Lot 112 : Harmony Care Home II

The game has only just begun. Radio Silence directors Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillette are back for round two with their new horror comedy film, Ready or Not 2, Here I Come. Samara Weaving returns as Grace, the battle-worn and bloody bride, and is joined by stars Catherine Newton, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Sean Haddesey, Nestor Carbonell, David Cronenberg, and Elijah Wood. After Grace marries into a mysterious family and is forced to play a life-or-death game of hide-and-seek. She emerges victorious, but what she didn't know is that by winning, she triggered a whole new twisted battle. This time with her estranged sister Faith at her side. The duo faces a shadowy group of rival devil-worshipping families who control the world, and they must fight to the bloody death for the ultimate prize. Two times the kills, two times the satanic rituals, and two times the human combustion. Don't miss the full tilt insanity Ready or not to, here I come When it hits theaters, March 20th This week's episode is sponsored by The retro supernatural slasher Blood Barn Set in the summer of 85 Blood Barn follows Josie and her six closest friends As they gather for one last weekend At her family's secluded barn before college But when a long-buried family secret is disturbed A malevolent spirit awakens possessing them one by one in a brutal quest for revenge. Critic Jesse Hobson of Citadum calls it a splattery love letter to 80s DIY horror. Once it gets going, it works. Blending the cabin-in-the-woods paranoia of the evil dead with the possession-fueled chaos of The Exorcist, Blood Barn delivers practical gore, escalating dread, and a race to survive until sunrise. Don't miss Blood Barn. Watch the trailer and learn more now. Welcome back! Go on! Come in! Find the step. Now then, lot 112. A handheld voice recorder. Plastic housing. Institution issue. Light scuffing along the sides. The battery compartment has been taped shut. It was recovered from a place called Harmony Care Home. Now, what's recorded on it, that's for you to discover. 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 Alex Caron, Ed Gazda, Noel Banda, Kupo Jimmy, Skia Wallace, Tired Ghost, Jeremy Bernish, and Kerry Brown. We are ever appreciative of your devotion to The Order. Go to TheObsidianCovenant.com to receive the sacrament. Sounds harmless enough, right? Welcome to the antiquarium of sinister happenings and odd goings-on. I'm holding this old voice recorder used by a staff nurse from Harmony Care Home. And I swear I'd never listened to it before. Her voice notes are mentioned, though, in a series of old Reddit posts I made like two years ago. Posts in which I also tacked on a ciphered message. Trying to communicate in secret with... someone, I guess. Who was reading them. Anyway. Here's the second of my Reddit posts. Dated November 22nd, 2023. Though I don't remember writing any of these words. Riveting, ain't it? Here we go. I wake up to a kiss. Now, normally I'm not too fussy about who I kiss. Ask me about my preferences and I'll tell you. Generally girls, but hey, I'll boink the copy machine if it's warm enough. On this occasion, the smooch is a whiskery one. And hey, not my favorite, but if I'm drunk enough, sometimes I'll be surprised who I lock lips with. There's no amount of drunkenness, however, that can explain the moist fishy surprise that slithers into my mouth. And I scream for two reasons. One, sharing my bed is a cat. I do not own a cat. Number two, the cat has just French kissed me. From the way he yowls like a jilted lover when I fling him, this cat clearly thinks I own affection, which is weird. Since I repeat, I do not own a fucking cat. The weirdness is compounded by the bowl of kibble I kick over as I stumble to the bathroom to scrub out my mouth. Fucking bullshit. Only to find the grit of cat litter under my bare soles. What the fuck? Did someone break into my shitty little apartment and give me... Checks name tag. Prometheus here? Along with all his cat accoutrements, he rolls his big furry head into my palm while I'm checking his collar. His whole body vibrating. Okay, buddy, cute, but how did... Oh. This is the moment I notice I've got messages on my phone from someone named Darlene. Darlene's from my old life. Back when I was pulling every scam imaginable from stealing cars to stealing identities. In Darlene's case, I convinced her to send me a bunch of money to help me rescue cats who didn't exist. And based on these texts, Darlene reached out three days ago asking me for help getting Prometheus here to the vet. And apparently I, Jack the Catfisher, decided to actually become Jack the Cat Rescuer. Yep, con man with a heart of gold. That's me. And, uh, okay, looks like I did inflate the vet bill a little to turn a profit on the reimbursement. Old habits, am I right? Anyway, I'm not sure why I kept her cat for three days, but this fluffy guy is clearly catching feelings, so it's time to take him back to her at Harmony Care Home. It's not until I crest a hill and come in view of the massive brick building covered in vines that a tingle of deja vu creeps into my bones. Prometheus, and the carrier next to me, has gone quiet. Dead quiet. When I look in, there is no cat. I squint, angling to peer through the grated door. He has crouched himself as flat as he possibly can. A pancake cat. Nothing but an orange rug and two wide and utterly terrified eyes. I step out of the car. Weird how in my memory this place is a warm and happy glow. Pastels and floral patterns and a smiling Darlene in a hokey sequined sweater, like on her Cat Rescue Instagram. But now that I'm actually here, beneath the faded sign, Harmony Care Home. Caring, compassionate, harmonious senior living. Painted yellow daisies thot the border. the paint peeling and curling like dead skin, while streaks of black grime render the slogan nearly illegible. The massive brick institution looming just beyond looks more of a haunted mansion than senior living center. With vines strangling the crumbling walls, and one wing at the brink of collapse, its bricks charred and windows shattered. I checked my GPS. Below the Google map, the reviews rave. Five stars. 11 out of 10. Bingo night. Were the reviewers writing about this same place? A chill sinks into my marrow as I note the address. Checking the mileage reveals, I've done the long drive out here multiple times. When I open the notes app on my phone, I discover that I have literal reams of research about Harmony Care Home. Very disconcerting research about abused patients bodies improperly disposed of and stranger more disturbing claims Most of these originate from a voice recorder I apparently swiped, with notes recorded during her rounds by a nurse named Kendra Jones. Room 201. Bernadette Smythe. Deceased. 831. Death expected given her terminal condition. But staff insist she is alive. I have been instructed to continue administering medication. The pills pile up in her throat. Room 306. Sobs and pleas for help behind the door. Have knocked and inquired if anyone needs help. No response, but the cries persist. Checked records. There is no resident in 306. Room 358. Jacob Mortimer. Deceased. However, when mortuary workers arrived to claim body, body went missing. Body has since reappeared in different locations. Bathrooms, common areas. Checked records. Jacob Mortimer listed as living. Whereabouts currently on... According to my notes, Kendra was dismissed from her position on October 19th due to unprofessional behavior. October 20th, she checked into room 306 as a resident and as of the past several weeks she's been listed as a missing person Okay Between my amnesia and the research this is all sounding fishier than Prometheus' morning breath the kind of fishy that past experience has taught me better than to mess with And yet, here I am, clearly messing, given a series of personal instructions I've written to myself. Stuff like, Jack, write everything before you forget. Alright, don't bother with photos. Camera only records audio. If Darlene's family and the cops are affected by whatever mucked with my memory, no wonder this place is still running despite the egregious violations. I see from my call history that I've contacted the police twice in the past three days. My last set of instructions, underlined and bolded and dated for today, reads... 1. Keep your phone recording. 2. Find a way to break the illusion. 3. Get Darlene the fuck out. I'm sorry. Only family may visit. says Lolita, the pretty blonde staffer at the check-in desk. I try to tell her I'm here with Darlene's cat, hoisting up the carrier with its terrified occupant, but she interrupts to inform me I'm not welcome after my previous visits, claiming I went poking into residence rooms and that items have gone missing. Her fingers stray toward the phone. Please. Okay. I raised a hand and surrender. But can I at least use the restroom since it was such a long drive? Lolita looks dubious but points me down the hallway. Thanks, Lolita. soul-shaking sense of wrongness. As I pass a bookcase with a vase full of dusty silk flowers, I can remember the color of the flowers, but I'm struggling to bring to mind the actual events of my earlier visits. Lolita's probably not lying about things going missing. I've been known to have sticky fingers. But why can't I fucking remember? I debate trying to sneak up the staircase to Darlene's room. But since I feel Lolita's blue eyes on me, I duck into the men's room. The moment I push open the door, a horrific stink rolls over me. It's this ghastly reek of shit and piss and febreze, all mingling with the buzzing of flies and a whiff of something fetid. Did someone forget to clean the toilet? There's a urinal. In a single handicapped stall, I gag and hold my nose as I set Prometheus' carrier down by the sink. When I push the stall door, it's locked. Risk a glance down and, yep, someone's in there with trousers around their legs. Only, a chill crawls from the roots of my scalp to the base of my spine. At the bottom of the filth-splattered porcelain throne, flies buzz around bare feet. It looks as if all the blood is pooled down there around the ankles, the skin bloated and splitting like an overripe fruit, the toenails black, and it's like Gerard all over again. The memories come tumbling back. It seems as if the toilet's occupant died in there and has been left decomposing for several days. For a second, my thoughts spin on the fight, flight, or freeze dial. It takes a few moments for my racing heart to settle. I take a picture before remembering it's pointless. Yeah, it comes out black. Are the residents actually... alive? Should I investigate this guy in the toilet? Um, no. Yeah, I'm not sure where that thought came from. I turn to leave. Hey. The hairs on my nape stand on end. Uh, yeah? I glance over my shoulder. You, um, you were, uh, you okay in there? Can you hand me a fresh roll? I'm out. There's a toilet paper roll on a shelf, which I grab. Squat down and look at the space beneath the stall. The legs have not moved. Nothing has moved. There's no hand dropping down by those legs to reach for the paper. And I've never seen legs that shade of purple. That splotchy on any living human being. Can you hand me the teepee? I mean, bro. I narrow my eyes at the stall and then roll the paper so it bounces across the floor and perfectly bumps into those purple legs. What you gonna do now, dead guy? Maybe ghost. Nothing happens. The man on the toilet seems 100% dead. No sounds at all. Except for the buzzing flies. I move to leave. there's a figure looming behind me. I scream. But it's just an old man. One of the residents who ignores me and walks right by and goes to the urinal. Then there's the sound of a toilet flushing from inside the stall. Rustling. And the slap of bare feet. Why is the dead guy barefoot? The metallic bang of the lock sliding open. I scurry out before the owner of those blotchy legs can thank me for the teepee. Lolita's no longer at the front desk, so I swing around to the staircase to head up to Darlene on the second floor. She'll be so glad to see... Fuck. I forgot the motherfucking cat. Hmm, excuse me. That would be the intake line. They don't tend to stop ringing on their own. Just a moment. I won't be long. 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. Hey, Trevor. How's it going, man? I got something for you that made me real careful about saying anything out loud. It's a bone bead rosary. Old. Smooth from use. The crucifix is oversized, like it was made that way on purpose. Here the trick Every time someone prays with it the cross gets a little smaller Not fast That enough you swear you imagining it Meanwhile the beads get heavier subtle at first By the third prayer your wrist knows the difference I dug up some notes on the last owner. Devout guy. Said the prayers helped him with his anxiety. That the weight was grounding. After a while, the crucifix fit comfortably in his mouth. He thought that meant something. Though he kept praying. I found him kneeling, hands folded, throat distended like he was mid-swallow. X-rays showed the beads arranged perfectly down his esophagus. One by one, in order. No tearing, no choking. Like the body knew what to do. The rosary was still looped around his wrist. Cross is gone, though. Tried lifting the damn thing, nearly dropped it. Weighs more than it should. Look, you know I'm not religious, so I didn't pray. I didn't even whisper. But I still felt it tug when I closed the case, like it wanted a turn. If you take it, I'd keep it sealed and off the floor. Maybe post a sign about silent contemplation only. This one doesn't care what you believe in. Just that you finish. Anyway, thought you'd appreciate it. Talk soon, brother. End of messages. You're still with me. Good. One does grow accustomed to the language of care. It's remarkable how much can be said without ever mentioning a person at all. Shall we? Lolita's no longer at the front desk, so I swing around to the staircase to head up to Darlene on the second floor. She'll be so glad to see... Fuck. Fuck. I forgot the motherfucking cat. Of course he's gone when I return to the men's room. Of fucking course. Now before you berate me over such a rookie mistake, listen, I'd like to see you access the higher functions of your brain when only a wobbly stalled door separates you from a putrefying corpse that has just clicked a lock open and is shambling on its rotting bare feet towards you. Which I actually believe now is a trick. Because when I play back the recording from that encounter on my phone, there is no voice, nor any flushing toilet, or clicking lock. And when I look in there for Prometheus, the corpse is still on the porcelain throne, as if having never shambled. God damn it. Losing Prometheus feels like the worst mistake of my life. I'm not saying a lot because I have made so many mistakes in my life. There was that time during COVID, when I sold reusable N95 masks that were neither reusable nor N95s, or that other time I collected donations for disaster relief, or, you know what, you probably don't need a whole list. It's enough for you to know that karmically, I'm likely to return as a cockroach. And it's because of all these mistakes that at the time seemed a way to make a quick buck. Among other things, I scammed an innocent, sweet older lady named Darlene out of her savings to rescue fake cats. But I also helped rescue her real cat, and I'm hoping to rescue her. And on some level, it's like, if I can make up for the bad shit I've done to one person, if I can do this one good thing, maybe I won't come back a cockroach. Irrational? I mean, yeah, obviously. But however badly you think of me now, and that list of mistakes was pretty incomplete, not gonna lie, you're about to think a whole lot worse. See, none of my previous mistakes hold a candle to the one I'm about to make Ooh, telling a lie here would be so much better Heck, with the amnesia, I might even believe it myself How about it, Jack? Want to wake up tomorrow and like yourself? Want to look in the mirror and see a guy who's made good choices? Ah, who am I kidding? I'd never fall for that Besides, if I'm gonna go making some big fuck-up, the least I can do is own it So, what is this mistake, you ask? Well, it all starts out when one of us, Lolita or me, I can't remember which, calls the police. This happens after I've escalated by threatening Lolita that I will burn this shithole to the ground if she doesn't return my cat. She replies with big scared eyes that if I don't calm down, she'll have to summon the nurse to escort me to a quiet room to lie down until I feel better. Her comment sends my heart rat-a-tat-a-tatting like a machine gun. And even though I know that I'm just one cent of the way from having my name shuffled from the visitor to the resident list, oh man, oh man, I am a mess. I'm not even on anything, but I feel like I'm all cracked out and I cannot bring myself down. Fortunately for me, the cops show up before the nurses do. Lolita tearfully tells the police I'm harassing the residents, and I tell them there's a guy in the toilet who is unresponsive. The unresponsive part piques their concern, and I lead them to the men's room, all the while explaining the research I've collected about Harmony Care Home, including Kendra's voice recordings and the missing person report. As before, the smell just about knocks me over. I cover my nose, and the two officers, a man and a woman, wrinkle up their faces. Flies buzz. Wings whirring. The air reeking of methane. The mail cop, whose name is Fitzroy, clears his throat and says, Uh, sir? You alright in there? Flies. Purple legs. It's all there. Even the toilet paper is still in the exact same position rolled against those legs. Sir? Officer Fitzroy knocks on the stall door. It swings inward. Apparently it wasn't locked very well. He pokes his head in, then quickly ducks out. Sorry, sir. We had reports you might be in some trouble. You okay in there? Cocks his head, listening. Then I check my phone to make sure I'm recording. Officer Fitzroy's head nods and he says, You got it, sir. Sorry for the disturbance. Gives me a hard look and motions me to follow him out Reprimands me while his partner goes to speak with Lolita I play the recording back for him Pointing out how there's only his own voice And nothing from the unresponsive guy But he just says the microphone didn't pick it up Because the guy in the toilet was too far away Only I'm not even listening anymore Because right there on the recording Just after Officer Fitzroy says Sorry for the disturbance There comes a soft, pitiful Mew almost inaudible. You got it, sir. Sorry for the disturbance. My gaze drifts to the front desk, to Lolita, babbling to the female officer, and her eyes meet mine, and her lips curl up in a smile, and oh, I fucking lose it. All terror washes away. And in that void where the fear used to be only a desire to blow everything the fuck up, even if I kamikaze myself in the process. And while normally I'm both hopelessly self-centered and shamelessly prone to self-preservation, read cowardly, it doesn't matter anymore how reckless I'm being, because I'm going to make them fucking pay. Now. Right now. I'm going to break the illusion. I've only got a few minutes while the police finish up their conversation with Lolita And once they're gone So's my chance to turn a spotlight on the horrors of Harmony Care Home Back in the men's room I push the stall door But it jingles Futily Locked I drop down to peer under the stall Body's still there Tangling with something like this without really knowing how it operates is an easy way to end up dead. Or in my previous case, in a coma. And I haven't made a complete study of this place, nor do I have confidence that I know its rules. Even so, I can think of two plausible ways to break the illusion. One is to have the resident attack me and the police intervene. My hunch is that touch, much more than sight or sound, reveals the truth. That the illusion is mostly for our eyes and ears. The cops already reacted to the smell after all. And if Officer Fitzroy grabs a rotting corpse during a physical altercation, he'll probably notice the rotting. The other option is, Harmony Care Homes' influence has a limited range. The interference with my cell phone, for example, only extends about a thousand feet from the building. So, what happens if I bring a resident, or a piece of one, outside the bounds of the care home? I bet if I sent a tow from Dead Lakes here to the cops for forensic analysis, the results would be interesting. Might draw attention to Harmony Care Home. It'd be hard for it to stay running then, wouldn't it? The only reason it's still operating is because it's in the authority's blind spot. I slip a knife out of my pocket and reach under the stall. heart slamming my ribs like a sledgehammer as I growl. Give me back my fucking cat. The skin is cold and slick like a slab of meat under my grip Oh my God the smell Gagging through the sleeve held over my nose I slide my knife across that splitting purple foot Press the blade into the toe and it squelches and congealed liquid spurts. A hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. And even knowing this would happen, duh, inevitable, right? Still, I shriek and drop my knife. No! grabbing that arm and trying to pry myself loose. And then, to my horror, it yanks me under the stall. No! No, no, no, no, no! What's going on in here? Booms a voice. And oh God, I've never been more grateful for the Popos. I'm slammed up against a tile. The thing on the toilet reaching with its other hand for my neck and... Good God, its face! The eyes and lips are gone. It sockets all flies and maggots and liquefying flesh. On its wrist is a bracelet and alphabet letters like the sort of gift a grandchild might make for their aging relative. Spelling J-A-C-O-B. And I'm pretty sure it's Jacob Mortimer who has me choking under the grip of his rotting fingers. And then, Officer Fitzroy is barking. Let him go. Let him go now. And then I'm being lifted. My vision blackening. I don't even feel myself fly through the air, just the impact as I hit the wall. And my head rings with a bank. Got shots. I'm not even certain. But on the officer's face is horror. Sheer horror. And he's shouting. What the fuck? And unloading the entire clip into that body on the toilet because the illusion is broken. He sees it now. He sees it. And then Jacob Mortimer lunges forward, grabbing him and jamming fingers into his eyes. Oh my fucking God. I'm screaming and screaming and then I'm scrambling out of the toilet and into the hall and pounding down the hallway to the lobby. The second officer, the woman, draws her weapons and radios for backup and then rushes to the toilet. Lolita stands at the front desk with her lips in an O of shock. Hand to her mouth. I think I'm crying. I did not mean to get that officer killed. I did not. I did not. I can't even breathe. Oh, God, Jack. Breathe. And then, as I'm finally catching my breath, cop lady comes out and her face is serene like she's relieved and even laughing a little as she radios and tells the others to forget it Jimmy is fine false alarm it's that same guy and his pranks again ran in there and screamed apparently and Jimmy thought it was an emergency and rushed in to save him am I still recording? record everything she comes over and gives me a stern talking to warning me about how pulling any further stunts like this will be risking arrest and that I need to leave these old folks alone. I don't answer. Just stare. Gasping. And finally, a last-ditch effort. I ask, Can I speak with Officer Fitzroy? I tell her I want to make a statement to him. She smirks and shakes her head Then goes back and enters the men's room again, and I hear her call out to Fitzroy. Keep recording, Jack. That Jack guy wants to speak with you again. I'll be in the car. And then she leaves. She goes out to her squad car. When my heart finally stops racing, a sing-song voice calls out to me from the front desk. Which one do you want? Huh? The horror in my soul deepens. The dread suffusing my body so I can scarcely breathe. Scarcely hear her impossible next words. Which one do you want back? The cat or the cop? Which do I... Oh no. Oh god. I stare at her. and can feel myself disassociating. My brain can't process. How could I make a choice like that? How can there be a choice like that? The cat, I whisper. I can't explain, but he's the one thing Darlene loves, and I brought him into danger, and the police, they're sworn to serve, but the cat's just a cat, and I was responsible for him. Who caught him such a bad person? such a fucking awful terrible person. Outside, the cop car pulls out of the parking lot and drives away. She just left. Not a partner. Lolita beams at me and I scrub the tears from my face and get up and stumble into the men's room to see what has become of Officer Fitzroy. Jacob Mortimer's body is gone. There's no one in the stall. My knife is gone from the floor. I find it when my eyes sweep the bathroom. It's there. In Officer Fitzroy. His body lies against the wall. Mouth open in a scream of horror. Face contorted in fear. The knife handle sticking out of his mouth and through his throat. I clap a hand across my lips, step back from the door, but then that inner voice whispers, Jack, the knife has your prints, so I grab it by the handle and have to hold his skull to wrench it out. Excuse me, officer. And here's someone giggling nearby. And whoever he is, he sounds really unhinged. From behind me, a faint mew. I snatch up Prometheus' carrier. Back at the car, open the carrier to check him over. Big guy is fine. Traumatized, but fine. Squirms when I hug him too hard. You lucky little shit. By any moral measure, the choice I've made is the wrong one. And you know I don't even like cats. But I'm just so relieved to have him back. Him and his terrible fishy French kisses. I laugh hysterically. And the fluffy guy. The fluffy guy throws back his whiskery face and howls. We're both here. Howling. And I laugh so hard I'm crying. Can't stop. I can't tell which anymore. Crying or fucking laughing. Thank God for the amnesia, so tomorrow I can wake up and look myself in the mirror and at least until I read this not know what a fucking asshole I am. C-Q-A-N-N-X-W-N-C-Q-A-N-N 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 it's story by the shop to share with other customers please reach out to antiquarium shop 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 112, Harmony Care Home, Chapter 2. Consigned by Quincy Lee Starring Trevor Shand Magda Apinovich Dee Quintero Mike Toms and Shelby Novak Featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer Engineering production and sound design by Trevor Shand and Lauren Shand Theme music by the Newton Brothers Additional music by COAG Vivek Abyshek Clement Panchout Nicholas Redding and Conan Freeman 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.