Lot 076 : Roadkill

Hello, friend!

How nice of you to make the time to stop by!

Always delights me to see you betwixt these ill-fated shelves.

To what do I owe your visit today?

As if you must even answer that.

Tonight, my dear Traveler of the Strange, I have something particularly

unsettling: a simple backpack, worn and weathered by time.

Its canvas stained dark with something that was once red, but has long since dried to brown.

It came to me by chance, as many of these artifacts do.

Left behind.

Forgotten.

Or perhaps...

abandoned with purpose.

At first glance, it appears...

ordinary.

Zippers, straps, a few personal belongings still rattling inside.

But there's something wrong about it.

Something that lingers in the air, like the scent of rain on asphalt, just before the storm turns violent.

You see, this backpack has a story to tell.

One that reeks of dust.

and gasoline.

Of headlights cutting through the dark, and of something that was never meant to be found.

So settle in, if you dare.

But be warned, some roads should never be traveled, and some things left behind should remain

as such.

This

is Roadkill.

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 Morgan Vandeveer,

Crystal Hall,

Devon,

Liz Marshall,

the artist formerly known as Mouse Cop, Gavin Hagg,

This Is Honto,

Bry,

Dorian,

and

Hope S.

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 killed someone by accident.

Now she's crawling through my walls.

The girl's body made a sickening sound when my tires hit her.

The crack of her skull against the grill of my car.

She was bent down, maybe tying her shoe, just low enough that I didn't see her.

Right there, in front of me.

Why didn't she look up?

Why didn't she hear me coming?

I'm not going to say where I am.

You'll figure it out soon enough when the news gets out.

That's fine.

I don't care anymore.

But what was she doing out there on the road in the middle of nowhere, just dirt and corn for miles?

It's not like I wanted this.

I didn't ask for it.

I was in a hurry.

It was raining.

A sheet of fog rolled in thick and low across the ground.

One minute, I was looking down.

The next, wham!

Her body was there, twisted and broken.

Smeared across my grill like some goddamn nightmare I couldn't wake from.

What the fuck was I supposed to do?

You think you'd handle it any better?

You really believe you'd do the right thing and march her body straight to the nearest police station?

It was the middle of nowhere, no witnesses, and I was just supposed to tie the manslaughter noose around my own neck?

What if you weren't just driving for fun?

What if the reason you were out here on some forgotten backroad was because your car was loaded with enough weed to lock you away for 10 years.

You telling me you'd risk 20, 30, 40 years rotting behind bars for this?

Because some idiot decided to wander into the dark?

You can speculate, tell yourself you'd do better than me.

But I know better.

I lived it.

And I'm not about to sit here and pretend I'm some goddamn saint, but you can't tell me it was all my fault.

I stepped out, and dear God, what a fucking mess.

Her arm was caught in the axle, torn clean from the socket.

Blood was everywhere.

Curls of auburn hair tangled in the hoods, strands matted and slick with rain.

Her head, Jesus, caved in.

Brain matter splattered across the pavement in wet clumps.

And her legs pulverized beneath the tires.

Nothing left but ruin.

I threw up.

The rain came down in sheets, cold and merciless.

The air smelled like a slaughterhouse, raw and metallic, thick with the stench of death.

She had shit herself.

I could smell that too.

Zinc and copper clung to the air, the bite of blood thick on my tongue.

There was that sharp ozone tang, to thunder rolling somewhere far off, low and distant, like a warning.

Then I got to work.

Yanking flesh free from the axle, every pulse sick and nauseating.

A fist-sized dent cratered the grille, but all I could see was the blood.

Every drop the rain washed away seemed to summon ten more, oozing relentlessly from her shattered skull.

And then I heard an

agonal breathing.

That weak, rattling snore of a body too stubborn to die just yet.

A thin whistle from her lungs, like her tongue was jammed in the back of her throat.

She was alive.

Alive.

Dying.

But still somehow clinging to life.

By the time I had her stowed away in the trunk, she had stopped breathing altogether.

I found her backpack lying 10 feet from the road, flung out like some sad afterthought.

I tried to gather her teeth.

God,

I think I missed a few.

I tossed what was left of her arm in after, dragging it free from the wheel well, what little remained of it.

And as I drove back home, all I could feel was panic clawing at my throat.

If I got pulled over, I'd say I hit a deer.

That was the plan.

The dent in the hood, the blood, a deer, nothing more.

When I got home and opened the trunk,

I knew something was wrong.

Her body had shifted.

I told myself it was just the drive, bumps in the road, gravity doing its work.

But then I saw her face.

Her eyelids were open.

One eye bloodshot, red spider webs spread across the sclera, like cracks in glass.

Blood trickled from her broken nose down the loose folds of her scalp.

Her jaw hung wrong, split maybe somewhere below the incisors.

And those eyes,

God help me, I stared into them, watched as they centered on me, pupils dilated, locking on like she was still there.

And in that moment,

I swear to Christ,

she smiled.

Those eyes, transfixing, haunting, her broken jaw and all, she was smiling at me.

Smiling like the fucking Cheshire cat after someone took a baseball bat to its smug, grinning face.

I slammed the trunk shut, hard enough to make the whole car shutter.

My heart thundered in my chest, hooves pounding, relentless.

Every beat was pain, sharp and jabbing, like my ribs were trying to split open.

My pulse kicked wild in my throat, palpitations firing off like I was about to drop dead from a heart attack.

I live alone.

Always have.

The house, an old 80s era colonial, was left to me after my parents died.

Most homes nowadays don't come with a dirt floor crawl space in the basement, but mine does.

And really, where the hell else was I supposed to put her?

I don't get visitors.

I keep to myself, reclusive, they'd call it.

I worked the toll booth during the day, and that's it.

No friends dropping by, no neighbors sticking their noses in.

But I don't have the guts to cut her apart.

To hack her into manageable pieces and toss them into some river miles away.

That felt like crossing a line.

Dismemberment.

Desecration.

Though,

really, considering everything I had already done, would it have even mattered anymore?

I dug deep, six feet down, maybe deeper.

Wrapped her in a blue tarp thick and plastic and shoved her into the hole.

But the smell.

God, the smell hit me harder than anything else.

It wasn't just death, it was wrong.

Sharp ammonia like rancid cat piss mixed with the stench of sulfur, rotten eggs cracked open in the sun, spoiled milk curdling in the back of your throat.

I buried her, filled the dirt back in, packed it down as best I could.

But the smell didn't go away.

It lingered.

I scrubbed my car clean, pulled clumps of hair out of the bumper, strands tangled and slick with dried blood.

I tore the upholstery out of the trunk and burned it, watching the fabric curl and blacken in the flames.

I didn't dare take the car to a mechanic.

If things went south, if someone started asking questions, that car would be the noose around my neck.

So I left it.

Parked it in the garage, and locked it up tight.

I even burned my stash, all of it.

Didn't care about selling it anymore.

Money didn't matter.

Nothing did.

Days passed.

I called in sick to work.

Food poisoning, I said.

My manager bought it, offered that fake sympathy that barely stretched past protocol.

Horseshit.

They didn't care.

Nobody did.

I biked to the corner store for supplies, sweat-soaked and paranoid.

Car locked away like a coffin on wheels.

I bought cans of Frebrese, wall diffusers, anything to kill that smell, but it didn't help.

The stench was overwhelming.

It seeped from the vents, thick and rancid, like the breath of something monstrous and starving.

I could almost hear it.

Each exhale, a wet, foul sigh dragging through the ducts like something alive was tasting the air.

I was in the living room a few nights ago, plugs jammed in my nose, when the TV flickered on by itself.

The local news.

Her face.

Not the ruin I had left in my trunk.

No, this was before.

A photo of her smiling, bright-eyed, caught in some high school volleyball team picture.

Perfect and alive.

Guilt hit me like ice water down my spine.

My skin crawled like insect legs scratching just beneath the surface.

Tiny, invisible pedipalps brushing up my arms.

They said she was missing.

Talk of police searches, the community rallying.

I turned it off.

It flickered back on.

And the search continues for a missing 17-year-old girl.

I unplugged the TV.

The screen went dark, but her face lingered, burned into the glass, a faint ghost image searing into the pixels.

I grabbed a paperweight and smashed it through the screen.

Shards of glass scattered across the floor.

I got rid of her.

I stopped answering calls after that and let them pile up.

I found out I'd lost my job through a voicemail I never listened to.

A week had passed.

I was drowning in panic, too consumed by it to care.

I destroyed every radio, every TV, yanked my landline straight from the wall when it started ringing and wouldn't stop.

I didn't dare listen.

I didn't want to know what was on the other end.

And then the flies came.

Lazy black things, thick as pencil erasers.

They bit hard, like tiny can openers tearing at my skin.

They gathered on the windowsills, piled high in sticky black drifts, their brittle corpses crunching underfoot.

And still, the smell lingered.

I was taking a shower when I first heard the tapping behind the wall.

At first I told myself it was just the pipes adjusting.

Nothing unusual.

Houses creak and groan all the time.

But then came the shuffling.

Something dragging, slow and deliberate, like a predator pulling along its kill.

My mind betrayed me then.

I imagined her shattered legs bent at impossible angles, trailing behind her like the slug-slick remnants of something that should have stayed dead.

The sounds didn't stop.

The tapping, the dragging, always there, always closer.

Late at night above my bed, circling like a shark beneath the waves, dust trickled down from the ceiling, forming neat little pyramids on my sheets.

It followed me from room to room.

The sound of something sliding across the ceiling, kitchen to bathroom to bedroom, like a loyal dog shadowing its owner.

But this wasn't a raccoon, and it sure as hell wasn't anything natural.

Two nights ago,

I was sitting in the bathtub trying to drown it out.

Just the rush of water filling the tub, the only sound I could trust.

I thought maybe I could wash the fear off, scrub the stench of rot and guilt from my skin.

But the smell lingered, damp, sour, festering, no matter how much I cleaned.

Then,

soft

beneath me,

I froze,

every muscle locking up like ice had filled my veins, and another tap, closer this time, deliberate.

I told myself it was in my head, just like the scratching, just like the dragging in the walls.

And then thump.

A slow, heavy knock from beneath the water.

And the surface rippled with it, tiny waves trembling outward.

I leaned forward, staring into the water's reflection.

And that's when I saw it.

Something drifting from the drain, wet and clumpy, like tendrils stretching towards the surface.

I reached down without thinking, pulled it free.

a clump of auburn hair still attached to a slick patch of scalp pale and quarter-sized I threw it across the room it hit the wall with a sickening thud

my stomach churned bile rising but then the drain started gurgling

deep greedy sounds like something was drinking from below The water swirled faster, slurping down in wet gulps.

And then it stopped.

The drain stared back at me, open and dark like an eye that couldn't blink.

And something inside it moved.

A shadow bulged beneath the porcelain.

Fingers clawed at the underside, scratching from the other side.

I couldn't see them, but I felt them, long, cold nails scraping for release.

Frozen, helpless, I watched as something pale forced its way through, a single broken finger, bloated and rotten, pushing through the drain.

It twitched, searching like a worm writhing out of the soil during a storm.

I bolted from the tunnel,

slipping hard on the wet tile, splitting my knee open.

I didn't care.

I just needed to get away.

It wasn't enough that she had destroyed my car, ruined my life, and put me at risk of prison.

No, she couldn't leave it at that.

Now, she was haunting me.

You look uneasy, friend.

Can't say I blame you.

The thought of something crawling up through the drain is particularly disturbing.

But don't worry, you have a moment to collect yourself.

There's a small matter I need to tend to in the stockroom that requires my immediate attention.

Something you'll learn all about

soon enough.

For now, stay put,

and I'll be right back.

Hi, this is Trevor from the Acquisitions Department here at the Antiquarium.

You know, most of my work here at the shop involves cataloging sealed vessels, expired familiars, and most recently, lunch.

You see, summer is terribly inefficient.

Rituals run late, exorcisms go long, and no one's got time to simmer bones for 18 hours.

That's why I've outsourced.

I now dine exclusively with Tempo.

Tempo delivers fresh, chef-crafted, dietitian-approved meals straight to your door.

No hexes, no prep, and certainly no need to interpret a scroll to figure out the macros.

I've personally tried their carb-conscious Harissa chicken and something called turmeric salmon over frica.

I don't know what frika is, but it's absolutely glorious.

Each meal heats in just three minutes, which is exactly the time it takes to blind a a lesser demon.

And you'll be pleased to know Tempo is the official partner of the 2025 CrossFit Games.

I don't CrossFit, but I do carry a lot of emotional baggage.

Same thing, really.

For limited time, Tempo is offering visitors to the Antiquarium 60% off your first box.

Go to tempomeals.com/slash sinister.

That's tempo meals.com/slash sinister S-I-N-I-S-T-E-R for 60% off.

Tempomeals.com/slash sinister.

Rules and restrictions may apply.

The Toxic Avenger is out now.

Experience the long-awaited, totally unrated monster mayhem exclusively in theaters.

Get tickets now at tickets.toxicavenger.com.

Why, hello there!

You've reached the antiquarium.

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

Hi.

I don't know if you remember me.

I got a garden gnome from you guys about a year ago.

Had a salt and pepper beard, carried a little spade.

I've actually, I've been

pretty happy with my purchase.

It came with a list of rules.

It was a little weird to follow at first, but, you know, it comes...

Over time, it gets a lot easier.

You know, don't walk on the grass after dark.

Keep it

fed.

like for the longest time, it's been pretty good.

You know, my garden grew really great last year, um, but I came out today with my seeds started, I was ready to start a new garden for the new year, and um, there's there's two more of them out there.

Um,

uh, one of them's got a little pair of head slippers, and one of them has a little pitchfork.

Uh, I don't know if you know them, but um, I didn't purchase them.

Do Do the same rules apply?

Are they mine now?

Are they going to move on?

Do I have to feed them too?

Because

the neighbors have started asking questions about some of their pets.

Just call me back when you can.

Let me know what's going on.

If there's anything you can do to help.

Thank you.

End of messages.

Ah, good.

You're still here.

I was beginning to wonder if you'd taken this opportunity to walk away.

But no.

Curiosity always wins.

Doesn't it?

Now,

let's see just how far our poor driver's mistakes will follow him.

Shall we?

A single broken finger, bloated and rotten, pushing through the drain.

It twitched, searching like a worm writhing out of the soil during a storm.

I bolted from the tunnel, slipping hard on the wet tile, splitting my knee open.

I didn't care.

I just needed to get away.

It wasn't enough that she had destroyed my car, ruined my life, and put me at risk of prison.

No, she couldn't leave it at that.

Now, she was haunting me, mocking me.

I grabbed a roofing hammer from the garage and planted myself in the living room, listening to the dragging, the shifting.

She was in the walls now, moving, watching.

When I heard her slither past the far wall, rage took over.

I couldn't take it anymore.

I rushed forward and began tearing into the drywall, hammering again and again.

Bits of plaster rained down like snow.

I caught sight of something pale, an arm, a leg, slithering, just out of reach.

Oh, and the smell.

When the wall cracked open, it hit me like a freight train, rotten eggs, ammonia, and decaying flesh, thick thick enough to taste on the back of my tongue.

She was contaminating my home, infecting it.

I swung the hammer again, but before I could pull back, it was yanked from my hands, sucked into the wall with terrifying force.

I stumbled backwards, crashed into a lamp, my breath ripped from my chest, and all I could do was stare at the hole.

Gaping, useless, like a fish out of water.

And then I saw it.

That eye

dark crimson bulging through the fracture in the wall it watched me split with jagged red lines like a crack to mirror and every primal part of me screamed run

I couldn't run deep down in the marrow of my bones and the electric pulse of my brain, I knew I'd fucked up.

I crossed a line I couldn't uncross.

Before this, there were roles.

She had the walls.

I had the rest of the house.

That boundary, thin and fragile as it was, had held until I broke it.

Until I opened a door.

And from that moment on, everything got worse.

That night, as I lay in bed, every breath shallow and ragged, I heard it.

The peeling of drywall, the slow, deliberate tear of the hole widening.

A sound wet and gritty, like muscle being stripped from bone.

I thought about vampires then, how they had to be invited in.

Had I done that?

Was smashing through the wall an invitation?

When I finally worked up the nerve to rush downstairs, slower this time, more cautious, I saw what had become of the hole.

It had widened into a mouth.

The jagged edges of the drywall jutted out like cracked, broken teeth.

She was inside now.

Inside my house.

I bolted back upstairs, locked the door, shoved the dresser up against it, and then

silence.

No scratching.

No dragging.

No circling from the walls while I lay there, eyes bloodshot and wide open, plugs jammed into my nose to fight that goddamn smell.

Sulfur, decay, roadkill.

And that's what she was now, wasn't she?

Just roadkill.

But then came the thumping.

Below me, cabinets ripped from their hinges, drawers wrenched free and hurled across the floor, the unraveling of my home, my sanity coming apart like a loose spool of thread.

The destruction lasted all night.

And then

closer.

I heard her crawl up the stairs.

A wet, dragging thump, like a half-paralyzed child clawing her way upward.

Closer.

Then she slammed against my door again and again.

No words, no heavy breathing, just the smell, thick and suffocating, burning in the back of my throat, so close I could taste it.

At dawn, she left.

I heard her slither away, back to whatever crack she crawled out of, retreating to the spaces between reality and madness.

When I moved the dresser,

I found two things.

A framed photo of me and my parents.

Smashed.

Crumpled beneath shattered glass and a mangled frame.

Bite marks in the wood from a mouth that wasn't whole, teeth uneven, broken.

And the door, punched through, several holes, as if she'd driven her fists into it.

But then I saw the hammer, my hammer, embedded high in the wood,

higher than it should have been, as if she'd been standing, standing on those twisted, broken legs, splintered bone grinding through fresh and cartilage like knives through wet paper, paper, like a toddler taking its first unstable steps.

I laughed.

A raw, guttural noise that clawed its way out of my throat.

I couldn't take it anymore.

Sleepless nights, the stench, the violation of my home, my control.

I had to know.

I had to see with my own eyes, prove it was all in my head.

This was my house.

I wasn't going to let stupid whore too careless to tie her shoes on the side of the road take it away from me.

I needed to see her, convince myself she was still there, rotting in that pit, mangled, dead.

But the moment I crawled into the basement, I knew I'd made another mistake.

Like the hammer in the wall, like smashing through the drywall, I was crossing another line in a rule book I didn't understand.

The crawl space was darker than it had ever been.

The air thick and humid, the dirt wet beneath my feet, clinging to me like decay, the smell of sulfur and rot suffocated every breath.

I started digging.

The deeper I went, the more my skin crawled.

Goose flesh prickled along my arms, every hair standing on edge.

Three feet down,

I heard it

scuttling,

dragging,

far off, but getting closer.

Fingernails tapping.

A low thump.

Four feet down,

I expected to see her hand, her foot, anything.

Five feet down, I found it.

The edges of the blue tarp, crumpled and filthy, half swallowed by the earth.

And then something fell into the crawlspace with me.

The sound of wet, rancid meat hitting the dirt.

From the corner, where the wall met the floor.

I didn't look.

I didn't need to.

I peeled the edge of the tarp open.

Nothing.

Empty.

Hollow as a grave with no corpse.

No clicking of nails, just the wet dragging sound now, slow and steady, like something ancient and patient moving through the dirt.

Something hungry.

Every instinct in me screamed, don't look.

Don't flash the light towards the sound.

Don't acknowledge it.

So I didn't.

But then I saw it.

A tunnel.

A narrow, collapsed burrow in the earth, leading away from the tarp and toward the cracks in the walls.

Like she had writhed her way out, a worm slipping through the soil, dragging herself back into the shadows.

I left the hole behind.

Left the tarp.

Crawled toward the faint glow of the hatch, heart pounding like a war drum, huffing, stumbling, dirt filling my mouth, the copper sting of fear biting my tongue.

But I could hear her behind me, that dragging.

No breath, no groans, just silence and that awful wet pull of something dead moving towards me.

The hatch slammed shut above me.

I screamed.

I couldn't turn around.

I couldn't bring myself to shine the light behind me.

If I saw her, I knew it would break me.

I crawled faster like a dog, frantic and pathetic.

My hands clawed at the earth, my knees scraped raw, my head slammed into a wooden post.

Crack!

White-hot pain exploded behind my eyes, and blood spilled down my face, thick and blinding.

But I could hear her picking up speed.

The dragging sound grew faster, more eager.

I had to look.

I didn't want to, but I had to.

I turned the flashlight, and there she was.

A broken, rictus in the beam of my light.

More rotten than I could have imagined, skin slothing off in ribbons, scalp peeled back like the torn skin of an orange, revealing wet red bone beneath.

Her body contorted into a sick parody of a crawl like a spider with every every leg snapped.

Her arm reattached but wrong, bones stabbing through torn flesh like jagged knives.

Her elbows bent outward, her knees twisted inward, an obscene mimicry of movement.

And she was grinning.

Frozen in the beam like a deer caught in headlights.

Her spine arched high above her head, jagged and crooked beneath her tattered shirt.

An unnatural mountain range clawing for the sky.

She didn't speak.

She didn't need to, because then

she moved.

Sudden, violent.

She charged.

Her hands slapped the wet earth, arms pinwheeling, legs convulsing and crunching with every frantic step.

Her broken body hurtled forward with terrifying speed.

God, how is she so fast?

The sound of cracking bones echoed through the crawl space, clicks, pops, the awful shuffle of shattered limbs dragging forward, pulling her closer.

I reached the hatch.

I forced it open, clawing at the frame, every muscle screaming, but something heavy pushed down from above.

She was so close.

That sulfurous stench, wrought death and vengeance, was inches away.

And all I could do was push.

I wrenched the hatch open with a burst of raw, terrified strength and threw myself up the ladder.

She hit the ladder behind me hard.

The impact rattled the wood like a dog lunging for a ball and missing by inches.

A wet, meaty thud followed as she collapsed below, but she didn't stay down.

I heard her shuffle, then brace, knuckling onto her wrists like a broken marionette finding its balance again.

I slammed the hatch shut, locked it.

She wasn't playing anymore.

No more taunting, no more games, no dragging sounds meant to pull terror from me like blood from a wound.

Now, she wanted me.

The cellar door shook beneath me as she slammed into it over and over, relentless.

No hesitation, no breath between each hit.

A machine with no soul behind its violence.

And that's when I saw it.

The dresser had fallen across the hatch, wedged tightly in place.

She set a trap.

That calculating, venomous thing had found a way to let it drop.

Maybe she had weakened the leg, worn it down until it would collapse at the right moment.

She turned on the TV before God knows what else she could do.

I imagined what she would have done to me if she had gotten hold of me.

The frantic banging didn't stop.

Each hit came without pause, without hesitation, pure mechanical persistence.

I flipped the dresser back over, scattering a wave of those fat, lazy flies that had made my misery their nest and sat on top of it, bracing myself against the door.

And it didn't even feel angry.

That was the worst part.

It felt like she was enjoying it.

The way she threw her broken body into the hatch again and again.

It wasn't rage driving her, it was hunger.

The reckless, obsessive violence of a predator that didn't care if it tore its upper part in the process, like a chained pitball gnawing through its own flesh just to rip apart a stray cat.

Relentless, predatory, unstoppable.

That was ten minutes ago.

I sat there thinking about burning it all down, just torching the entire house, lighting her up along with everything else.

But what if she didn't burn?

What if she survived?

That thought twisted in my gut like a knife.

Somehow, that would be worse.

No,

I couldn't let it end that way.

I made my decision.

I would turn myself in.

I'd go to prison, confess to everything.

Everything.

If it meant I'd never have to hear her again, never hear her nails scraping through the walls, never hear her mangled hands thumping toward me in the dark.

She had become a disease, a cancer gnawing through the fabric of my reality.

But I could take back one thing:

control.

I still have that.

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 076.

I killed someone by accident.

Now she's crawling through my walls.

Written by Skullknitter.

Performed by Larry Fessenden.

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.