#*side eyes the nascar collection in the basement*

[geothebio]

me and my mom agreeing that we both have undiagnosed autism

[libraford]

arumine-kaoru

Three stories of antiques and it used to be an opera house? That place has to be haunted.

You wanna hear about this place? 

My camera was losing battery or I would have taken photos of all the weirdness.

Allow me to take you on this journey with my words.  

So you go in and it looks like just any old antique mall, maybe a little fancier. Big front windows, lots of junk, vaguely organized. The stalls are rented by individual sellers and yet somehow you have seen the same ceramic cockatiel salt shaker set three times and you’re only halfway through the first side. 

You get all the way to the back and there’s a wall of books that are not for sale. These are appraisal books that you can look at and find the true value of your treasures. It is empty but for a visible layer of dust. 

You turn to your left and you are confronted with an upward staircase that says “Wapak Opera House” on each step. The staircase is wide, painted red, and lit by several unmatching chandeliers. 

The air is breathable up until that very last step, which makes you feel like you’re almost drowning. The floorboards creak, leading down a skinny hall lined with Americana-styled items. 

On your right is a door leading to a large room. It is somehow hotter in here. You hear a constant dripping noise. Looking up, you see a red-painted balcony that overlooks what could have been a ballroom, but it’s hard to see anything other than the piles upon piles of junk. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

Someone has placed mannequins on the balcony. They are dressed in 1920′s style clothing, posed as though they are applauding. You don’t feel like you’re part of the performance. Yet. 

The collection here seems somewhat less curated. Old Halloween window clings, ironing boards, a section of stadium seating that claims to be from the Olympics but you have doubts. Honestly, it feels more like a garage sale than an antique mall. Something about the air seems sallow, heavy. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

Another wall of books. These are on clearance. You recognize some titles, some authors. Some old pulp novels catch your eye and you pick them up. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

Clap, clap, clap. 

Everything sighs when you step out of the ballroom. Something misses you. 

You feel like you haven’t taken a single breath the entire time you were in the upstairs. Perhaps you haven’t. There is no telling, only a feeling that you’ve aged. 

You turn a corner. 

Then there is a staircase leading downwards. You take the staircase because your natural curiosity dictates that you must explore holes in the ground, no matter how water damaged the steps are. They seem fairly stable, anyway. 

Upon turning a corner on the staircase you are given the impression that the majority of the basement will be filled with glass and you are mostly right. But also toys. Broken sleds, Happy Meal prizes, an entire case of Bratz Dolls, at least one GoBot. 

You turn a corner. Spice tins, liquor bottles, Sears Catalog cups. 

You turn a corner. Stuffed deer heads, knives, oil cans. 

You turn a corner. Precious Moments figurines and nothing else. 

You turn a corner. 

You are facing a long, raised hallway- each room having its own doorway and window. The face of each room is painted its own color, giving the impression that they are a small, single-room house. 

The first few rooms echo the themes of the previous stalls- colored glass, jars of marbles, knick-knacks. One is filled with NASCAR memorabilia. Another? Old tools so covered in rust that they are unrecognizable. One is filled top to bottom with shelves up on shelves of yardsticks and old canes. 

You trek down the hallway with its uneven floorboards. As you step on one in the center, it sinks nearly a foot lower and you jump back. The vibration causes a display of ancient Coke bottles to chime against each other. It almost sounds like laughing. You recall the collection of Precious Moments figurines. 

One room  is dressed with an antique record player that could be worth thousands were it not for that stain on its cabinet. You hear music, but can’t tell if its from the radio one floor above you or if it comes from somewhere else. The sound passes, you move on. 

You don’t think the upstairs is this long. You may be walking beneath Bellafont St, but there’s no way to tell. The lights are dim, strings of Christmas lights are illuminating this hallway and nothing else. There is something about the lighting that seems pink, even if the walls are French Blue. 

The final room at the end of the hall does not look like a sales stall. At its center is a wooden dining table, chairs to match. Place settings are carefully positioned in front of each chair- crocheted place mat, plate, bowl, fork, knife, spoon. Glass, wine glass, salt and pepper shakers. 

The walls are bare. There is no dust here. 

You feel as though you must knock before entering. You do. Nothing happens. You wonder what would have happened if you had not knocked. 

There is something out of place in the center of the table. It is a bright blue and red lace-up boot, but it is the wrong proportions to fit any adult or child that you know. Out of curiosity and a further fascination with holes, you look down into the boot. 

The boot has a screw cap. You unscrew it. The boot is a novelty decanter. 

It still smells faintly of those last drops of whiskey. 

After this, there is a rough stone wall. For reasons you can’t explain, you feel there should be more. 

You tip-toe around the loose board and ignore the idle laughter of Coke bottles and you shield your eyes from the Christmas lights that almost seem too bright, back into the basement where things seem to make sense again. 

You did not notice the ceramic pig at the top of the stairs when you descended, but now that it greets you in your ascent, you cannot help but see it. You get the feeling that it’s meant to light up somehow. 

The way to the front seems easier than the way back. It seems strange, even, that you’ve spent so much time in a place of this size. Both the upstairs and the basement seem like a dream. 

You approach the cash register. You cannot remember where you found it, but in one of the stalls you discovered a wooden box that you must have. You ask the cashier where a good place for lunch might be. 

She says that she only ever eats at Jackie’s. 

You choose to get lunch on the road instead. You’ve taken enough risks for the day.