inevitably how I'll die.

Anyway, point is, I'm attuned to the paranormal, but I wasn't born with any real psychic gift, if you even believe in that stuff.

So,

I have no way of knowing what's out there knocking on that door.

I'm about 30 seconds away from opening it out of sheer curiosity, but survival instinct and the fact the cat vanishes a moment I grip the knob keeps me from doing so.

Instead, I sink down against the wall, tugging out my phone.

Maybe the other victims can shed some light.

Impressed though, when I search for Quentin Sweeten, I find an update in local news.

Authorities are investigating the death of 67-year-old Quentin Sweeten, whose body was found in a crawl space beneath the stairs of his home.

So he didn't disappear.

But then,

where is Lucia?

According to the police report, a neighbor decided to check in on Sweden after noticing that his front door was ajar.

It's not clear how long Sweden has been dead.

The neighbor, who asked to remain anonymous, saying he fears for his safety, had this to say about his discovery.

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.

It looked like something chased him under the stairs and literally scared him to death.

An autopsy is pending to determine cause of death.

Good thing I didn't open it.

Eyeing the front door of Lucia's unit, then chasing right on the heels of that thought.

But what did he see that scared him to death?

One of my best or worst qualities as an investigator is an insatiable curiosity, like an itch.

Especially if warnings are blaring.

Been like that since I was a kid.

What's this red button do?

Set off an alarm, then I was grounded.

What's in these confidential files on my dad's computer?

Proof he's cheating.

Again, grounded.

What happens if I sit in that cursed chair that kills everyone who sits in it?

Actually, I haven't done that one yet because Emma wouldn't let me.

The chair is still on my bucket list, so.

Or she calls it my obscenely stupid list.

Yeah, I should probably check in with my girl before I give into the urge to do something obscenely stupid.

But first,

what happened to Lucia?

Did she flee?

I glance around the living room, narrow my eyes on a couple of envelopes on the floor, right at my fingertips.

Letters.

Like she was picking through the mail while opening the door.

Dropped the mail.

In shock.

Fear?

There's also a collar here with Boo's name on a ghost-shaped silver tag.

Cute, but chilling to find it like this.

She must have ordered it and been intending to put it on him.

So she dropped her mail and Boo's new collar.

Then

where did she go?

The front door is where it would have been, so if she fled, she'd run to the bedroom or bathroom.

I checked the bathroom, but it is tiny and there is no one behind the shower curtain.

Bedroom then, at the end of the hall.

Its door open.

The landlady already checked in there.

Closet?

But the closet has a sliding door already ajar, and I can see the cat peeking out.

Nothing but clothes and shoes.

The cat.

The cat is crying.

The cat is clawing at my pant leg and looking at something, I realize.

The cat is looking at something under the bed.

And I get that feeling.

That sinking in my gut.

My limbs heavy.

My heartbeats suddenly slamming my ears.

The cat looks back at me and meows.

And I don't hear him over the rush of my own blood.

The apartment is empty except for me and this loudly screaming cat.

I lift up the edge of the bedsheet.

and drop down to my knees and peer under the bed.

Here

is Lucia Tanner.

Mouth wide open in a shriek and body stiffened in a fetal posture of terror.

Hiding from whatever entered when she opened that door.

Quinton's neighbor did not do the description justice.

I'm huddled on the floor, holding the cat.

And I can't breathe.

My pulse is slamming out a rhythm with that knock, knock, knocking, and I can't tell anymore whether the pounding is from the door or my heart.

It's so fucking loud.

And I can't breathe.

And fuck.

Fuck.

Why did I look at her face?

Suddenly I feel like such an idiot.

Such a phenomenally hopeless idiot for all those fucking knock-knock jokes.

Now I listen to that knocking and all I can see is Lucia's eyes.

The bloodshot whites and the way her jaw is all but unhinged in a shriek you can practically hear.

Hell, I think I can hear it.

Somewhere beneath the knocking.

Lord knows I've had my share of scares.

I thought I knew terror.

But whatever left Lucia like this,

I can't meet it.

I'm not going to end up with my face stretched like hers and that god-awful sanity-shattering scream.

No, no, no!

I can't go like that.

Go the fuck away.

Not even caring if the landlady hears me now.

Why oh why didn't I just do what I was supposed to do and study, right?

I should have learned by now to follow my girl's advice, which is to make up for my misdeeds in some ordinary way.

Donate to good causes, volunteer, become a public servant, or work for an actual charity, or a cat rescue, or literally anything, as long as I'm not poking around the paranormal.

This This morning, the plan was so simple, all I had to do was pass the practice test for my GED and not friend some haunted dude on Discord.

Emma's gonna be so pissed at me, and that's before she finds out what I did to her pot and plant.

Ugh.

I guess just call me Britney now.

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

Britney.

Britney, who?

I fucked up, babe.

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

Britney.

Britney who.

Oops.

I did did it again.

To be continued.

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 077, Knock Knock, Chapter 1.

Written by Quincy Lee.

Featuring Trevor Shand as Jack.

Jeffrey Allen Sneed as Tim.

Jarrett Raymond as the reporter.

Owen McEwen as the interviewee.

Laura Mirsky as Doreen.

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 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.

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