Lot 060 : If You Go Down, You Forget - chapter 1 -

Today's episode is sponsored by I Know What You Did Last Summer.

Get it now on Digital.

When five friends inadvertently cause a deadly car accident, they cover up their involvement and make a pact to keep it a secret rather than face the consequences.

A year later, their past comes back to haunt them, and they're forced to confront a horrifying truth.

Someone knows what they did last summer and is hell-bent on revenge.

As one by one, the friends are stalked by a killer.

They discover this happened before, so they turn to two survivors of the legendary Southport massacre of 1997 for help.

Starring Madeline Klein, Chase Sue Wonders, Jonah Hauer King, with Freddie Prince Jr., and Jennifer Love Hewitt.

I know what you did last summer is a perfect summer slasher, says Jordan Cruciolo of NPR.

Your summer is not over yet.

Don't miss a killer movie night at home.

You have one new message.

Well, hello.

I know you were planning to stop by the shop today.

I wanted to catch you before you got here, in case I should forget to mention it during your pickup.

My memory isn't what it used to be.

A good friend of mine has a place a few blocks up from the antiquarium that I recommend you check out.

It's called Campfire Radio Theater.

And they've always got something incredibly horrifying playing there.

As a customer of this establishment, the stories they curate are right up your alley.

That's for sure.

A cast of the best of the best at voice talent combined with cinematic sound design and full stereo.

And a killer soundtrack.

You can get free admission to Campfire Radio Theater on Apple, Spotify, and your usual haunts.

I'll leave you with their coming attractions.

Looking forward to seeing you soon, friend.

End of messages.

Fill your ears with the sounds of terror.

Campfire Radio Theater.

The infected are mindless, soulless creatures.

They know only hunger for the flesh of those that remain.

There won't be anything left of you to discover, Jay.

Ever attempt self-open heart surgery?

Morrow said you were a demon all along.

It's the aliens.

They move around on

some kind of spiky tentacles.

There's too many voices here, too many dead souls.

I have to leave now.

Arena, you're very sick.

Who knew you could pull that much of a man's brain out through the eye cycle?

Tune in to Campfire Radio Theater, an audio-drama horror experience wherever you listen to podcasts.

Oh no.

Found you.

Great to see you as always, friend.

Great to see you.

I've got something very special come in today.

Very special indeed.

The relic taken, what avails the shrine?

The locket pictureless, oh oh heart of mine.

Except this one right here, of course.

This one very much has a picture inside.

As to of what, or of whom exactly, is yours to discover.

In this jewel of a tale I call, If you go down,

you forget.

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 Brenna Allen, Jill Fay, James McKinley, Mr.

Seven Gold, Wandering Wenjo, Dirk Daddy, Mexim Kruger, and Rio Kestis.

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.

If you go down,

you forget.

Chapter One

When I first stumbled onto the post by Scared in Milwaukee, it seemed like 99% of internet clickbait,

like as genuine as a Nigerian Princess Gold.

I skimmed as far as a line about how she tried filming but only got static before I just rolled my eyes and honestly switched to porn.

But the post and attached video kept popping up in my feed, re-blogged with titles like Trapdoor to Hell

and Disappeared or Dead.

I finally gave in to curiosity and clicked.

Scared in Milwaukee, 6.24 p.m.

The trapdoor wasn't there before and it isn't there now.

My sis went down a bunch of times, but always forgot what she saw.

She tried filming, but only got static.

The last time she came back, she had don't come scribbled on her arm in her own handwriting.

She went away and

didn't come back, so I went down.

I came out screaming and lost my phone and ran for police.

But the police thought I was pulling a prank.

But it's real.

We were urban exploring, and now the trapdoor is gone.

I can hear her calling for me below.

Abandoned house on

street.

Can anyone help?

Recording attached from before I lost my phone.

Help!

Please, for Milwaukee, please, please, please.

Not a hoax.

Please, help.

Nearly as convincing as not a hoax was the footage itself.

The shaky camera advancing slowly toward the trapdoor opening.

The screen cutting to static.

The faint moans of a distorted voice pleading for help.

Val cliché.

Still low effort as it seemed when the phone camera shakily turned to the girl holding it.

Scared in Milwaukee, looked so genuinely fucking terrified that even my stone-cold, skeptical heart lurched.

She couldn't have been more than 15.

Tears and snot glistened on her face, lips trembling as she whispered, Chloe.

Chloe.

Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.

Quivering like an abused puppy in front of a rolled-up newspaper.

If her performance wasn't genuine, someone's got to give this kid an Oscar.

But a trapdoor that doesn't exist.

A trapdoor that when you go down makes you forget what's below.

A trapdoor that leads.

where?

It really is the essential mystery of it all that finally convinces me to reach out to scared in Milwaukee.

The response comes fast, so fast, it's almost like she's waiting by the phone for a ping.

Scared in Milwaukee.

Please, please, please, it's been nine days.

Oh god, I'm so scared.

It's too late.

Can you come now?

She sends an address and my pulse ratchets up.

Why do I feel so much like a mouse sniffing some cheese conveniently laid across a metal plate?

So this morning, I finally did my due diligence and searched for missing girls named Chloe in the Milwaukee area.

Guess what?

Not a single hit.

Zilch, nada, no missing sister.

I am being taken for a ride.

And as a former scam artist myself, I should really recognize when the Prince of Nigeria is at the keyboard.

I'll give her that Oscar, though.

She fucking really had me going.

But as I'm about to block Scared in Milwaukee, my conscience nags.

But what if there's some other reason Chloe isn't showing up in your searches?

Oh, my conscience incidentally sounds a fuck of a lot like my ex.

She's been living rent-free in my head since our breakup.

Also on my screensaver, my iPhone lock screen, my tablet, the heart-shaped locket I wear around my neck.

Fucking, I'm just kidding.

Like any self-respecting dude gifted a cutesy heart-shaped necklace by his girl, I wear it only on our anniversary, which is never now that we're separated.

But I digress.

What if she's just a scared teen girl who's been told never to give her real details to strangers on the internet?

What if the police, her parents, parents, and everyone in her life has dismissed her just like you're doing now?

Jack, what if it were me down there?

And now I'm looking at my open locket in my hand.

I know.

All right, fine.

I've been wearing it all along.

Framed inside the heart-shaped gold is the dimpled face of my girl.

Lips curved in a coy smile.

One eye winking in her hands making a heart.

I've literally never been able to to tell this girl no when she wants something.

Friends used to even joke about how she kept me on a leash.

Got you whipped man, they'd say.

Well yeah, she knows all my kinks.

Anyway, no sense arguing with myself and my locket is already decided, right?

So, I pack up my gear.

High-powered lights, cameras, digital and analog, crowbar and toolkit, bear spray, bear traps, bear claw.

By the way, all the bear stuff is for dangerous cryptids.

Except for the bear claw, which is my snack.

Flashlights, headlamp, portable generator, extra underwear in case things get super scary.

What?

I didn't say that.

Decked out and ready to die.

I arranged to meet Scared in Milwaukee.

First thing I notice is that the interior of the house looks exactly as in the video.

All dusty floorboards and a single armchair in the otherwise dim and derelict living room.

The house boarded except for a single window on which the plywood is broken, letting in a thin ray of warm light in which the dust moats dance.

Beyond that, my flashlight barely illuminates the dingy interior as I poke my head through the door.

The only difference from the video?

No evidence of a trapdoor.

No No sign there ever was one.

Scared in Milwaukee, incidentally, is actually a 14-year-old girl named Sophie.

And she is terrified of me when we meet.

Unsurprising, given my hollow eyes, stubbled jaw and tattoos.

Oh, and the joint dangling from my lips.

The perfect visualization of stranger danger.

Her terror evaporates, though, after I take one look in that creepy place and nope the fuck out.

Gawking, she asks if I'm not even going in.

Yeah, no, I'll pass.

Thank you very much.

You can practically hear the strains of scary violins.

Too spooky, too bad.

You're on your own.

I'm out of here.

What?

As she stares at me.

When it slowly dawns on her that I'm dead serious, her estimation of me visibly drops from, I picked the bear, to, is this dude for real?

And finally to that old cliche about men and mice.

Well, squeak, squeak, baby.

I'm not walking into a place so pitch black, it's just asking asking for something to grab my ankle and drag me down screaming.

Why would I?

No.

I very sensibly grab a crowbar and spend some time tearing off those boarded windows.

Once it's looking more like a sunroom, I escort us into the warm interior dripping with golden light.

Alright, much better, I say.

Too soon.

Because the second I cross the threshold, all the hairs on my arms stand on end.

Huh.

Guess this is what happens to your house when you don't pay the exorcist.

It gets repossessed.

Sophie doesn't appreciate how hilarious I am.

Can you stop wasting time and find the door?

Sure, we can do that.

I turn to her.

But first,

why isn't your sister's disappearance in the news?

I looked up her name.

No missing Chloe.

What's really down below, Sophie?

Her cheeks flush.

Her gaze drops from mine.

Gotcha, I think.

Smiling.

She's not.

She's not in the news because her real name is Timothy.

She's only out to me.

Can you just find the fucking door, please?

Oh, I say.

Here I thought she was pulling some shitty teen prank, trying to trap me down here for likes or clicks or whatever.

Maybe use the investigation and go viral, even.

A quick search of Timothy proves she's in fact correct and that I'm I'm an asshole.

And honestly, if anyone should have considered the possibility of a dead name mucking up my search results, it should have been me.

I apologize to Sophie and dropped to my knees.

Close my eyes and cock my head like a coyote scenting the air and run my hands over the wooden floorboards.

I'm not a medium, but I am marked by the paranormal.

And I've acquired a certain sensitivity to the uncanny.

Like how some people have sensitivity to odors.

If what I felt entering the house were a smell, it would be the waft of something rotten drifting to my nostrils.

A tingle like electricity passes along my fingers.

Dust and dirt cling to my palms.

To the naked eye, it's just bare wood.

But I ignore what my eyes have been telling me since I entered.

And here, where the tingling is strongest, I sweep my hands back and forth along the dirty floor.

My fingers find a seam.

I trace the edge, at last grabbing the handle.

Sophie gasps and drops down beside me.

Oh my god.

Oh my god, you found it!

It's warded, I say.

Running along the seam are symbols etched into the floorboards, invisible until the door is found.

Deciphering them would require pretty esoteric research.

The girl in my locket would know.

She was always smarter with that stuff.

All I know is that the warding conceals the door.

Probably also keeps whatever is down there sealed off.

Whoever set this up doesn't want what's down there being found.

And doesn't want anyone who does go down

to remember what it is.

Chloe must have stumbled on the handle in the dark by touch.

That's really the only way to find it.

And then I pause.

Dread curdles in my belly.

I ask Sophie, how long has it been since you heard Chloe calling out?

How many days?

Um.

Sophie's eyes widen.

Seven?

A week.

Did she have any water with her?

Anything to sustain her?

We haven't heard any crying, any shouts, any sounds at all from below.

Okay, I grip the handle.

Go outside.

She shakes her head.

Her lips tremble, and her fingers ball into fists.

Sophie goats.

I'm staying.

She won't budge.

I tell her to back up,

and I haul open the door.

The stench hits in a wave.

Both of us stagger back and gag.

Sophie dry heaves.

My stomach bucks, and I raise an arm to cover my nose and mouth.

I know the stench.

I've smelled it before.

But for Sophie, it's new.

God, it smells so bad.

What is that smell?

What is that smell?

When I don't answer, she sobs and leans over the trapdoor, screaming.

I shine my flashlight down the narrow wooden steps into the pitch darkness below, but illuminate only dirt and debris at the bottom of the stairs.

Sophie has been sobbing for the past half hour while I hook up floodlights and cameras.

I've lowered one of the lights into the basement, and it works.

But when I lower a camera and try to monitor its feet on my laptop,

the laptop registers the camera as disconnected.

The phone can't receive a signal down there either.

The same warding that keeps the door hidden interferes with footage and communications.

It's all my fault.

If I

If I hadn't closed the trapdoor when I ran out, maybe the cops would have.

Hey,

you didn't ward this door.

This is not on you.

And we don't know what happened to Chloe yet.

I look down the stairs.

Based on what Sophie has told me, I'll forget everything that happens down there.

I grab pens and a notebook.

Listen, we won't know until we find her.

That smell could be from an entity.

We literally do not know, so write down everything I shout up at you, okay?

We start small.

I go to the bottom of the stairs.

I train the cameras on the trapdoor from all directions, including directly above, so I can see myself descending the steps.

The first few descents, I follow simple rules: stay in camera shot, do not stray

down,

up.

Check the footage.

It's exactly like Sophie said.

I'm aware of descending the stairs, but when I drop back up, I can recall nothing from below.

I come up each time with an elevated heart rate, just the kind of heightened pulse you'd expect from going down into a dark, scary room.

My notes are a useless catalog of what's visible from the bottom of the stairs: dirty floor, discarded wrappers, dusty shelving, old canned goods.

There's really not much in this first room.

The basement opens up, past the blackened hallway, which my notes describe as spooky.

Extra underlines.

Really spooky, I guess.

Both digital and Polaroid pics from below show only blackness, and my video records only static.

The cameras filming from above are only a little better, since everything below the door is still warped by distortions.

And now, it's finally time for me to investigate for real.

Search for Chloe.

Enter the pitch-dark hallway and find out what's beyond.

I'll do it in stages.

Bring in the portable floodlights.

As I'm taking a sip of water and psyching myself up for the real descent, I notice Sophie's eyes on my throat.

Who's in the locket?

I take it off and hand it to her.

She's beautiful.

Your girlfriend?

Ex-girlfriend.

I shrug as she hands it back.

She told me our relationship felt like a horror movie, so let's split up.

Sophie doesn't smile.

A shame, really.

My ex would have laughed and told me I'm an idiot.

Sophie just shakes her head, fiddling with a charm bracelet on her wrist.

It looks handmade, and I wonder if Chloe made it for her.

It should be me going down.

She's my sister.

Absolutely not.

It's brave of you to want to go, but if there's one thing I've learned about the paranormal, it's that bravery is terrible for your longevity.

Trust me, the last thing you need is a hero.

That's also why we're not calling the cops.

I've tried that in the past and it did not go well.

No.

What you need is someone with a shameless sense of self-preservation.

A coward.

A clever coward.

To unravel the puzzle of why you forget, what you forget, and who is really down there, lurking in the dark.

I've written these questions on my notepad and will answer them while searching for Chloe.

I smile at Sophie.

Lucky for you, my special skill is running from spooky stuff.

She searches my face.

Thanks.

Um,

you're not what I expected you to be.

What you're expecting Han Solo, but got Jar Jar Banks?

The tiniest crack of a smile.

Finally,

then she looks shyly again at my locket.

Um,

if something should

happen to you, should I give her a message?

The girl in the locket?

Sure.

Tell her I'm sorry for ghosting her, but I'll always be her boo.

Be sure to include a ghost emoji.

Sophie just shakes her head, still completely failing to appreciate my jokes.

Or let's be real, the comedic content of r/slash dad jokes where I get my material.

Maybe she's right that I should treat death like a grave subject.

But hey, life's a joke and then you die.

Might as well go on

now.

Is it just me, or do you get the feeling we might have met some of these folks before?

I get the feeling things will get a whole lot clearer the darker they get.

If that makes any sense.

I gotta run down to the basement and uh

check on an item myself.

Make yourself at home, and I'll be right back.

The Toxic Avenger is out now.

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

Get tickets now at tickets.toxicavenger.com.

Today's episode is sponsored by I Know What You Did Last Summer.

Get It Now on Digital.

When five friends inadvertently cause a deadly car accident, they cover up their involvement and make a pact to keep it a secret rather than face the consequences.

A year later, their past comes back to haunt them, and they're forced to confront a horrifying truth.

Someone knows what they did last summer and is hell-bent on revenge.

As one by one, the friends are stalked by a killer.

They discover this happened before, so they turn to two survivors of the legendary Southport massacre of 1997 for help.

Starring Madeline Klein, Chase Sue Wonders, Jonah Howard King with Freddie Prince Jr.

and Jennifer Love Hewitt.

I know what you did last summer is a perfect summer slasher, says Jordan Crucciolo of NPR.

Your summer is not over yet.

Don't miss a killer movie night at home.

Have a penchant for the demonic?

A lust for darkness?

Oh, we know you surely do.

If you are among the chosen few who can hear a seemingly nonsensical string of letters being spoken aloud on your way out the store, then you are most certainly marked by the purveyors of the never was.

Hail to the defiled.

Hail, Erebus.

To unlock their secrets, it's quite simple, really.

With the Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings handsome brass cipher pin.

Available now at theantiquarium.myshopify.com.

As an anointed one, listen for the hidden cipher key that will reveal the rotation of the inner circle of your device.

This could be a number that will dictate the position shift starting from A, or quite simply, an equation such as D equals J.

Your cursed decoder will then whisper the true meaning of the scrambled letters, further cementing your fate with us in endless purgatory, where your filthy soul will continue to rot and fester from your insatiable appetite for the unclean.

Are they darning obnoxious?

Now that wasn't so bad, was it?

Shame I can't say the same for

what's in the basement.

Enough of the chit-chat, though.

What do you say we see what our brave adventurers are up to?

Shall we?

Maybe she's right that I should treat death like a grave subject.

But hey, life's a joke and then you die.

Might as well go on the push.

I burst up from below, heart slamming my ribcage, adrenaline tearing through my limbs, a scream ripping through my throat.

My face is wet with tears.

Tears?

My vocal cords hoarse.

Head wringing.

Shoulder sore.

Shit.

Shit.

Oh, Christ.

I run a hand through my sweaty hair, then call, Sophie, did you.

Did you catch that?

Silence.

Sophie?

Blinking, I look around.

What the?

And now, my escalating pulse has nothing to do with whatever sent me dashing out of that deep darkness below.

Dark.

What happened to my lights?

I whirl, looking all around the room.

Sophie!

I call again,

and then dash to the cameras.

Still rolling.

I leave them running, but go to my laptop to review the footage.

In the video, there I am.

Yammering as I descend the staircase.

My voice garbled as soon as I'm below.

I decipher the garble using Sophie's transcription.

I'll be right back, promise.

Cross my heart and hope to...

Never mind.

I continue babbling as I set up my lights.

Not to worry, Soph.

I will find your sister if it's the last thing I...

Also, never mind.

Stupid stuff.

Running my stupid mouth.

until hey,

I think that's your phone.

From this angle, the me on the video isn't visible, but I can see Sophie looking down the trapdoor.

She calls down, her voice clear, unlike mine.

You're moving outside the camera view.

I'm just gonna grab it.

Oh, shit.

This is the last bit of garbled dialogue I can decipher because it's the last part of Sophie's transcription.

On video, Sophie stops scribbling and calls.

Jack?

A long silence.

And then my voice.

Totally unintelligible.

Then my voice again.

But Sophie is quickly descending in response to whatever I said.

Her voice distorting as she disappears below.

I roar.

Then a loud, piercing shriek.

A clanking sound.

One of the lights.

More screams.

The girl's voice.

Mine.

I make out what I think is a garbled, oh my god.

And the tinkle of the second light.

And then just incoherent shrieking that cuts off, leaving only my own voice shouting,

then more sounds of distress, this time my own.

And finally, swearing, snarling, cursing in terror or rage.

And there I am,

bursting up from that narrow staircase, eyes wide and blank.

Unable to remember any of what happened.

And I look around.

My voice is crystal clear now as I say.

Shit!

Shit!

Fuck Christ!

Sophie, did you catch that?

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Oh, shit.

Fuck.

I've lost the girl.

Sophie!

Hang on!

I scrabble in my bag and snatch up a handful of salt, a jackknife, a crowbar.

If I had a single firing synapse in my brain, I might remember what I told Sophie about heroism being a quick ticket to doom.

And I certainly wouldn't announce myself to whatever lurks below, like I do when I holler, Sophie!

I'm coming!

And then, like every heroic idiot who dies first in every horror movie, all aboard the bravery train, next stop, death.

I plunge down those stairs into the pitch dark.

Only to careen out like a chicken with its tail feathers on fire.

Jacket sleeve torn open.

No knife.

No crowbar.

No salt.

Muffled by distance, her frightened wail drifts from the dark.

I put on night vision goggles, opting for stealth this time.

I set up speakers to blast heavy metal music.

The scream of the guitar drowning out the creak of the wooden steps under my weight.

My heart hammers its own furious drum solo as I creep down.

My pockets stuffed with pens.

A marker.

A notepad.

Bear mace as a last resort.

The dark swallows me all.

It spits me out.

My heart playing my ribs like a xylophone.

My throat raw from shrieking.

I turn off the music and scrabble through my pockets, but my paper's gone.

Pen's gone.

Marker fucking gone.

No notes about what took Sophie.

No writing, not one single word.

She sobs.

For my third rescue attempt, I craft an email with the house's address in a single line of instruction.

Close the trapdoor and leave the house.

Then I crouch on the top step.

and cup a hand to my mouth and shout.

This trapdoor sure has been sealed a long time.

And if I'm not back in an hour, the message I've scheduled to seal it again will go out.

Maybe we can find a better option where you release my fucking friend and I don't lock you in for another few decades.

Wanna talk?

The hairs along my arms prickle.

Something shuffles near, just out of range of the cameras, aimed at the rectangle of darkness below.

Whatever it is makes my skin crawl and my stomach churn.

And suddenly, the air smells very stale,

very old.

It's time to bargain.

Which means going down and getting chummy with this rank and reeking thing that took Sophie, a paranormal hostage negotiation.

And if you're wondering, is it really a good idea to deliver my meat suit to the thing below like a tasty meals on wheels?

Listen, I am a snack.

But I'm also fast food.

It'll have to catch me.

But just in case I come up empty-handed again, I concoct a cheat code, so my empty hands will mean something.

Fists for lion, palms for jackal.

Then, I plunge down into the dark.

I emerge out of the dark with a sheaf of yellowed paper stuffed into my pocket.

I also come out of there with black Sharpie scrawled on my forearm and my hands open, palms facing out.

Alright, so I should probably explain my little cheat here.

Some men are lions.

Me, I'm a jackal, shifty and sly, with an aversion to danger.

This is a fantastic quality in a solo act.

Less endearing when you've got someone to protect, especially a girl.

It's just, it's not good form to throw the girl at danger instead of yourself.

Girls hate that.

Just ask my ex.

Coming up with hands balled into fists would mean brawn over brain.

In real-world terms, call the cops.

Invite them to rush down, guns blazing, and then summon whatever special operatives typically deal with UAPs and other classified phenomena.

Let them rescue Sophie.

But I came up with palms.

I double-check the cameras to be sure.

And even through the distortion, the jack on screen looks like a scruffy junkie under arrest with his hands held up.

As he passes the threshold, his bloodshot eyes fix on the camera, meeting mine, and he winks.

I rewind the frame because at first I think I imagined it.

Nope.

In the fraction of a second before the warding makes him forget, he squeezes one eye shut, letting me in on the fact he's playing a trick.

Problem is, I don't know what game that guy's playing.

The only clues I have are the yellowed pages and the sharpie message on my arm.

A message composed of seven words, each with the first letter capitalized:

victim alive,

must perform perform

inscribed ritual escape.

And now I'm sitting here wreathed in the stench of death, listening to Sophie's muffled crying while staring at my two measly clues.

The pages.

The ink.

The writing on the brittle paper has faded.

Arcane symbols surrounded by capitalized letters and some geometric squiggles and dots.

Google Translate says it's Latin and

Aramaic?

Is that a language?

I'm so out of my depth.

Obviously, the pages are related to the warding, but it's all Aramaic to me.

I'm like a chimp with a tablet.

Sure, I can bash my monkey paws on the glowing icons, but I'll probably crash the system long before I figure out how the fuck it works.

I clutched the heart locket around my neck.

She'd be able to make sense of this.

She was always so much smarter with all this esoteric stuff.

Oh, whipmost stuff, though.

She'd probably say.

Which isn't strictly speaking true.

I know way more short people jokes, for example.

I tried explaining a few to my five-foot-tall ex, but they went over her head.

And I slept on the couch ever after.

And suddenly, my heart aches.

There's nothing more pitiful than a clown telling jokes when he's lost his audience.

It's been three months since our breakup.

I swore I'd never contact her.

But I'll never decipher these pages myself.

I fire off a single message.

Hey, babe, it's Jack.

Can I ask a favor?

Next, I turn my attention to the Sharpie on my arm.

Victim alive.

Must perform inscribed ritual escape.

I'm certain it means I need to follow the instructions in Latin and Aramaic on those yellowed pages.

But

I search my pockets.

No marker.

Which means someone gave me a marker to write this message on my arm.

Then took the marker away.

Sus.

If I just look at the first line.

The blaring of my phone's ringtone shatters the silence of the abandoned house like sirens, and I jump, heart lurching into my throat.

When I snatch up the phone to see who the call is from, my pulse ratchets up.

Faster and faster, like a hummingbird's wings.

It's the girl in my locket.

FML, she's video calling.

I turn the music on again and scurry outside into the midday sun.

Can't risk whatever lurks below overhearing me.

And as I wade out into the tall grass and summer heat, I shoot a quick glance at my reflection in one of the the cracked windows.

Wince because I look like if you gave an AI image generator the prompt, Florida man lives in swamp and cardboard box with Gator.

Like I'm the poster child for the catchphrase, who needs a shower when you sweat this much?

Like, oh fuck me, there are more important things in my vanity.

I take the call.

Instant regret.

Because suddenly.

Suddenly there she is.

And

she's even more beautiful than I remember.

She looks like she stepped off the cover of a K-pop album.

Glossy black hair cascading around her shoulders.

Her cheeks just slightly flushed as she exclaims,

Jack?

Oh my god, it's you!

Are you okay?

What's going on?

Where are you?

For a moment, I can't answer.

My breath taken away as her face goes through a whole range of emotions.

Emma's eyes study me,

and I can't tell if she's concerned or disappointed as she takes in my stubbly beard and sunken cheeks and battered stained tank.

I look like I just woke up from my nap in the box I call home with the gator I call Fred.

I want to say so much.

I miss you.

I love you.

I'm sorry.

But I say none of the things.

Instead, blurting, a teen girl's life is in danger, and I can't save her without you.

Alright, so maybe the phrase fucking asshole comes up a few times.

Something about how the only time I reach out is when I'm caught in some paranormal bullshit.

Not because I actually love her.

I do love her.

It's because I love her that I've stayed out of her life.

And even though I know it's wrong to drag her in and I dread the risks, I am so,

so excited to see her.

We arranged to meet her to the diner, so there's no risk of the thing below overhearing us.

I send her photos of the pages and symbols around the trapdoor, and a few video clips.

There's just one more thing I have to do after the call,

because even after deciphering the Sharpie message,

I don't know enough.

And so,

I descend into the pitch dark.

One last

door.

When I come back up, a blade bites into my skin.

A knife.

My own.

I gasp when I realize it is my own hand holding the knife.

And I jerk the blade away.

What?

The actual fuck!

I touch the thin line of blood at my neck and then find one more item tucked into my pocket.

A piece of paper with my own spidery scribble, riddled with spelling errors.

A clue?

Finally, I check the camera footage.

I've been below for 27 minutes.

In the last few seconds of footage, through the camera's distortion, I can make out the garbled sound.

My lips repeating the same phrase over and over.

act the backdown!

Don't act the back!

Do not go back down.

To be continued.

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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 060.

If you go down, you forget.

Chapter 1.

Written by Quincy Lee, starring Trevor Shand as Jack, Romy Evans as Sophie, Addison Peacock as Emma, 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.