Lot 053 : Does Anyone Remember The Rhyme About The Patchwork Man?

A equals A.

Oh, look who it is.

I simply can't tell you how pleased I am to have you drop by.

Come on in now.

Come on in.

You see,

someone left this here for you just yesterday.

It's one of those magic eye books.

You know, I've never been able to figure the darn things out.

But they say you might have some luck.

It's the hidden image in an illusion of a tale called,

Have You Ever Heard the Rhyme About the Patchwork Man?

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 Moon Unit, Jeremy Bernesh,

Karma Cat,

Patty Johnson, Jamie is sharp,

Feisty Faye, Pip Marchy, Love and Labdanum,

and Chris Johnson.

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.

Hey, does anyone remember the rhyme about the patchwork man

and the picture game?

Patchwork man, patchwork man, play a game.

Patchwork man, patchwork man, in the frame.

And the next line is something about stealing your skin.

But for the life of me, I can't remember the end.

I'm trying to find it for an old friend.

This friend.

For privacy's sake, let's call her

Kayla.

Met me for coffee after texting me out of the blue, reminiscing about our childhood days and wondering if we can get together and catch up.

You know, I'm one of the few who stayed in our hometown and never moved, even though there's really nothing except lots of conifers reaching towards the clouds like brushes, painting the skies a permanent gray.

The trees and slopes mean our roads are winding, our homes shaded.

and the sky blotted out by branches.

Unless you're willing to drive far enough to where the land land levels into pasture.

All of which is to say, our sleepy town has its share of quirks.

And it's very possible the game never caught on in other places.

When Kayla mentioned it in her text to me, memories flooded back.

I hadn't thought about elementary school in years.

Suddenly, I was back on the playground.

Running across the sand, screaming because Kayla wouldn't stop trying to kiss me, pretending to be Pepe Le Pew while I I pretended to be the cat.

To be honest,

I barely remembered Kayla, aside from that memory.

Even though we attended the same school all the way through senior year, she became one of the popular girls.

And since I turned out to be the token gay, I'm actually bi, but whatever.

I spent most of high school just trying to keep my head down and get through.

We met at a small cafe, one of only two breakfast spots in town, and the only one with coffee I considered decent.

Seated by the large windows, I wondered if I'd even recognize her.

I texted that I was wearing gray flannel.

When she came in, she looked around for a moment in confusion, spotted my shirt, and beamed.

Pat?

Almost didn't know it was you.

Kayla, what is up?

I smiled and stood up.

I definitely didn't recognize you.

Wow, you look like a real city gal.

Where'd you get this coat?

It's Burberry.

She said and blushed.

Embarrassed, maybe, to be a rich woman in such a homey space.

I like your tattoo.

Oh, don't thank you.

Is that a wolf?

It's actually my husky, Snowy.

Named him when I was eight.

Never wanted to forget him, so there he is, forever.

Oh my god, that is so sweet.

She laid a hand to her heart, looking genuinely touched as she slid into her seat.

I never knew you had a dog.

How did I not know that?

You know, my son recently got a dog.

Wait, I say, you got kids now?

I've got kids now.

The first half hour of catching up, Kayla was smiling, energetic, seemingly delighted to share about her life and ask about mine.

And yet, I noticed the occasional drift of her eyes as I was telling her about my dad's health, like she was distracted.

Like all this sunny conversation was just light on the water's surface, while deeper down a darker undercurrent tugged her thoughts elsewhere.

Like she was itching to ask me something.

But then the smile returned, as carefully applied as her makeup.

I suppose life as a businesswoman taught her to wear that amiable disposition, just like that expensive coat, but I'm patient.

I kept up the discussion and waited for her to get comfortable enough to shed both the fancy coat and fancy smile and explain to me why her hands were trembling.

Finally, she sipped her coffee and asked,

Do you remember Jimmy Smythe?

Of course I remember Jimmy Smythe.

That was how we always referred to him.

Not as Jimmy, like back when he was alive.

Jimmy Smythe.

First name, last name.

Jimmy Smythe.

The boy who went missing.

You remember what he looked like?

That took me aback.

I tried to think that far into the past.

Shook my head.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a photograph.

An actual printed photograph.

This was was a lot of effort.

I looked at the photo and tried to remember him.

Blue eyes, blonde hair,

chubby red cheeks, and that mole on his nose.

Jimmy Smythe was in our fourth grade class when he went missing.

People searched for weeks, but there was no trace of him anywhere.

You remember

how mad the sheriff got about the patchwork man?

I remember.

I remember they thought he was someone they could find.

The patchwork man was like our small town's version of the boogeyman, or Bloody Mary.

A scary tale we used to spook one another.

He wasn't real, but Jimmy talked about him so much in the days before he disappeared that authorities assumed he was an actual person stalking us all.

It's possible the other kids said stuff that led them to think that too.

And Jimmy and the others drew pictures of him.

So many pictures.

A disfigured man in a patchwork calico coat.

But I was never really all that into the fads and games that other children got swept up in.

I didn't learn about the patchwork man until our school field trip to an art museum.

Our school was so small.

It was us little kids plus all the older kids.

When we finally got to the museum, all us younger kids went spilling into the rooms and wandering among the paintings, pointing and saying things like, Oh my god, that's the patchwork man.

Sometimes, we pointed at creepy figures or characters in mottled clothes, like jesters.

But mostly, we pointed at paintings where there wasn't any figure at all.

The older kids didn't get it and kept asking, What's the patchwork man?

I didn't really get it either, even though I kept doing it.

But then Jimmy explained it to me.

The picture game was kind of like a cross between where's Waldo and those magic eye things.

The idea was that you had to try to find the patchwork man.

Most of the kids were pretending just like I was.

He's right behind you.

We'd say.

He's gonna snatch you away.

Stuff like that.

The teachers finally told us to quit it.

But for weeks after, every so often, someone would remember and start it up again, shrieking that they saw the patchwork man.

They'd yell and point at a picture and swear they saw it for real.

And that he was in the picture, guys.

I swear he was there.

The week before Jimmy Smythe went missing,

he said it a lot.

There was a rhyme, too.

Do you remember we changed it to scare him off?

She began the chant.

Patchwork man, patchwork man, play a game.

I joined in, the words tumbling up from some dusty shelf of memory.

Patchwork man, patchwork man, in the frame.

Patchwork man?

I can't remember the rest.

She struck the table with the flat of her hand, trying to lift her cup.

But her fingers.

We're shaking too bad.

And then something about

stealing skins.

And the last line was how to get rid of him.

Stealing skins.

I'd forgotten about that until she mentioned it.

How the patchwork man stole the skins of his victims.

And his own body was sewn together from their pieces.

So that he had the eyes of one, the nose of another.

Patchwork man.

I tapped my finger to my head, trying to recall the rest of it.

Patchwork man.

Damn, it's gonna bother me.

You don't have it written down?

Maybe I do in an old book or something.

Let's take a look.

Doubt it.

She shook her head.

We destroyed all the pictures and

books, too.

Everything.

That night.

You remember that night?

After Jimmy disappeared?

We all met at Roger's house for the bonfire.

You're right.

Shit, I forgot.

You're right.

She wore in our notebooks.

Not just our notebooks.

Everything.

Pictures we drew, pictures we stole from our parents' houses, even some paintings.

And the book.

You remember?

Jimmy's book.

Jimmy's book.

Now as she said it, I could almost picture us all scattered around the library.

Kayla at the girly girls table with Nancy Drew books.

Me, lounging on the beanbag chair with Snoopy Comics.

And Jimmy, suddenly exclaiming from a corner table.

He he had one of those magic eye books with the patterns where you have to cross your eyes a little to see the hidden picture.

It's him.

It's him.

I found the patchwork man.

Everyone crowded around his table to look at the magic eye book.

There was a chorus of, I don't see anythings, and where?

A girl named Sandy declared she could see him.

But she was clearly lying because she couldn't even point where in the picture he was.

And

Kayla.

Back then, with her freckled face and unkempt hair, and perpetually skinned knees from roller skating, she squinted hard at the page and said, I seem to

a man standing in the corner.

Now in the diner, Kayla reached into her bag and pulled out a book.

He's in here.

So sorry to interrupt your coffee date with Pat and Kayla.

How rude of me.

I was just thinking you could use a refill.

All that's left for you to do is relax, and I'll be right back to top off your cup.

What do you say?

Thought so.

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.

The message, the message, please.

Please, listen to this message.

Please, stop listening to the codes at the end of the voice.

Please stop listening to the codes.

It's nothing good.

Please stop listening to the codes.

I know what it is.

I know what they're trying to get you to do.

Stop listening to the codes.

It's

end of messages.

Thanks so much for your patience.

Got your beverage of choice right here to wet your whistle.

Let's make a toast to Kayla and Pat getting out of this nightmare in one piece.

Shall we?

Now in the diner, Kayla reached into her bag and pulled out a book.

He's in here, she said, pushing it toward me.

Ice trickled down my spine.

It was a magic iBook.

The same book.

Different copy, but identical cover and pages.

Tell me, I'm not crazy.

Tell me, he's not there.

I sighed, but I opened the book.

I'm going to be honest here.

I've never been good at these things.

I don't think I'm going to be able to see anything in any of them.

You can.

I'll show you.

And patiently but insistently taught me how to look.

How to see the ball in the picture on the first page, the airplane on the second.

It was difficult.

I could only make out the shapes with intense concentration, but after I saw a star without her giving me hints, she nodded encouragement and turned the page.

The next one was challenging.

In fact, the longer I stared, the more convinced I became there was nothing in the picture at all.

That this one was a dud.

Sweat formed on my brow.

I could feel the moisture pooling under my armpits, even as my skin went cold.

Wait,

maybe there.

Maybe there was something.

I think I see a figure.

Sort of.

It's crystal.

Clear to me when I look.

She closed the book without looking at the page.

That one's the patchwork man.

Oh,

I said.

Felt a tingle of unease.

But then I thought about it for a moment.

Kayla could be any man-shaped figure, though, couldn't it?

We made up all that stuff about the patchwork man.

It was just a game.

But she was pulling more things out of her bag now, spilling the bag open to reveal photos, articles, artwork.

She shoved a handful of newspaper clippings toward me.

Here, in this town, the disappearances started long long before Jimmy.

And after him, there was a boy, then the next year, in the second grade, and later, a little immigrant girl.

The disappearances happen every decade or so.

A handful of people, then nothing.

For years.

And now, her composure completely cracked.

She took her napkin and held it to her face.

Her mouth trembling beneath welling tears as if she were biting back a scream.

Finally, she burst.

I didn't mean to look.

I was going through my old notebooks, childhood stuff I packed away, and I found some diaries.

Some diary entries I wrote about the patchwork man.

I should have burned it.

I must have forgot it.

Once I saw my old drawings of him, I

see him everywhere now.

He won't go away.

He's real.

He's real.

He has Jimmy's blue eye, Jimmy's rosy cheek.

Look, look, you can see.

But she shoved Jimmy's photo over, along with a folder of artwork.

And in spite of myself, I

looked.

The folder contained printouts of paintings, the kind you might see in people's houses or in a museum.

Initially, they were all perfectly ordinary pictures.

I shook my head and told her there was nothing in them.

But then,

I almost missed him.

Like my eyes wanted to skip over him.

But the feel of goosebumps on my arms made me look again.

And there in a watercolor of a crowded street,

among all the shapes bleeding together like wet ink after a rain, was a man wearing a patchwork coat made of some sort of supple, delicate leather.

He was gone in the next few paintings, but reappeared in another impressionistic crowd scene.

The more images I saw him in,

the easier he was to spot, hiding among the artworks like Waldo in a crowd.

And I swallowed, trying to quell the fear that brought my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Because I could see him clearly enough now to identify the one bright blue eye.

and ruddy cheek.

It really was Jimmy's eye.

And up close, the pieces of Jimmy and others in the patchwork man were all the wrong size.

Mismatched like some sort of Frankenstein's monster.

But even more horrifying to look at.

In fact,

the longer I looked, the more nauseating the details.

Like how the patchwork man had too many fingers on his hands.

And one of his ears was upside down.

And his other one had two different pupils.

And the buttons of his coat were teeth in.

I was getting sick to my stomach.

Dizzy.

Like I was feeling a sense of vertigo.

Like when you look at one of those spinning spirals and when you stop, everything keeps spinning.

Like I was staring at a magic eye and the patterns were shifting.

His skin was almost like those mesmerizing patterns.

I jumped.

Keela had slammed the folder closed and was shouting at me, hollering at the top of her lungs, shaking me.

Stop looking!

Stop looking!

Everyone in the cafe was staring.

I stammered an apology and we paid and quickly left.

Are you okay?

Yeah,

yeah, I am.

No,

actually.

I turned to her.

Why the fuck would you come all the way out here and drag me into the?

Because I don't want to be next.

Rory is starting elementary school.

I just

need to know the rhyme, Pat.

I need to know how it ends.

You're the only person I know who might remember.

Please, please.

What did we do to chase him away?

At the bonfire, okay.

I growled, trying to suppress the bubbling fear that...

No.

No.

I would not succumb to this.

This delusion.

She doctored those pictures.

She had to, or she drawn me into her crazy fears through sheer conviction.

But I couldn't leave her in this state, so I said, Okay.

I maybe have an idea.

We parted ways and agreed to meet at my house later that evening.

In the meantime, I looked at the artworks that hung on the walls of my house.

Artworks that had been there since my grandparents' generation, showing landscapes and people.

All normal.

I typed this post, thinking if we didn't solve her problem, problem, maybe someone else could help.

I was still typing when the doorbell rang.

Evening had come sooner than I expected.

I met Kayla outside by the fire pit.

She had brought her folders with pictures.

I also brought a painting out from inside.

It was my favorite.

A landscape of the beautiful woods and slate gray sky.

It seemed to embody the essence of this place, but while typing, I reluctantly had to admit I'd started catching odd glimpses in the corner of my eye, as if someone was peeking out from behind a trunk.

I didn't want that idea to take root any deeper than it had already.

The painting had to go.

The plan was simple.

We'd burn the pictures, recite the rhyme, and hope that reenacting what we'd done as children would jog our memories.

I got the fire going while Kayla stood there, tight-lipped and pale.

She'd removed her makeup now, and her skin was sallow and her freckled cheeks sunken with fear.

She kept whispering.

Patchwork man.

Patchwork man.

Patchwork man.

Patchwork man.

Trying to remember the rhyme, I knew.

Patchwork man.

But without her knowing the rest, it sounded almost like she was calling.

Patchwork man.

I nudged her and began by tossing some of the pictures from her folder into the roaring fire.

She nodded and followed suit, throwing her old diary on, and then the magic eye book and what was left of her folder.

And lastly, I ripped my painting out of its frame and broke it into two and threw the canvas on.

While all of that was catching, nearly smothering the fire, We faced each other and held hands.

It felt awkward and ridiculous.

Two adults chanting like children.

But we did it anyway.

Patchwork man.

Patchwork man.

Patchwork man.

Play a game.

Patchwork man.

Patchwork man in the frame.

Patchwork.

Patchwork man, I see you looking for some skins to steal.

Kayla shouted, triumphant, remembering the third line.

Just one more.

Patrick Man, you can't take mine.

You.

But even as the line came back to me, she stopped, turning her head.

She was staring at something.

You're not supposed to look away from one another during the chant, not supposed to look at the fire.

But her head was turned, mouth hanging open, eyes wide in terror.

I followed her gaze, and It was impossible.

But I swear to you, there on the top of the heap was my painting of the conifers.

The edges just starting to catch and the patchwork man was stepping out from the trees.

And he was climbing out of the painting.

That piercing blue eye that used to be Jimmy's fixed on Kayla.

The world seemed to swirl and ripple, everything flattening out.

Kayla flattening out too.

She had her hands on her face like that character painted in the screen.

The patchwork man's misshapen hands, one large and one small.

The fingers all different lengths and wrong, like how his left hand had had two thumbs, grabbed her and drew her in.

And they both seemed to blend with brushstrokes and ash and flames, and then the canvas was burning.

The painting was gone.

And there was no one standing where Kayla had been.

Just the prints from her shoes and the dirt.

I gasped, disbelieving.

Stood there in a daze while the fire slowly died,

not accepting any of what I'd seen.

How could I?

It had to be some kind of nightmare.

That was the only thing that made sense.

I was having a waking nightmare.

Maybe someone spiked my drink.

I don't know.

But when I got inside, I looked up at the wall of the living room and groaned.

Because there's a small family portrait, a painting by my grandmother of my grandfather.

Only now.

Instead of my grandfather, it showed the patchwork man

with a new patch of freckled skin on his cheek.

And I whispered to myself the rhyme, the one Kayla didn't finish.

Patchwork man, patchwork man, play a game.

Patchwork man, patchwork man, in the frame.

Patchwork man, I see you looking for some skins to steal.

Patchwork man can't take mine, you know why?

Cause you're not real.

But I know now that the rhyme won't won't help me.

The rhyme just tells you the rule.

That if he's not real, he can't hurt you.

If he's not real, if you don't believe in him.

But I think it's too late because I can see him so clearly now.

Even now as I finish making this recording.

And I hope for anyone listening to this, you don't make the mistake I did.

If your kids talk about him, please convince them he's not real.

It's not too late for them as long as you can convince them.

My only hope now is to drink myself to oblivion, sleep it off, try to convince myself when I wake up that it was all a fever dream, that Kayla never contacted me, I already deleted all her messages, and that none of this happened.

I just have to make myself believe it didn't happen.

Patrick Man, Patrick Man, play a game.

Patrick Man, Patrick Man, in the frame

Patrick Man, I see you looking for some skins to steal.

Patrick Man, can't take mine, you know why?

Cause you're not real.

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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 053.

Does anyone remember the rhyme about the patchwork man?

Written by Quincy Lee.

Narrated by Trevor Shand, starring Romy Evans as Kayla.

Additional voices by Rigby Flanagan Bell, Everett Shand, Scarlett Shand, and Jade Shand.

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 Abishek, and Alysium Audio Labs.

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

Follow us on Instagram and Twitter at Antiquarium Pod.

Call the Antiquarium at 646-481-7197.

Hello and welcome to the world of Scare You 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.