Lot 055 : yourfaceyourporn.mov

W equals J.

Hello, friend!

Will you kindly hold on for

just

a moment?

Now, where is that dark thing?

Oh,

there you are, little one.

Was waiting for you and was looking for this.

I was told it's called a USB thumb drive.

The woman who brought it in said you were to put this into a computer.

It contains a series of video files that are as disturbing as they are perplexing.

She added to open them at your own risk.

That's all I know about them.

Besides this tiny piece of tape on it with the words,

your face.

Your porn written across it.

Your guess is as good as mine, but I have a feeling all

will be revealed in due time.

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 Devon, Savannah Stefanovich,

Alan Cardinal, Sheldon Dude,

Purple, Anne Drees,

Echo Joker, Clarissa Doesn't Explain It All,

and

Mandy Burl.

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.

My wife tells me she's cheating on me about halfway through dinner.

I work my way through the potatoes, the beans, and most of the meat before replying.

Who?

That doesn't matter.

It very much does matter, I think.

I imagine a six foot four muscular chiseled Greek god of a man fucking my wife.

I think about the way he holds her.

Is he gentle?

Rough?

And the noises she makes for him.

Is she quiet?

Does she scream for him?

Michael.

I'm working on the last of the chicken at this point.

Wondering if she's ever fucked both of us in the same day.

Michael, listen to me.

I watch her for a while.

Her jaw, the hollow of her neck.

I want a divorce.

Is he better?

What?

Is he better than me?

She purses her lips.

I think she's going to tell me that he's just different, that she's sorry it had to be like this and that she still loves me, really, deep down, that it was a mistake.

And no one could be better than me.

But instead, she replies, Yes, Michael, he's better than you.

She tells me that she's staying in the house until she finds a place to rent while we sort this out.

I say that maybe I should have the bed, to which she says, trust me,

you don't want the bed.

In our bed?

Sleep on the couch, Michael.

And so that's where I find myself.

Working my way through a bottle of expensive scotch I'd saved for a special day and browsing the internet.

My browsing is aimless, filthy, meandering.

I lurch from website to website going nowhere.

That is, until I see an ad.

Your face?

Your porn.

Do you want to live out your most disgusting, most depraved fantasies?

Do you want to see yourself do it?

Using state-of-the-art deep fake technology, we're able to show you what your deepest desires actually look like.

See them played out across the screen.

The things you've only spoken of in whispers,

that you've never even admitted to yourself.

Take control of your life.

Be the best version of yourself you can be.

This

is your face,

your porn,

your reality.

I'm in a fuck it sort of mood, more than a little drunk, and I think that this might be the best way to get back at her.

I don't even have to leave the comfort of my home, and I could see what I'd look like doing whatever I want.

All those things I never told her.

The things she'd never do.

I can see it.

The ad is blank aside from the text on the white screen, that an attacky gif of red lips blowing a kiss before running their tongue along their teeth.

I watch the mouth on the red ad blow kiss after lurid kiss at me and start to feel convinced.

They'll superimpose my face convincingly into any situation, and I'll watch myself carry out my darkest, deepest desires.

There are different packages, celebrity, fetish, slice of life, narrative, and on and on, but one in particular catches my eye.

Surprise me.

And so, squinting so that I can read the numbers on my credit card, I subscribe.

I fill out a quick form, what I'm into, my kinks, my age, name, that sort of thing.

It then requires me to take a video of my face from different angles, then makes me cycle through a few basic facial expressions.

takes a sample of my voice saying a few basic sentences.

Not long after, I pass out.

I awake to a vicious hangover and a notification on my phone.

An email containing the first video.

Your faith, your purchase, dot move.

It's really me.

Or at least it looks exactly like me.

It's night and fake me seems to be followed by a camera.

Fake me spends the evening going into various shops around town and buying tape and an apple from each store.

He seems to make the cashiers nervous, and one girl even starts shaking while she tries to find the code for the tape when it won't scan.

He's impatient, wraps his knuckles on the desk, calls her a bitch under his breath as he leaves.

Wide-shot.

He walks down the street past the glass window.

The cashier is crying silently inside.

And that's it.

I try to click forward to see if there's anything else, but that's it.

I watch the whole thing expecting it to be the build-up to

something.

But no.

Instead, all I see is something that looks exactly like me drive around town and buy apples and tape.

I try to see if I can find the website again to cancel my subscription, but I can't find anything.

I try and look through my history, but it's not there.

In fact, There's just an empty gap between 1 and 3 a.m.

Whilst it isn't porn, the technology behind it is still amazing.

And the person on the screen looks exactly, exactly like me.

I don't go to work.

I watch TV, drink beer, smoke inside.

My wife, and she is still my wife, complains.

I don't listen.

Around 6 p.m., I receive another email.

Your face,

your gums.move.

the cameras focused on the me the visit me sat at a table he's answering questions it's my voice my voice he says he's sorry he says he does not know no he never knew he's fiddling with something in his mouth above his teeth he's never heard that name before

He says if they insist, but it's not like he'll like it

The voice behind the camera laughs.

Close above his mouth.

There's a thick black hair protruding from his gum just above his teeth.

And he's trying to wiggle it loose.

It isn't working.

Until...

Until it does.

And he pulls out a knot of tangled hairs from the pink of his gum.

And they keep coming and coming and coming until there's nearly a foot of hair.

And with each tug, it wobbles his front two teeth a little.

He says this has never happened to him before.

The voice behind the camera laughs again.

I don't sleep that well that night.

Something about the videos has unsettled me.

They're too realistic, and watching that fake me fiddle with his gums made my mouth hurt.

I say nothing to my wife when she comes in.

Make no effort to tidy the takeaway boxes from the table.

She looks at me for a long, long time, as if something's building up inside her.

Some thought or opinion about me she's always wanted to tell me.

And I watch as it almost bursts out her lips.

And then

nothing.

I hear something looking through our bins as I try to sleep.

A raccoon?

Someone homeless?

They disappear when I get up to look.

The notification wakes me up.

Another video.

I try to reply to the address that's sending me these, telling them that I want them to stop, but the email bounces back.

I have no choice but to watch.

Your face,

your trash got moved.

For me, that can't possibly be me is eating at a new table, but the whole table is covered in trash, dirt, empty cans, pizza boxes, rotting fruit, bones, tiny crawling things, etc., etc.

There are flies buzzing aimlessly about.

He's shoveling as much as he can in his mouth.

Coffee grounds spill down his chin and he coughs.

He keeps looking to the left of the camera after swallowing.

He winces, pulls something from his mouth.

A razor.

He has bitten a razor.

His blood is dark and thick and it mixes with the coffee grounds that dribble down his chin so that it looks lumpy and black.

It coats his shirt and his hands as he attempts to wipe his face again.

He looks to the left of the the camera again and continues eating.

At this point, I consider deleting my email account.

Something is wrong here.

There's something in these videos that's beyond unsettling.

I don't remember pulling half those facial expressions and his reactions are just like mine.

It's too real.

That's my wince.

That's the wince of pain I know I do when I stub my toe or stand on a thumbtack or bite my my tongue.

But when I get up to fix myself a drink, I find my wife's car gone.

And I know that she's with him.

With this guy she's fucking, and I feel a stab of self-loathing that goes so deep, it pierces my stomach and makes me a wretch.

I watch the video again.

Evening comes.

Your faith,

your anger dot move.

Nothing like the horrors of infidelity pardon the interruption all this tech talk reminded me I have to adjust the security cameras in the stockroom Sit tight and I'll be right back

Why, hello there.

You've reached the antiquarium.

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

Greetings and salutations, antique dealer.

This is Mr.

Shadrach.

I too own an antique shop about three blocks down from you on 666 Old Scratch Road.

I don't know how, but it would appear that you have managed to steal a few of my regular customers from me.

Their souls, I mean, excuse me, their business belongs to me.

I would ask that you return them to me at the address provided with all possible haste, or I shall pay you a visit.

It is my sincerest hope for your sake that you respond in kind.

Good day to you, sir.

I will be waiting

and watching.

End of messages.

So sorry about that.

Let's get back to it and open another file on that drive.

Shall we?

Evening comes.

Your faith,

your anger.

Move.

He's carrying a bunch of grapefruit in his arms in the street.

A small old man bumps into him and the fruit go flying.

They make the sweat pop as they hit the floor.

And in the noise, you can hear the fibers that held the fruit together tear.

The man is knocked over.

The me that looks too much like me sees someone nearby drinking from a thermos and, grabbing it, empties the scalding water all over the fallen man's face.

Close up, the me that shouldn't be me spits on him and winks at the stunned crowd watching.

The fallen man moans and spasms.

I don't know why, but I sort of like this one.

The noise of the fruit is so satisfying, so visceral, and there's something triumphant about the way Fake Me snatches the boiling water and pours it over the man.

Fake me is in control.

That evening, my wife tells me that she doesn't think she ever loved me.

Not like the way she loves her new man.

And to come to think of it, I'm not much of a man at all.

She says this whilst I try and wipe ketchup from my shirt, but only succeed in getting some on the couch.

When she goes to bed upstairs, I watch yourfaceyouranger.mov over and over again.

I doze.

With my eyes half open, the me the isn't me.

The fake me winks at the camera.

My heart gets faster.

I pretend to be asleep and keep my eyes open just a sliver.

Fake me walks away from the crowd, right up to the camera, knocks on my screen a few times with his knuckles.

It sounds like glass.

He watches through the screen, smiling.

His eyes are on me, I'm sure of it.

He pushes his face against the camera, against my screen, and stares right at me.

There's something behind those eyes, behind that face.

Something dark and waiting.

He keeps watching me.

I think he knows I'm awake.

We stay stay like that until morning.

Your face,

your neighbor, dot move.

He knocks on Mrs.

Tay's door.

He's holding an apple and tape.

She invites him in.

He enters, the camera follows.

In one movement, he stuffs the apple in Mrs.

Tay's mouth and forces her to the ground where he binds her arms and legs with tape.

Someone from off-camera hands him a hammer.

Wide-shot, Mrs.

Tay struggles on the floor.

The me that watched me looks through her records, puts one on.

It's old and slow, and the vinyl crackles as he drags her into the basement.

That I am a local calm and blue.

That I love you.

You can

love

my roses

when

The video continues for half an hour more until the vinyl is finished and there's just a loop of a faint crackle.

And then there are two thuds, a snap,

and it ends.

I can see someone's car I don't recognize in my driveway.

It looks expensive.

I go to investigate, but can't find anyone near it, and so I decide to go and check on Mrs.

Tay.

I stumble down the street in my dressing gown, face covered in patches of stubble, and knock on her door.

No one answers.

Bill Roberts walks past and I wave at him.

See Mrs.

Tay today, Bill?

He shakes his head.

I can tell he's trying not to react to how I look, trying to be polite.

Oh, hey, Mike, probably maybe like a week or so ago, I think.

A pause.

He's finding the right words.

I can tell...

online who's in control and is acting.

I am also terrified.

Whatever it is on that screen knows about me, knows something about my life.

I don't know if it's here in this reality or if it is just peering in.

Either option makes my chest tight.

I've drunk the house dry and have to make several trips to stock up on liquor.

I even call a few old contacts and manage to get some pills, although I promise myself I'll only take them when things get really, really bad.

Your faith.

your trial.move.

The shortest video so far.

The me I wish was me pushes against his jaw, probing.

Slowly, surely, he slides his hand under the skin of my face until I can see the outline of my fingers under the skin, like five giant malformed veins.

He wriggles the fingers and the skin comes away from my face.

My ring finger emerges from my eyelids.

He pulls the hand out and it is covered in some sort of embryonic fluid.

He winks at the camera.

At me.

I try the same thing that evening after I've shaved, pushing my fingers into my face as if the skin is going to slip and I'll be able to do what he did.

But nothing happens.

My long nails cut the tender, freshly shaven skin, and I end up just moving my face the conventional way.

I smile, then frown, then stick out my tongue, then puff out my cheeks.

Once I'm convinced my face still works, I go to bed.

I think my wife sneaks in in the back door.

Her lover.

Her Casanova.

I can hear them fuck, I think.

I can't wait for morning.

Can't wait for a new.mov.

I watch your face your trial.mov on repeat to help me sleep.

And when he is convinced I'm asleep, he comes right up to the camera again.

But this time he fiddles with the edges as if testing the boundaries.

His breathing gets deeper, lustier.

He cannot find a way out, so he just watches, cycling through expressions the way I did, convinced that I'm asleep.

Am I?

When I wake up, there's a note from my wife telling me that she's moving in with him for a while.

There's a voicemail from work telling me I'm fired and that there will be no severance pay.

Your face.

You're a junkie's dot move.

He,

I,

finds a couple of junkies on the outside of town.

He shows them a huge stack of cash and they both nod.

They have about six teeth between them and walk with a pronounced stoop, taking him to an abandoned building on the edge of town.

He says, go in ahead of me, I'll be right in.

They pause for a while, trying to work out what the catch is, why this seemingly average guy would offer all this cash up front, but he hands them both small foil packages and they quickly dash inside.

As before,

he slowly slips his hand under the skin of his face, working it up and up and up until both hands are completely under the skin.

The camera pans down to the rusty gate that borders the property.

He hangs something from the gate before walking down the overgrown path into the house.

It takes me a while to realize that the thing hanging from the gate is a face.

My face.

Like a mask, the mouth and eyes are empty, and the skin flaps like a heavy flag in the breeze.

There's the sound of cars driving past every few minutes.

Then two noises like grapefruit bursting, vibrous and wet and sudden.

He He walks back down the path and puts the face back on.

I do not manage to see what lies under that face, but I desperately want to.

I think my hair is falling out.

I take a long walk around the block.

When I return, I find my wife staring at my laptop as if she's seen the devil.

She turns to me slowly.

What the fuck is this, Michael?

The laptop is positioned behind her back, so I can see the screen and her at once.

I remember the contents of you are face, you're junkies.mov and start to panic.

If that fell into the wrong hands, with no context,

I can explain.

The videos, they're not me.

All the places, the situations, their fake, I think.

She shakes her head.

What situations?

Jesus, Michael.

It's just hours.

And hours and hours and hours of footage of you whispering to the camera.

It's just your face.

What's fake about that?

I can tell she's a little scared, her disgust at me slowly morphing into something uglier, nastier.

She takes a couple steps back, as if seeing me for the first time.

Behind her, I can see the me that isn't me, the fake me, smiling at the camera on screen.

The footage is paused, but he's still moving, closer and closer to the camera, his eyes wide and with a rigor more to smile.

A smile as if he's just learned how to control the musculature of his face perfectly.

And he's holding a finger to his lips.

She takes another step back.

I try and warn her, but no words come.

Instead, I'm frozen in fear, seeing the fake me grow closer and closer to the camera, to the screen, as her back's turned and he's pushing against the glass of the screen, trying to find a weak point, a crack that will allow him to move from his reality into ours.

She can't take it anymore.

She turns around and without looking at the screen, she picks my laptop up and smashes it on the floor.

She leaves.

The thought of the screen smashed for some reason terrifies me.

It's as if whatever barrier was between me and that thing is broken.

And although I can't see anything, I feel him leaking into our world, like the soft hiss of gas through a broken pipe, or air escaping a valve.

I take the laptop to be fixed, pay extra to make it happen as fast as possible.

As soon as the screen is fixed, I take it home, desperate to turn it on, to see if there are any new videos, to check on the old ones.

I try loading your face your purchase.mov, the first video I was sent.

A familiar scene plays, except there's no fake me.

It's the exact same footage, I'm sure of it.

But the me that isn't me isn't there at all.

The cashier still weeps silently.

But it's not due to any version of me scaring her.

I try loading yourfaceyouranger.mov.

The same.

The exact same video, but the fake me isn't there.

The man still falls over.

Coffee is still poured on his face.

The crowd still reacts.

But there's no me.

Your face, your junkies.mov is now just footage of two junkies walking to a crack house and entering it.

They still don't leave, but there's no face on the gate.

Nothing.

No sign that I was ever there.

The house suddenly feels so empty.

I can hear the faint tap-tap-tap of the branches against the upstairs window, the gurgling of the drain,

the way the old wood creaks ever so slightly with age.

I am alone.

And I know then that the reason he's not on the screen is because he's here.

With me.

As I feel sweat start to run down my back, I receive one final email.

Your faith.

Your turn

dot move.

Wide shot.

Me.

But the real me this time.

Alone.

The room is full of trash.

Rotting food.

Empty beer bottles.

Liquor bottles smashed on the floor.

Pill bottles.

Crumpled clothes.

The real me holds up a hand, waves it.

This is live.

This is real time.

This is happening.

Now.

The room is dark.

Objects are obscured.

In shadow.

Something moves behind the window.

A curtain rustles.

Bottles clink.

He's in here, somewhere.

Watching.

Waiting.

I'm alone with myself.

And I have all the time in the world.

Y

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me.

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, Lod 055, YourFace, YourPorn.mov.

Written by Max Voynich, starring Owen McEwen as Michael, DeQuintero as the wife, Romy Evans as the website, featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer.

Engineering production and sound design by Trevor Shand.

Theme music by the Newton Brothers.

Additional music by COAG, Vivek Abasek, and Kevin McLeod.

The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings is created and curated by Trevor and Lauren Shand.

Follow us on Instagram and Twitter at AntiquariumPod.

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.