What is going on my friend, my name is Trevor, and I'm from the Acquisitions ...
When we had the idea to build a site for our Antiquarium merch,
“could he shared scandals, blankets, even secret to coders? I had no idea what I was doing.”
I've got zero web design know how, even at its most basic. Then I remembered something I would see whenever I would order stuff from some of my favorite vendors, and that will shopify. I signed up real quick just to play around with it for a bit. I was shocked that all the tools I was looking for were right there. Within an hour, the Antiquarium shop dot in my shopify.com was alive.
I'm not exaggerating. I couldn't believe how simple, fast, and honestly rewarding it was to use. They've got hundreds of ready-to-use templates, so you can build a store that actually matches your brand,
looks pro, guide your personality without needing to be a designer, what's so ever.
It even automated and calculated shipping, which I thought was going to be a nightmare. You don't even need to stand in long lines to the post office to weigh things in. That's all done with. Go in, drop it off, get on with your day, run discounts,
“promo codes, email campaigns, shopify gives you everything you need to grow.”
If you've been sitting on an idea and asking yourself what if, listen, don't let anything stand in your way. It's time to turn those what ifs into with shopify today. They've given us a special opportunity to pass along to you, the Antiquarium guest. It's a $1 per month trial. Get it by typing shopify.com/tash.
That shopify.com/tash. I wish we had access to this when we launched ours.
Shopify.com/tash. We use it. We love it. We're so excited to see it empower you to make your dreams a reality. Send us a link, show us what you do with it so we can buy some of your stuff. Shopify rules. Let's say today pulls it bloody. And bunkers. Aren't you into players? It's electrifying action cinema.
And popcorn entertainment to the max. How many of you are there? It begs to be seen in a packed theater.
“These remember to clean up the blue. Wow!”
They will kill you only in theaters March 27. I made it up. 2017 not admitted without parent. For an ad-free experience visit the Obsidian Covenant.com. Hello! Welcome in, friend. Something came in recently just for you that I'm thrilled to be able to pass along.
Didn't arrive with anything else. No box, no paperwork, just the car. Worn down from use. Magnetic strips peeling. Still says transport system on it. Barely. Doesn't validate, but it opens the gate anyway. Now departing from the Antiquarium, a transitional tale called "Don't hold the door."
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 Maroon Maiden, Chris Hicks, Isaac Harker,
Gretchen Korea, the Eldricks Kifizoa, Lucy Olivera, Bobo Jenkins, and Tina Cook. We are ever appreciative of your devotion to The Order. Go to the Obsidian Covenant.com to receive the sacrament. Sounds harmless enough, right? Welcome to the Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings.
And our goings on. [Music] Unlike what most people say, commuting is not the worst part of my day. It's a 35-minute window where I remain isolated.
Yet in a way, part of a collective routine that I get to witness from a comfort of my suggested daily playlist. On my way to the subway, I usually look out for one of my typical chronological landmarks.
The windows of the local drugstore.
If they're closed, I get to walk slower, or maybe even grab a coffee from the stand next to the subway.
“If they're open, maybe I skip the coffee.”
Today, as I approach the entrance of the subway, the bitterness of overly toasted beans felt welcoming. At the turnstiles, I'm not greeted by the usual green checkmark sign signaling it's a proof of my offering, but the turnstile gives away anyway. Still I wait on a familiar platform.
Naked cement in a few spots. Dark stains forming a mosaic with the paper and glue remains of old ads and posters. Weird. The small screen that shows a time until the next subway flickered. Instead of the destination, a few glitched letters appeared.
“B.A.F.E. I glanced at the rolling ad stand next to me. We're a grinning man and blue suit stared back.”
His smile was too wide. The kind that seemed pasted on, frozen mid-pitch.
The ad cycle through frames, but for a second, just a second.
His eyes seemed shift, meeting mine. I blinked. The next frame rolled in. Something about a bank or a real estate agency, the same corporate cheerfulness. A low-rumble signal than approaching train, but the screen still flickered.
Offering no confirmation. I adjusted my bag strap and stuffed the little closer to the edge of the platform. Hearing down the tunnel, the air was heavy.
“Think what that usual mix of dust, metal, and something damp I'd rather not name.”
Maybe using taxpayer money to fix this shit would actually get you some votes.
As a subway pulled into the platform, the scattered few standing there were stabbed by the screeching noise of the carriages breaking. I couldn't help but notice how much less crowded it was than usual. I didn't even bother sitting down. My destination was just a few stops away. Instead, I tucked myself into the small look by the opposite set of doors from where I'd entered,
stashing my backpack between my feet, pressing against the glass window. I let my body settle into the familiar rhythm of the train. Before succumbing to my usual disassociative state until my stop, I scanned the carriage quickly. Just me at one end, and a small middle-aged woman sitting a few seats away at the other head. I stared blankly at the dark gray plastic flooring.
My mind slipping into nothingness until we arrived at the next stop. This felt a little longer than usual. What did I? I was pulled away from my thoughts as a stream of bodies flooded the carriage. And I silently thanked myself for predicting this scenario. It wasn't a rare occurrence, and I followed my usual protocol.
Turning my back against the rush and zoning out until my stop. Three more stops in the platforms on this side. Uncomfortable, but I'll live. Maybe I should have sat. We arrived at the next stop surprisingly faster than usual. And that's when it hit me. What started as a slightly unpleasant pressure against my back quickly became an oppressive warmth. A wall of bodies plastering me against the window,
forcing my gaze outside. I couldn't turn, couldn't shift, even if I wanted to. The small bubble of space I had moments ago was gone. Sealed to the limits of my shoulders. I shuffled my backpack between my legs to protect my work laptop and tried leveraging my back against the wall behind me. Only to gain a few extra millimeters and earn an annoyed
grunt from someone behind me. To my right, I was enclosed by the black plastic shine of a puffer jacket. Just as the doors began to close, the pre-recorded safety message started playing. Only to distort halfway through. For your safety, please don't ever go. As if being imprinted against the subway door was an uncomfortable enough.
The distorted message scraped its way down my spine, setting every nerve on e...
I forced myself to collect my thoughts. To fight the seed of dread blooming in my stomach.
I tried to rationalize the situation. Maybe there's some issue going on. A striker, some sort of malfunction that tracks maybe. This wasn't unheard of. The lays could snowball, causing a build-up of passengers at each station, throwing off the usual flow. I latched onto that logic, letting it soothe me. Even if just a little. I reached for my phone, needing to check the time, needing some distraction to settle the nervous
itching my gut. But as soon as my fingers closed around it, something felt wrong. The phone was
unusually warm, almost hot against my palm. I unlocked it. And that's when the seed of dread
fully expanded, clawing its roots of my spine, twisting around my rips. The screen was glitching. The time read, 0-0-0-0. And beneath it, with the date should have been, was a single word, clear, undeniable. Bad fee. The panic hit me like a freight train in the cocktail
“of fear and dread made my handshake so violently. I dropped my phone. Fuck, what the fuck?”
I couldn't reach it. But the lock screen still mocked me with that word. Sweat slowly pulled on the back of my neck and my breathing tightened. I shifted.
Struggling against the crush of bodies pressing in on me.
Hey, Sarah, could you please just move a little bit? I grunthled as I tried to give myself a little more room to breathe. Nothing. The puffer jacket gave me an ever so slightly until I was met with a warm, a movable back. Nothing. The back of the head didn't turn. No flinch, no breath, no sound. Nothing. I pushed my back against the gray suit behind me.
Nothing. No sound this time. No movement. Nothing. And as the warmth of my body started to become indistinguishable from a musty heat exuded from the bodies around me. I noticed the signs. Better yet, I noticed the lack of them. No low vibration of the wheels rolling in the track, no occasional signaling almost brushing the window. No screeching sound every time the metal scratched
“itself from the tracks. The subway wasn't moving. I fucking, excuse me, can you please move?”
Hello? Do you have any idea what's going on? Nothing. Hello? Fuck sick, what the fuck is going on? Nothing. I shoulder-checked the puffer jacket beside me. Only to be met was swift and merciless retribution. The moment I made contact. The wall of bodies weaponized my own momentum against me. Swallowing the last remnants of space I had left. I was slammed against the subway door.
Hard. My skull cracked against the corner. One of my earbuds flew out, banishing into the tango of legs and feet. Tears started pouring down my face, starting to mix with the sweat pooling around my neck. My throat tightened. In the panic, the panic surging in my chest like a caged animal. I needed to scream. Fucking move, someone just fucking move. Tears
pled into my screaming. Nothing. Hmm, forgive me. I'm noticing a bit of that platform noise creeping in here. And I'd rather not have it follow us any further. Just a small matter to tend to. Stay close. What is going on, my friend? My name is Trevor. I'm from the Acquisitions Department here at The Antiquarium. When we had the idea to build a site for our Antiquarium merch,
“hoodie shirts, candles, blankets, even secret decoters, I had no idea what I was doing. I got zero”
web design know how even at it's most basic. Then I remembered something I would see whenever I
Would order stuff from some of my favorite vendors and that will shopify.
just to play around with it for a bit. I was shocked that all the tools I was looking for were right there. Within an hour, the Antiquarium shop dot in my shopify.com was live. I'm not exaggerating. I couldn't believe how simple, fast, and honestly rewarding it was to use. They've got hundreds of ready to use templates. So you can build a store that actually matches your brand, looks pro, guide your personality without needing to be a designer whatsoever. It even automated and calculated
shipping, which I thought was going to be a nightmare. You don't even need to stand in long lines the post office to wait things in. That's all done with. Go in, drop it off, get on with your
“day, run discounts, promo codes, email campaigns, Shopify gives you everything you need to grow.”
If you've been sitting on an idea and asking yourself what if, listen, don't let anything stand in your way. It's time to turn those what ifs into, with Shopify today. They've given us a special opportunity to pass along to you, the Antiquarium guest. It's a $1 per month trial. Get it by typing shopify.com/tash. That shopify.com/tasage. I wish we had access to this when we launched ours. Shopify.com/tasage. We use it. We love it. We're so excited to see it empower you
to make your dreams a reality. Send us a link, show us what you do with it. So we can buy some of your stuff. Shopify rules. Decind into the unexplained and unimaginable. Mom said to them, "What, what are you here for? What do you want?" "What are you, man?" "True accounts of crimes
and anomalies so strange they defy reasoning. You know, is extreme balance. I've never seen
anything like it." She was forced to eat human flesh and survive the unthinkable. Welcome to the Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings and documented atrocities. And at that moment, feeling to survive kicked in almost like an animal instinct. I told her to
“run. I knew that minute something terrible had happened. Why would somebody do this to him?”
Why would they try to hurt my baby? Cerstia the Antiquarium of documented atrocities on Apple Spotify and wherever you get your podcasts. Why hello there. You've reached the Antiquarium. If you wish to leave a message, please do so with the tone and have a great day. Yeah, hey, I'm calling about that cowboy thing and I got, you know, the one with the spooky
looking old cowboy playing harmonica by the campfire. Well, I hung it in the living room next to the bird cage. I thought it was good there. Apparently my parents inzo did not feel the same way.
He immediately first kind of squawking. Not kicking, not kicking. I thought cool. I got a
“to find great bird here, but hey, it's my house. That one's okay. Anyways, later that night”
I'm watching the game and inzo starts screeching again. Not kicking, not kicking. I look over and I don't know. Maybe maybe I just remembered it wrong. But I could have sworn that the cowboy was on the left side of the fire, and I saw the right closer to the cage. So fast forward before I am sleeping in bed and bam, utter chaos, like the explosion down the hallway, just like the middle bed and crunching, ungodly squawking and kicking, not kicking. Don't
over and over until it all comes to a hard stop. Of course, by the time I reach the living room, cage is totally busted. feathers all over and inzo is like nowhere to be found. I look over at the paintings that cowboys is playing harmonicate anymore. What has got in the sand now? Right beneath this mustache, not a harmonica, but a drumstick. And get this, now there's a bit over the fire now with some kind of bird roasting on it. And I don't know what
that cowboy is cooking, but it's definitely not chicken. And as messages. There we are. Now then, let's step back inside and see where this line is taking us. Surely, I need it to scream. Tiers blend into my scream. Nothing. Just massive turned backs.
Silent. They had me pinned so tightly against the door that when the subway finally lurched forward.
Rolling. Undulating. The sway of the crowd squeezed the breath from my lungs. The wheels rolled
Over a new section of track.
Digested. Each sway granted me just enough air to keep breathing. Just enough hope only to rip it away
again. The friction of bodies, the heat, the breath thickening in the air, the smell of people, sweat and fabric, and damp exhalation creeping into my nose. TEEP. Saturating.
“My lungs tainted until every inhale felt wet and visceral. How's being eaten?”
Chewed up by this this. Pressed and released. Pressed and released against the glass against the wall. Against the bodies. My shoulders thropped. My backs screaming as my muscles ground against themselves. Strand by strand. Unraveling. The pain didn't just sink into me. It tattooed itself into my nerves. An agony so constant. No lamenting that the ache blurred into something worse. Something raw and unholy. The pressure, the heat, the breath, the endless suffocating weight.
I started slipping in and out of consciousness. But the train has trained never stopped. The waves
kept coming. Relantless. Unyielding. Unending. This can't be happening. What the fuck is going on?
“I'm going to pass out. I'm going to die here. Fuck. I don't understand. Fuck. I'm going to die.”
My mind raced to every thought. Every rationalization and desperate prayer. Anything to make sense of this hell. As my mind darted so did the speed of the carriage. The sways faster and faster. Each more violent than the next. It inhales. Each wave threw me against the wall. It exhales. My head smashed the glass, making my brow bleed. The pain seared through my skull. Keeping me conscious as the blood trickled down my cheek to my mouth. It inhales. I raised my hand trying
to stop the bleeding to protect my head and brace myself. It exhales. The position of my arm protecting my head served as a perfect leverage as I was smashed again. So brutally that the only
“reason I remained standing was a pressure. Another body's propping me up as the corner met my chest.”
My elbow became the perfect folk from a pop. No resistance. The dull, slick rip of separation. I could feel the fibers of my shoulder being peeled off one by one. The bone separated itself from the cartilage. Turning me in my arm with the two pieces connected by a loose of skin. Connective tissue and torn muscle strands. The pain seared through my body. Mixing itself with my screams. The tears. The pleads for this hell to end. The high note of the screech of metal
coming from the tracks. And the low thump of bodies being grinded against each other. Created an unholy symphony. Wet. Warm flesh. It exhales. It exhales. It exhales. It exhales. It exhales. I twisted and crumpled and unnatural directions thrown violently from side to side. But no
matter how I turned. I never saw a single face. Always backs. No. Something or someone with
their backs turned to me. All shapes and forms interlocked together and swaying as one. In different than my pain in my ordeal. An unholy mass of flesh disguised by clothes and human features turning me into its next meal. And then. And then day. It. It made me face the other side of the carriage. My eyes darted across the sea. Struggling a sweat and blood dripped into my eyeballs and pain unfokes my vision. It inhales. I saw her sitting. Her torso was contorted in an
inhuman angle. One arm hanging whimply. Two long. Her face pressed against the metal handrail in the back of the seat. Bloodshot eyes looking desperately at mine. Screaming for help and answers. Now I sound. God, I wish I could have heard her. But with everything else, her pupils wide and panicked. Her lips trembling, drooling. The quiet, desperate plea buried beneath bruises and swelling. She got the worst of it sitting down. The mass. It. It surrounded her. Trapping her against the
plastic of her seeked. It excels. Deeply. It's the moment to subway slam the brakes. Any semblance of normalcy. Any rational explanation I could have cause cocked. It was pride out of me. They. No. It. It. It wanted me to see this. It wanted me to know. It knew that I hadn't
Accepted this ordeal.
As the woman's head, slowly, mercilessly caved against the guardrail. Slowly imprinting
“the metal in her temple until her eye finally escaped her skull. So, slow, deliberate squeeze.”
Her bones. Her face. Slowly crumpling in itself. His blood. Dick, black, red, ribbon, spilled from her nose. From the empty socket. From the line, splitting her forehead into. A growing fracture started in her forehead. Slowly growing is her brain pride itself out of her
skull. If there was any sound. Any screen. It was muffled by the noise of my heart beating panic
ringing on my ears as the doors hissed open. I threw up on myself. Bail it ass and burning my throat and tongue. This time was different. The station was a pitch. Black. Void.
“Not dark. Empty. A equivalent of bodies coming from the empty darkness, leaking itself into the”
carriage. The mass kept coming. Layer upon layer, stacking, pressing, consuming. It suffocated
the space with the texture of clothes and the warmth of bodies. I can feel all the proof. I can
barely breathe. But hey. It. Fucking it. It wanted me to see. It made sure I could see the small display where the stations are announcing. To the shrinking gap between shoulders and fabric. It makes sure I could see pieces of her. Her jaw dangled. The remaining muscle strands pulling against gravity stretching. Blood still
“leaking down her shirt. A slow, patient leak. Her left eye was still in place. Staring blankly”
hit nothing. At everything. I spat the remains of bile in my mouth. My leg shaking violently out of fatigue and fear. As the door slowly closed. A distorted voice stripped through the thick wind. Silence. My original stop. This time the door would open on my side and I would be pushed out by the pressure building up. If I survived the trip. The subway started inching forward. The swaying returned. The compressions. Blood pain from my shoulder drilling into my chest.
And sharp stains from the rib ligaments nerve-ending screened. A jagged lightning bolt of pain burrowing into my chest. The movement kept going. Enthus. I lost track of how long I'd been from when I left my house. My phone smashed. Somewhere in the plastic flooring. I would slip in and out of consciousness. There's ten fatigue fighting against pain and panic. My sanity chewed up as my body was digested. I sobbed silently. I didn't know how long this had been
happening. I didn't know if it had ever started. My hair was so puswet. My skin red and burned from my bio. My legs spasming from pain and fatigue weren't holding me up anymore. The pressure was the mass was. It was. Someone. Please, someone. Someone, please help. Nothing. Nothing. I let despair wash over my mind and screamed and pain in fear. The sounds from the metal wheels outside started to resemble some kind of unholy screaming. As the subway accelerated once again.
Look, a coffin of metal screeching as a clot. It's way into my ears. My heart pounded itself out of my chest as my whole body started to shake violently. I felt urine trickling down my leg. Warm. What? Have my chest numb from the pain in my eyes
Bloodshot and stinging from all the sweat.
Pressing me against the glass part of the door. My face pressed against it as I felt the cut
“on my brows starting to imprint my face with blood. Against the glass smearing my screen into a”
grotesque self-portrait to the motion brutal disorienting. Every inch felt like a mile. Each sway is suffocating blow. The pressure built again. The heat from the mass of bodies turning
unbearable. Every second felt like it was being squeezed out of me. I could barely move.
There was nothing left with the pounding of my heart. The noise of the train. The horrific weight of all the bodies pressing in. I don't know if I was still alive. Refined simply become part of the suffocating mass. An empty shell carried by the unstoppable tide. And then just this
“everything felt like it was about to break. The subway began to slow. The screeching of the wheels”
faded. The lights flickered. For a moment. Everything paused. The mass of body shifted.
The crushing heat slightly lessened. But the silence that followed felt even worse. The absence of noise was deafening. The pressure didn't let up. But there was something. Something about this place. This moment that told me it was nearly over. We had reached my stop. The train slowed to a crawl. And I felt the familiar click of the brakes. The doors opened.
“Saty. Saty. Saty. Saty. Saty. Saty. Saty. Saty. Saty. Saty. Saty. Saty. Saty.”
Thank you for your patronage. Hope you enjoyed your new relic as much as I've enjoyed passing
along its sorted 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 a company by a history of bizarre and disturbing circumstances. Maybe you'd be interested in dropping it and it's story by the shop to share with other customers. Please reach out to [email protected].
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 one-one-eight, don't hold the doors, consigned by Fatham Amode, narrated by Trevor Shand, featuring Stephen Noles as the antique dealer,
engineering production and sound designed by Trevor Shand and Lauren Shand, theme music by the new brothers. Additional music by Coag, Vivek Abashek, Clement Panchau, Nicholas Reading, and Conan Freeman. The antiquarium of sinister happenings is created and curated by Trevor Morn Shand. Follow us on Instagram and Twitter @antiquariumpod. Call the antiquarium@646-41-7197. This week's episode is brought to you by Welgo USA's new creature feature horror The Yeti,
only in AMC feeders April 4th and 8th and on digital April 10th. When an oil tycoon and a famous inventor disappeared in the frozen wilderness, Northern Alaska, a handpicked rescue team
Adventures in to bring them home, but they're not alone.
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Bernstein don't miss it. The Yeti, only in AMC feeders April 4th and 8th and on digital April 10th.
“You know, I've been having a hard time trying to explain what midnight burger is. So,”
how about I let them give it a shot? I just wanted to let you all know that I really, really appreciate midnight burger. I just wanted to let you know that you definitely have the huge fan here and the Middle East and the GCC. Just want to give you guys a shout out. Tell you how much I love you guys. All of the weirdness is really my jam really right up my alley. I love your podcast.
It's been pure joy to listen to. Just here to say, the great work that season was amazing.
I wanted to thank both of you for everything you've done that we really love this show. Your podcast is amazing. Such an amazing show all together. It's really nice knowing that there's another dimension that I can travel to and kind of escape. Guys, of actively ruined all of their audio dramas for me. You can't get people to understand the humaning that happens in the damn show. You're doing what you're doing because it's awesome. I love you guys. Can't wait for more. Thank you so much for everything you do. You are hope. You bring hope with you and
“you might not think it but you're far more important than you realize. Thank you. Take care, love you.”
We open at 6. At the Nexus of all things, there is a diner. Look for midnight burger on your favorite podcasting app or just go to [email protected].
