Lot 093 : Keep The Lights On

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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.

A equals

H.

Ah, back again, are you?

Always chasing what you shouldn't.

Well then,

let's see what's waiting for you tonight.

Lot 093.

A plastic key card.

Thin.

Ordinary.

Almost disposable.

The strip is worn, the edge is scuffed, and there, see it?

A faint mar of dried brown, as though someone clutched it too tightly when it mattered most.

It once opened doors at a 24-hour storage facility, deep off the highway.

But sometimes keys don't guard you.

Sometimes they lead you exactly where they want you to go.

Here's a demented download I call

keep

the lights on.

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 Aira,

Sierra Garcia,

Antoinette Shrewsbury, Rachel Oakley, Rhea Shepard,

Bonnie,

Emily,

and

Key of Sing.

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.

Condition of the bodies that were found wasn't disclosed, but with special thanks to my anonymous source, X,

the dearly departed chums, being completely honest.

Investigators believe these murders are isolated events, but my lovelies, we know better.

So, let's go over the actual truth.

Okay, we do know that these disappearances.

Yep, this is it.

The towering neon sign that read 24 hours self-storage saturated the parking lot in an almost uncomfortably bright red glow.

The sign was so massive, I didn't understand how I missed it the first time I drove down this desolate stretch of highway.

But I did.

The temp agency forewarned me this was a more isolated location, but

this was fucking ridiculous.

My prior job as a trucker had often led me to remote areas, so maybe this seemed longer knowing I'll be sitting at a desk until sunup after arrival.

Over three hours on the road with nothing to keep me company but the endless rows of trees.

The incentive of 25 bucks an hour with no co-workers to interact with, and my favorite true crime podcast, Seriously Dead.

Best name ever.

I'm a grown man.

Seen and done just about whatever can be done in this life.

But

I hated traveling at night, especially in wooded areas like this.

It was the way

the trees morphed into looming black sentinels when dusk fell.

Almost like

they were leering down at me.

Almost like at any moment they'll uproot themselves.

Lunge at me.

I took a cursory glance at the building as I approached.

It was two stories, wider than it was tall.

Large glass panels made the building's front, allowing you to see the closed steel doors of the storage units.

The first floor was blanched in the stark white of fluorescent lights, while the second floor was plunged in an almost ominous darkness.

I shuddered as I stared into that void-like space above me while I pulled my keycard from my back pocket.

My arm halted mid-rise as my ears pricked at the sounds of footsteps coming to a sudden halt behind me.

I whirled around to face the parking lot and saw

nothing.

Only rocks and my beaten-up pickup.

Must have been an echo.

Now, I wasn't exactly eager to be in a half-lit building in the middle of bum fuck nowhere, but better than standing in a parking lot that looked like a scene from a damn horror movie.

That's for sure.

My job was simple.

Help customers access their units, offer new customers storage, and make sure nobody breaks in.

But seeing how it was literally in the middle of a forest and the possibility of someone wanting to rent a unit, let alone find this fucking place at such an ungodly hour, guaranteed this shift was easy money.

While catching up on episodes, I quietly joked to myself that the only customer I could possibly have would be a serial killer or a raccoon.

The reception area was almost as white and sterile-looking as an operating room, with the exception of a black desk and panel of security security monitors.

I might just keep this job for the chair.

Now, time to catch up and see what Miss Seriously Dead has to say about the.

I bolted from the chair, almost knocking it over as I looked up and saw a figure lurking behind the glass.

I stood stock still,

trying to register what exactly I was seeing.

It's my own reflection.

I could have slapped myself for that one.

Almost thought it was going to end up as an episode.

Well, let's see if Miss SD has it pegged.

So, let's go over the actual truth, okay?

We do know that these disappearances happened around the same time as the two truckers had been reported missing, and two more were found dead in the cab of one of their trucks.

The condition of the bodies that were found wasn't disclosed, but with special thanks to my anonymous source, X, the dearly departed chums, being completely honest with you folks, resembled actual chum.

I mean,

now they insist on saying, since the victims, primarily sex workers and backpackers, disappearances, all happened in random states with no victims having any quote-unquote real pattern, These are run-of-the-mill missing persons.

Super callous to say, by the way, and no evidence of these cases possibly being connected.

But here on Seriously Dead, we take this dead, yeah, seriously.

It literally took two minutes to find out the two missing truckers worked for the same company as the dead truckers, and probably less than that to search their social media to find out they both were friends with the dead mother truckers.

Anyway, those two had liked to share their shitty thoughts toward anybody, not a micropenis-owning, bloated bag of mayo on their cringe fest of a social media presence, and as they say, where there's smoke?

A little background search found some pretty heavy shit.

Every type of assault imaginable, false imprisonment, and a pending human fucking trafficking case.

Now, I'm not saying who did it was right, but they deserve a $100 gift card to the restaurant of their choice, okay?

Now, you could argue, hey, truckers go everywhere.

What dots are you connecting, SD?

But fret not, for I come bearing receipts.

This company had a very particular route that included certain arrival and departure times through the states, where the missing persons were reported, and the time they were reported missing.

I mean, think about it.

These two had violent histories and were seen at the rest stops many of the missing persons were last seen and or seen with.

I had my calculator and I did the math so you can trust it and it adds up.

Here's Here's a quick break from our sponsors and we'll get to the finale and what they really deserve.

The lights in the stairwell leading to the second floor had shut off.

I had almost forgotten the lights were motion censored.

I stood in front of the stairwell.

willing the lights to turn on without me having to step into it.

Fear of the dark was a a common childhood phobia many had and grew out of.

Except for me, I suppose.

My fear was less about the dark itself, but

more what could be in the dark.

The unsettling feeling I couldn't shake of how some places weren't dark because of the absence of light, but dark because something occupied it.

I stuck my hand into the unlit corridor, trying to get the sensors to kick in.

Just as I began to furiously wave my arm around, I felt a sudden rush of air.

It felt like something had rushed past my hand.

As if something barely avoided touching me.

I walked around and examined the room.

I tried to calm myself, saying it was only the AC blowing, but couldn't help looking over my shoulder as I retreated back to my desk.

I put my earbuds back in.

The commercial should be over by now,

but no sound was coming out.

I checked my phone and the audio widget displayed that the internet connection was lost.

Odd, it was playing the whole time I was here.

I reopened the episode while I paced behind the desk, holding my phone above my head, praying for a single bar.

Randall!

Fuck!

I flung my earbuds across the room.

I heard my name.

The voice was so close to my ears, it stung.

Yet it echoed in the room.

I couldn't tell where it came from,

but I fucking knew I heard it.

Hello.

Hello!

A flash of light had caught my attention from my peripheral.

The security monitor showed the second floor was now fully illuminated.

I snapped my head up to look at the stairwell, but the lights weren't activated.

Buildings in secluded areas usually have pest problems, and as much as I hate vermin, God, I hope it was just a rat.

All nerve I had deserted me as I shook my arm wildly in the unlit room.

And the lights refused to come on.

I fumbled for my phone and used the flashlight setting to scan the room before I made my way to the stairs.

Oh, forgive me, friend.

There's a tapping in the back room.

Like someone trying to handle they oughtn't.

I must see to it before they invite themselves in.

Sit tight and don't wander too far from the light.

This week's episode is sponsored by Bleecker Street and LD Entertainment's new horror film, Bone Lake.

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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.

Hey, Trevor.

How's it going, man?

Bet a minute.

I know.

Figured I'd give you some breathing room before dumping another one of these items in your lap.

Anyway, just picked up a piece out of a hotel upstate.

It was a renovation site.

Workers were reporting weird reflections, cold spots, shadow stuff, you know, the usual.

I found it hanging behind a fake wall in one of the old lounges.

It's an oil painting, maybe six feet tall, real narrow frame.

It's mostly darkness, a lot of deep shadows, but there's a figure in the background.

Black suit.

Hands are at his sides.

The weird part, though, every time you look at it, he's closer.

You never see him move.

He just

is closer.

First time I saw it, he was in the back corner.

I turned to make a call, turned back.

He was halfway up a hallway that wasn't there before.

I blinked, and he was at the edge of the frame.

He didn't look scared or angry, just kind of aware.

Oh, and there's also a note on the back in handwritten chalk that says, do not display near glass.

I have no idea what that means, but I ain't taking chances.

Anyway, I got it sealed up, canvas facing inward, box wrapped in obsidian foil and stuffed in the bed of my truck under a road flare and a rosary.

You want it?

Say the word.

But if you hang it, don't turn your back on it.

And for God's sake, don't bring it near a mirror.

End of messages.

Hmm.

False alarm.

Or perhaps just the walls settling in their old age.

The shadows here have a habit of making mischief.

Now then, where were we?

Ah, yes.

The keycard.

The stairwell.

And the dock that was never empty.

Shall we?

I fumbled for my phone and used the flashlight setting to scan the room before I made my way to the stairs.

My flashlight had barely lit two feet in front of me in that abysmal black.

The stairs weren't particularly steep.

I could see the light of the second floor above me.

But the dark was so heavy,

so absolute,

it was almost palpable.

I tried futile to steady my hand as I aimed my phone forward to light the path.

The all-too-familiar feeling of dread made my heart race, and a cold sweat came over me as my mind conjured images of malicious entities watching me, stalking me just out of reach of the light.

I fell forward as I reached the last step.

I scrambled and twisted around, pointing the light of my phone to the stairway.

Again, there was nothing in the shallow beam of light, but I didn't trip.

I had been pushed.

I felt the pressure on my back like two hands as I reached the top of the stairs.

I pushed myself to my feet, not moving my phone from the shadows, not taking my eyes off it either.

I whirled around at the sound of the storage door slamming open in the distance.

Something was very wrong here.

I jumped backwards when I caught sight of my reflection in the glass.

Sweat drenched my shirt, my skin pale and clammy.

My eyes darted wildly.

In the reflection, I saw my keycard had dropped half a foot away from the stairs landing.

As quickly as I noticed it,

is as quickly as I saw an arm, gangly and dirty, snatch it into the dark.

Ah!

Fuck!

I sprinted down the hall to the back of the building.

Somebody was here.

Somebody was there in the dark the whole time.

I gotta get out of here.

I ran until I had reached the open unit just in front of the darkened back side of the building.

I gaped in disbelief and horror as the contents were illuminated before me.

Bodies.

Fucking bodies in different stages of decay and mutilated.

So many, the floor was no longer visible.

See, the four truckers most definitely didn't work alone.

Yes, the murders and dismemberment were carried out by them, but they needed someone to shop for them.

A lure, if you will.

And that's where our dear, dear, cowardly sack of bird shit friend Randall comes into play.

What Randall lacks in basic human decency and balls, he excels in manipulation and self-preservation.

A snake in the grass.

The proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing, if the sheep's clothing was a dirty sweatsuit.

Truly, no honor among crooks as one of the dead truckers choked out his name in an attempt to save his own unwashed ass.

Spoiler alert, listeners.

I choked him with his own fucking intestines.

I flailed wildly as the lights suddenly came back on.

I felt what must have been dozens of hands grab and claw at my body.

I looked down in horror as I saw the exposed skin of my arms riddled with deep, bloodied scratches.

I struggled for breath as my attention turned back to the storage unit.

The bodies.

My God, the bodies were gone.

No.

No, no, no, this can't be real.

Somebody help me!

Shut up, Randall.

You didn't help me.

My insides turned to lead at the awful recognition of the voice behind me as I turned my flashlight to its direction in the dark corridor.

The tall, almost mummified corpse bore no resemblance to the athletic ruggedness that was once Xavier.

But there was no mistaking his voice.

You can help any of us.

The skin of his midsection was sunken and festered with badly sewn stitches running down the middle.

Behind him, I could see the silhouettes of mangled corpses.

I recoiled as Xavier took a step towards me on exposed bone.

I just wanted to go home.

I was less than four miles away.

I was halfway there, but I was so tired.

I was so cold, but it was too far to turn around in the snow.

My car had broken down, but you knew that, didn't you?

When you punctured my tires, you knew exactly where my car would stop and how far I would get walking.

My friends.

My friends were waiting for me.

You insisted on giving me a ride to town.

This was your last stop anyway, you said.

You even gave me a gun to hold on to if I didn't feel safe.

Then you suddenly pull over because some of your trucker pals radio in for help.

The next thing you know, I'm being yanked out of your truck and trying to shoot my way out.

Imagine my surprise when I find out the gun was unloaded the whole fucking time.

You know,

it wasn't even the being murdered part that was the worst of it.

My ragged, labored wheezing echoed through the halls as Xavier lurched towards me, wrenching his hand into his torso and began to rip apart the stitches that held the abscessive skin intact.

See?

They split me open and stuffed me full of drugs and guns, planned on shipping me off.

God knows where they were gonna send me, Randall.

That trailer was so cold, I was basically freeze-dried.

As Xavier ripped a strip of flesh from his forearm and flicked it at my face,

Please.

Please don't.

I had no choice.

Listen to me, Xavier.

Please!

I shakingly withdrew a photo from my wallet and held it in front of me.

I have a family.

I did it for them!

They said they'll hurt them if I do.

Please, I'll make it right.

I'll turn myself in.

I'll tell your family to fucking do anything.

Another figure staggered forward from behind Xavier and stood beside him.

The bloated, broken body of the woman was marred with weeping yellow and purple bruises.

Glassy, sunken eyes glared unblinkingly at me.

The top right of her skull was caved in at a terrible angle.

A foul, vicious sludge trickled from the wound.

Then

she spoke.

See, I was almost disappointed.

You didn't recognize my voice at all when you picked me up that day?

Seeing as how you listen to show all the time?

Come on, Randall.

Did you really think you could connect to the internet way out here in the sticks?

It was me talking to you the whole time.

Almost got me in the parking lot.

Talk about narcissism to listen to the crimes you helped commit.

I mean,

that's sick shit.

Bold.

That's sick.

The skin of her neck split open with a sickening dull pop as she looked up at Xavier.

The smell of purification made me stagger.

X, do you remember what he told you in your tragic final moments?

The corners of Xavier's mouth split and flaked as he smiled down at her.

I believe I do.

I think he told us the same thing, in fact.

Oh, how about we say it at the same time?

You better run, bitch!

They turned to face me.

The lights flickered above me as I frantically sprinted through the hall, wrestling myself free from the hands and teeth of the mob of corpses.

They attacked me relentlessly in the moments of darkness, ripping my clothes and trying to gouge my eyes.

Disoriented by the strobing lights and blood in my eyes, I didn't see the stairs in time and fell in a heap to the bottom.

I dropped to my knees in agony as I tried to stand.

A choking sound escaped me as I looked down at my shin bone jutting through my pants leg.

I looked up to see Xavier and seriously dead staring down at me in cold condemnation as they flickered in and out of existence, making their descent down the stairs.

I drugged myself towards my desk as I was kicked, stomped and bitten.

Primal terror and adrenaline compelling me to hide in desperate futility.

The room went dark as I crawled under my desk.

With my hand violently shaking, I pointed my phone still clutched in my bloodied fingers outward.

Squatting down under the desk,

inches from my face, were seriously dead.

And Xavier, their cruel, vicious sneers fully illuminated.

I didn't know.

I didn't know what they'd do to you.

Please, please don't do this.

Oh, you knew.

You just didn't care.

As long as you got your cut.

It never ceases to amaze me how evil people can be when they're so fearful of retribution.

Sending us hurtling into the void when you're afraid of the dark yourself.

But don't worry.

We'll go into that dark

together.

Y-L-A, Y-P-I-B-A-P-V-U-D-H-P-A-Z-P-U-A-O-L-K-H-Y-R.

U A O L K H Y R.

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 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 093, Keep the Lights On.

Written by Aylon Lawrence, starring Trevor Shand as Randall, Melissa Medina as SD.

Jared Rivet as Xavier, featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer.

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.

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.