S1E14: The Collector
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Pale Matter presents Edge of the Forgotten.
Edge of the Forgotten is a horror podcast series, and may contain material not suitable for all audiences. Listener discretion is advised. Please see the episode description for content warnings and additional details.
Episode fourteen The collector.
The entrance to the strange little antiques shop is hard to find. Tucked back in the alleyway between the back doors of several other businesses. Trash litters the alleyway, and a couple of restaurants flank the small door, one of which has clearly left food out to rot nearby. It is nothing like he imagined the place to be. He had found the business's ad in the back of the paper. It claimed to be a collector's shop with a focus on unique items, from rare antiquities to forgotten antiques and so much more. Its tagline read, specializing in things you want. or want to be rid of, and promised an eclectic experience for discerning individuals, The business sounded very much like what he was searching for, and promised to offer a far better return than the rinky dink pawn shops around town.
Plus, he respected the place for still advertising in print media. Of course, it did seem odd that there was no name for the business in the advertisement. Nor a phone number or any other means of contact. Just a note to enter behind the shops, followed by the address twenty three and a half Dower Street. This is the exact number hanging above the door in front of him. He wonders if, by adding in the half, that number is no longer a prime. But then remembers prime numbers are only natural numbers. Fractions and decimals don't count. He makes his way carefully to the door. Stepping around the pools of greasy runoff from the restaurants that share the alley. The stench of the rot only grows as he approaches the entrance.
The door itself is a simple wooden one, shaker style. though it's discolored with a few patches of peeling paint. The handle turns easily enough, swinging inward toward a narrow entryway, with a cement floor and a single bare bulb hanging above, providing just enough light to illuminate the cement steps heading downward a few feet away. He looks around. Now sure that this is some kind of joke. But he finds no evidence of hidden cameras or anything else. At the bottom of the steps, which he estimates to be at least a dozen feet down, sits a sign that simply says shop, with an arrow pointing to the right. There's a noticeable shift in temperature as he heads down, turning cooler with each step. Now at the bottom, he stands in a tunnel of sorts.
A mixture of stonework, wooden beams, and cement. A few utilities run through the length of it, old water lines, darker pipes, metal conduit. The tunnel continues into the darkness off to the left, and across from the stairs there's a space that seems to be sectioned off into storage units, probably for the businesses above. It's part of the old speakeasy tunnels, he thinks to himself. To the right, however, the passageway ends with a white wooden wall, wainscotting set at the bottom, and a simple wood and glass door right in the middle. There is no sign above the door. But through the glass he can see a well-lit room with display shelves against the back wall, a counter in front of that, and what appears to be a hunched old man sitting behind the counter reading a magazine.
What the hell? he says to himself before entering the shop. The old man looks up. Makes eye contact. Gives him a slight nod. And then turns back to his reading once more. It is a larger space than it had appeared through the door window. Extending out to either direction dozens of feet or more. Display cases, shelves, and even a few armoires cover the walls. Some set on chests of drawers and bureaus. Thousands of items cover every surface, trinkets and valuables, small and large, and everything in between. There's a hint of organization. A couple of racks of clothing and related items occupy one corner, but right next to that are shelves of silverware, fine china, and small weird porcelain figurines.
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