Lot 118 : Don’t Hold The Doors

0:00What is going on my friend? My name is Trevor and 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 decoders, 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.myshopify.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, got 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 at 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.

1:02If 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 slash TASH. That shopify.com slash TASH. I wish we had access to this when we launched ours. Shopify.com slash TASH. We use it, we love it. We are 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. Eight years ago, Katie Cannon was playing in the backyard of her family home. The day she went missing, when she was found, she was uncovered alive in a 3,000-year-old sarcophagus. What happened to Katie? From the studio that brought you weapons and producers James Wan and Blumhouse comes a terrifying new vision on April 17th. Discover the truth.

2:07Lee Kronens, The Mummy, some things are meant to stay buried. Only in theaters in IMAX, April 17th rated R under 17, not admitted without parent. M.D. Visit M.D. Gambling Health Outdoor. Offer not to bail who on all states. Terms apply. See Panatic Supports will get. For an ad-free experience, visit the ObsidianCovidant.com. Hello! Welcome in, friend. Something came in recently just for you. That I'm thrilled to be able to

3:07pass 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 tail-cold. Don't hold the doors. 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,

4:09the Eldricks Kifazoa, Lucy Olivera, Bobo Jenkins, and Tina Cook. We are ever appreciative of your devotion to the order. Go to the ObsidianCovidant.com to receive the sacrament. Sounds harmless enough, right? Welcome to the Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings and our goings-on.

5:10Unlike 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 the 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 entrance. 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.

6:12Still, 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, or a grinning man in a blue suit stared back. His smile was too wide. The kind that seemed pasted on. Frozen mid-pitch. The ad cycled through frames, but for a second. Just a second. His eyes seemed to shift. Meeting mine. I blinked. The next frame rolled in. Something about a bank or a real estate agency. The same corporate

7:13cheerfulness. A low rumble signaled an approaching train. But the screen still flickered. Offering no confirmation. I adjusted my bag strap and stuck the little closer to the edge of the platform. Peering down the tunnel. The air was heavy. Thick with 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 nook by the opposite set of doors from where I'd entered, stashing my backpack between my feet, pressing against the glass window.

8:16I 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 end. I stared blankly at the dark grey plastic flooring. My mind slipping into nothingness until we arrived at the next stop. This felt a little longer than usual. 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.

9:18We 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.

10:21Only to distort halfway through. As if being imprinted against the subway door wasn't uncomfortable enough, the distorted message scraped its way down my spine, setting every nerve on edge. 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 system sort of malfunctioning that tracks maybe. This wasn't unheard of. Delays 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.

11:21I reached for my phone, needing to check the time, needing some distraction to settle the nervous itch in 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 up my spine, twisting around my ribs. The screen was glitching, the time read 0000, 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

12:23of fear and dread made my handshake so violently. I dropped my phone, fuck with the fuck. I couldn't reach it, but the lock screen still mocked me with that word. Sweat slowly pooled on the back of my neck and my breathing tightened. I shifted, struggling against the crush of bodies pressing in on me. I gruntled 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 grey suit behind me. Nothing. Nothing. No sound this time. No movement. Nothing. Nothing. And as the warmth of my body started to become indistinguishable from the musty

13:25heat 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 on the tracks. The subway wasn't moving. I fuck fuck it. Excuse me, can you please move? Hello? Do you have any idea what's going on? Nothing. Hello? Fuck's sake, what the fuck is going on? Nothing. I should have checked the puffer jacket beside me, only to be met with swift, 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.

14:27Hard. My skull cracked against the corner. One of my earbuds flew out, banishing into the tangle of legs and feet. Tears started pouring down my face. I'm starting to mix with the sweat pooling around my neck. My throat tightened. The panic, the panic, surging in my chest like a caged animal. I need it to scream. Fucking move! Someone just fucking move! Tears bled into my scream. 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.

15:27What 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 decoders, 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 was 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.myshopify.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, got 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 to 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.

16:30If 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 type in Shopify.com slash TASH. That Shopify.com slash TASH. I wish we had access to this when we launched Shopify.com slash TASH. We use it, we love it. We are 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. From the executive producers of Stranger Things comes a series that asks the question, are you sure? He's the one. Something very bad is going to happen. It is an atmospheric psychological horror set in the five days leading up to an intimate wedding, starring Camilla Morone and Adam Demargo. This isn't just a story about cold feet. It's about the visceral anxiety

17:34and mounting terror of realizing you might be marrying the wrong person. As Rachel questions whether Nikki is truly the one, her doubts spiral into something darker and the show explores the ultimate horror. How can you ever be certain you've made the right choice? It's edgy and it's not a spoiler if it's in the title. Something very bad is going to happen. The only question is what is it? Watch something very bad is going to happen now playing on Netflix. Critics and audiences agree. Only three letters describe they will kill you. W T F. Spend it. USA Today calls it bloody and bunkers. Are you ready to die? Hunchy and Declares. It's electrifying action cinema and Poco an entertainment to the max.

18:36How many of you are there? It begs to be seen in a packed theater. Please remember to clean up the blood. Wow! They will kill you only in theaters March 27th. Made it art under 17 not admitted without parent. Why hello there. You've reached the antiquarium. If you wish to leave a message, please do so at the tone and have a great day. Yeah hey I'm calling about that cowboy painting. I got you know the one with the spooky looking old cowboy playing harmonica by the campfire. Well Hunchy in the living room next to the bird cage. I thought it looked good there. Apparently my parent Enzo did not feel the same way. He immediately starts kind of squawking. Not chicken! Not chicken! I thought cool. I got a defiant brave bird here but hey it's my house so Wins Oak can deal. Anyways later that night I'm watching the game and Enzo starts screeching again. Not chicken! I looked over and I don't know maybe I just remembered it wrong but I could have sworn that the cowboy

19:41was on the left side of the fire. Now it's on the right closer to the cage. So fast forward before I sleep it in bed and bat utter chaos like explodes from down the hallway. Sounds like metal banging crunching. I'm got me squawking and not chicken! Not chicken! Not chicken! Not chicken! Going over and over and over until it all comes to a hard stop. Of course by the time I reached the living room, cage is totally busted. Feathers all over and Enzo is like nowhere to be found. I looked over at the painting that cowboy is playing harmonica anymore. What he's got in his hands now right beneath his mustache not a harmonica but a drumstick and get this now there's a spit over the fire now with some kind of bird rushing on it and I don't know what that cowboy's cooking but it's definitely not chicken.

20:47There we are. Now then let's step back inside and see where this line is taking us. Shall we? I need it to scream. Fucking move! Someone's a fucking move! Tears bled into my scream. Nothing. Just a mass of turned backs. Silent. They had me pinned so tightly against the door that when the subway finally lurched forward. Rolling. Ungelating. The sway of the crowd squeezed the breath from my lungs. The wheels rolled over a new section of track. The mass convulsed. A slow, parasitaltic movement. I was being swallowed. Digested. Each sway granted me just enough air to keep breathing. Just enough hope only to rip it away again.

21:49The friction of bodies, the heat, the breath thickening in the air, the smell of people, sweat and fabric and damp exhalations creeping into my nose. Deep, saturating. My lungs tainted until every inhale felt wet and visceral. How's being eaten? Chewed up by this thing. Pressed and released. Pressed and released against the glass, against the wall, against the bodies. My shoulders dropped. My backs screaming as my muscles ground against themselves, strained by strand, unraveling. The pain didn't just sink into me. It tattooed itself into my nerves. An agony so constant and underlenting 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, the train never

22:51stopped. The waves kept coming. Relentless. Unyielding. Unending. This can't be happening. What the fuck is going on? I'm going to pass out. Am I going to die here? Fuck! I don't understand it. Fuck, I'm going to die. My mind raced through every thought. Every rationalization, a 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 enails. Each wave threw me against the wall. It excels. 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 enails. I raised my hand trying to stop the bleeding to protect my head and brace myself. It excels. 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 is propping me up as the corner met my chest. My elbow became the perfect fulcrum. A pop. No resistance.

23:57The 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 into 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 enails. It excels. It enails. It excels. It enails. It excels. I twisted and crumpled in 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 to my pain in my ordeal, an unholy mass of flesh disguised by clothes and human

25:02features 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 as sweat and blood dripped into my eyeballs and pain and focused my vision. It enails. I saw her sitting. Her torso was contorted in an inhuman angle. One arm hanging wimply. Too long. Her face pressed against the metal handrail in the back of the seat. Bloodshot eyes looking desperately at mine, screaming for help in answers. Not with 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 varied beneath bruises and swelling. She got the worst of it, sitting down. The mass. It, it surrounded her,

26:09trapping her against the plastic of her seat. It excels deeply. It's the moment the subway slammed the brakes, any semblance of normalcy, any rational explanation I could have concocted was pried out of me. They, no, it, it wanted me to see this, it wanted me to know. It knew that I hadn't accepted this ordeal. It fucking knew as the train screeched to a halt I watched, forced to watch 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. Let's slow, deliberate squeeze. Her bones, her face, slowly crumpling in itself, has blood, thick black red ribbons spilled from her nose, from the empty socket, from the line splitting her forehead in two. A growing fracture started in her forehead, slowly growing as her brain

27:13pried itself out of her skull. If there was any sound, any scream, it was muffled by the noise of my heartbeat and panic ringing on my ears as the doors hissed open. I threw up on myself, by all it has in burning my throat and tongue. This time was different. The station was a pitch, black, void, not dark, empty. A crunch 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 could no longer prove, I could barely breathe, but they, it, fucking it, it wanted me to see,

28:16it made sure I could see the small display where the stations are announcing. Through the shrinking gap between shoulders and fabric, it made 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 at 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 ripped through the thick, wet silence.

29:22Next stop, terminal stations, please exit the train. 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, blunt pain from my shoulder drooling into my chest and sharp stings from the ripped ligaments, nerve-ending screamed, a jagged lightning bolt of pain burrowing into my chest, the movement kept going. Endless, I lost track of how long it had been from when I left my house. My phone smashed, somewhere in the plastic floor, I would slip in and out of consciousness. Thirst in 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.

30:28I didn't know if it had ever started. My hair was so twoswet, my skin red and burned from my bile. 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. Please fucking help me! Nothing. Someone, someone. Nothing. I let despair wash over my mind and screamed in pain and fear. The sounds from the metal wheels outside started to resemble some kind of unholy screaming. As the subway accelerated once again, a cacophony of metal screeching as a clot its way into my ears. My heart pounded itself out of my chest as my whole body started to shake violently. I felt

31:29urine trickling down my leg. Warm. What? Half my chest numb from the pain in my eyes, blood shot and stinging from all the sweat. The waves of body shifted again. It turned me again, pressing me against the glass part of the door. My face pressed against it as I felt a cut on my brows starting to imprint my face with blood against the glass, smearing my scream into a grotesque self-portrait. The motion, brutal, disorienting, every inch felt like a mile, each sway a 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 but the pounding in my heart, the noise of the train, the horrific weight of all the bodies pressing in. I didn't know if I was still alive or if I had simply become part of the suffocating mass. An empty shell carried

32:32by the unstoppable tide. And then, just as 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 bodies 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.

33:58Thank 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 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 antiquarianshop 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.

35:04In 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 antiquarian of sinister happenings. Lot 118. Don't hold the doors. Consigned by Fatha Mahmoud, narrated by Trevor Shand, featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer. Engineering production and sound designed by Trevor Shand and Lauren Shand, theme music by The Newton Brothers. Additional music by Coag, Vivic Abishek, Clement Panchau, Nicholas Redding, and Conan Freeman. The antiquarian of sinister happenings is created and curated by Trevor and Lauren Shand. Follow us on Instagram and Twitter at AntiquarianPod. Call the antiquarian at 646-41-7197.

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