Episode 1: Bottom of the Bottle

Main Content Warning: Alcoholism, Addiction, Uncontrollable Urges

The sound of a tape recorder clicks to life as the Archivist turns the dial of a lock in their hand. In the other, they hold the small file they pulled from a filing cabinet they stole. The whole pulled out cabinet fit nicely in the backseat of their car, and they tried to settle in to relax in the passenger side chair. The Archivist's eyes pour over the words of the statement and a sense of relief washed over them. The transcript beckoned.

"I see no point in wasting time. So let's get started. Statement of Paul Walton, on his collection of an antique bourbon bottle from what is assumed to be one Damien Licht. Original statement given on September 10th, 2019. Audio recording by Monroe Murphy, Head Arc- an archivist."

"Statement begins."

I know what you're thinking. An alcoholic, too long off the hooch and off his rocker. Seeing things. But I've been sober going on four years, the bottles I have are just my collection. And about three months ago, was when I met them. At least, I think it was three months ago. Hell this all seems so crazy. I'm sorry, let me pull myself together, I know I just barged in here and began rambling didn't I?

Three months ago, I was spending some time going around pawn shops for my summer vacation in America, specifically Kentucky. I had old beer bottles, wine bottles, and even some old vodka bottles I picked up in Russia. I know it must seem a strange hobby for a recovering alcoholic, but it almost helped me come to terms with it. In a strange way, I really do think when I started thinking of the bottles as something to collect rather than drink, that was what sealed the deal.

I mean don't get me wrong, there's always that itch that I can never quite scratch, but I mostly feel that it would ruin the bottle to open it. Most of the ones I collect are empty anyway, cheaper than getting an actual vintage. But where was I… right Kentucky. I was there searching for a bourbon bottle, as I'd yet to find one for my collection.

I think the hardest thing was how different it was. Lexington had very nice bus routes throughout the city, and luckily the people I met were friendly enough. The city was almost idyllic for me. There was a fellow named Leighton, from across the pond like me. He'd lived here for years and was fairly eager to tell me about everything the city had to offer. I had asked him about any pawn shops or antique places he knew about, but sadly he seemed more keen on the typical tourist experience. He did know one place though, which was where I decided to start my search. It was quite a surprise to me how perfect of a place he did know, a small antique store that didn't even have a proper sign out front. It might as well have been the entrance to someone's townhouse.

Leighton explained to me on the bus ride that it was a place run by a fellow named Damien. He had collected many odds and ends over the course of his life, and had decided to put down his roots here. So long as I rode this bus to the end of its route, I'd find the place. Leighton even offered to swing by and pick me up once his wife got back with their car. I happily took him up on this. I couldn't think of any better way to spend my day than looking at some old codger's antique collection.

We exchanged numbers, and said goodbye as we reached Leighton's stop. I could hardly contain my excitement as I waited to reach the last stop on the bus route I was on. I felt like the luckiest man alive. I remember as I arrived at my stop, and stepped off the bus, the sky was overcast. I thought this was unexpected, especially when I'd not heard of any rain predicted today. But that was the weather for you, mankind still has not quite the grasp on it. Sure enough, it began to sprinkle raindrops lightly across, just enough that it wasn't uncomfortable to walk in. I frantically began to search for the shop that Leighton had described, but a lot of the townhouses looked similar if not the same. Until I found what Leighton had pointed out to me as the key factor in locating the place. A gaudy flamingo shaped postbox, hanging from the door. I approached, and was honestly a bit nervous. Afraid I would just be knocking on the door to some stranger's home, and that Leighton had played a prank on me of sorts.

When I reached for the door, I was shocked when it creaked open. A young feminine figure, wrapped in a large pea coat answered. I would have figured them to be about mid-twenties or so. Though their complexion was quite pale and gaunt. I realize I'd assumed much about this person, but Leighton never gave me a description. I asked if they were Damien, to which they replied yes. I asked if they ran an antique shop out of this place, expecting a "what the hell are you talking about" but they instead nodded. I was so taken aback by the situation, but I tried to remember that it's 2019, I was bound to run into people I didn't quite understand. I've always fancied myself a fair bit more open-minded than your average forty year old as well. I'm getting off topic though.

Despite my initial surprise, Damien was quite cordial. I recognized what appeared to be a light German accent, that teetered on the edge of being lost. I asked if they were planning to head out somewhere, and hoped I had not interrupted. They shook their head, telling me that "it could wait." I was not one to squander this opportunity, and as they let me inside… and it was… well it was a treasure trove. I'd expected a disorganized mess of a home, but everything was placed in an elegant manner around the home. I told Damien as much, and they were delighted to hear it. They showed me everything around the home, and I was half-tempted to leave with more than I arrived to search for. I only had a small sum of American dollars on me, and was more keen to see what I'd really come to look for. I asked Damien if they had any antique bottles, specifically Kentucky bourbon. They nodded, and showed me over to a small kitchen, inside the cabinets were antique bottles of all kinds. I was in heaven.

They began to show some of them to me, and it took all my willpower not to ask for them all. The one thing I will note about them was that I do remember all of them being empty or opened. Which was fine, like I said I cared very little if the bottle had alcohol or not. Which is why I was sure that when I finally made my choice, I knew that bottle was empty. It was a large brown glass bottle with the label of August Rose Distillery, and it was gorgeous. The bottle was very old, and had a printed date of sometime in the 1850's, but it was unclear when exactly it was. That last part of the bottle was shaved down. Despite that slight marring, I was still sold on this bottle. It had a vine-like design with each tip of the vine ending in a rose.

I asked further on this, to see if Damien knew anything about this August Rose Distillery. To which they had no knowledge, other than to tell me that it was named after the owner and had closed down back in the early 1900's. I figured I would learn more about it another time, and asked Damien how much they wanted for the bottle. They told me since it was my first purchase, and I seemed to love the bottle so much, they'd give it to me for six hundred dollars. I thought that price more than reasonable, since it was likely another bottle like this no longer existed. I just didn't know how correct I was.

It had begun to drizzle outside, and I realized I probably needed to get going, despite how much I wanted to continue exploring Damien's collection. I shot a text over to Leighton, who said he'd be about ten minutes. At that time I asked Damien a little bit more about themself. As I had clocked, they preferred nonbinary pronouns, and were from Germany. They told me most of their collection came from their father, who had recently passed away. I apologized, said that must have been hard for them. But they shook their head, saying their father never cared much for them. Growing up with an alcoholic father, I shared the sentiment and I could make guesses as to why Damien might not have gotten along with theirs. I heard the horn honk outside, figuring Leighton must have arrived, and started to make my way to the door as the conversation had gotten a bit dreary. Damien said one more thing to me before I left though, which I wish I would have questioned them further on. They said that they hoped I took well to the bottle, and I smiled and nodded. I thought what a strange way to say they hoped I liked my purchase.

When I got outside, I know I had covered the bottle in my coat. Not wanting to collect rainwater on my way out. Leighton had the passenger door open and called for me to run for it. I laughed and tried to make myself as small as I could and jumped inside. Pulling the door closed behind me, he asked if I had been successful. I triumphantly showed him the bottle, and though I could tell he didn't get it, he was encouraging. His wife was with him in the backseat, and she was incredibly friendly as well. They had invited me to a party at their place, to which I accepted.

What I didn't realize was that they were swingers. To be fair, neither of them were bad looking, and they had taken a particular shine to me. Wanted me to be a part of the festivities so to speak. But I've never been interested in that kind of thing. I declined as politely as I could, and they seemed understanding enough. Leighton offered me one of the guest rooms in his place, but with the type of activities that would be happening, I declined that as well. I decided to take my chances at a hotel. When I got there that night, I placed the bottle on the counter, but was shocked when I heard the sound of sloshing liquid. I looked down, and noticed that the bottle had maybe become a tenth of the way full with it. I figured I must have been careless, and let some rainwater collect during my jog to and from Leighton's car. I walked over to my room's bathroom and poured it out. I knew immediately that it was not rainwater that poured from that bottle.

The liquid that found its way out was syrupy in viscosity, and green in color. Almost what you would expect a pond filled with vegetation would look. A part of me was tempted to smell it, see if I could identify the liquid. I thought better of it though, and turned on the sink, beginning to rinse it out. Normally I wouldn't go as far, but I had to carry this thing with me through my flight back home and everything. Don't need the TSA thinking I'm carrying an open container. At first it bothered me a bit, but I thought I had just missed it. I was also tired from all the travel, and ready to rest. I should have just thought to myself for a second that something was wrong.

Regardless, I thought little of that event afterwards. I spent further time with my new friends in the swingers. Leighton and his wife were lovely people, and they took me all around Lexington. In all honesty, the blast I had made me completely forget the incident at the time. When I returned to my hotel to prepare for checkout and head for the airport I snagged the bottle. It was empty, nothing of note, and placed it in a box I had prepared for it. The trip back home was uneventful other than a loud baby on the plane that likely prevented anyone from sleeping. When I did get back home to London, it was pouring of course. I did my best to get home dry, but I was soaked and reasonably grouchy. I called my mother to let her know I'd returned safely and turned in for the night.

I awoke but a few hours later, still exhausted and wanting to sleep some more. I was ungodly thirsty, and walked to the kitchen for a glass of water. What I heard next made me bolt upright. I heard a dripping, and became concerned, worried there was a leak in the roof or one of the pipes. I looked around for the source, but couldn't find it anywhere. Until I found the small puddle, forming beneath the box I put the bottle in. I cursed myself, thinking I'd let rainwater get inside and ruin the box. I was too busy to notice at first that the top of the box was dry, and the bottom had been completely eaten away by the liquid dripping from it. When I opened the box to recover the bottle, I saw the real culprit. The liquid was that same syrupy green from before, and left the bottom of the box all around the tip of the bottle soggy. Now, I could smell it too. It was the smell of rot and decay that reminded me of roadkill on a hot summer's day. It caused me to retch, and I threw the box down, running for the kitchen sink. The smell burned into my senses, I was teary eyed, and my esophagus burned as I vomited uncontrollably. I'd hoped that would be the worst of it, but it wasn't. God it wasn't. It was as if smelling it had unleashed something, something that couldn't be put back. I'm ashamed of what I did next.

A new relieving scent found my nose. It smelt of walking through a freshly bloomed rose garden, a smell I'd only become familiar with on a school trip to learn from a botanist. It was wonderful, and disarmed me almost instantaneously. After my visceral reaction, I didn't want to find the source of this relief, I needed to. And where else did it lead me then right back to that damn bottle. I saw the liquid poured all around, and I… I started salivating. It still looked like the same disgusting liquid that first poured out from it days ago, but I just couldn't stop myself. I reached down and took the bottle into my hand. The liquid around the rim caused my fingers to stick slightly to the sides, and I knew then that I had already made up my mind. I tried one last feeble attempt to hold the arm that had grabbed the bottle, but it was no use. I took a long deep swig of the bottle, and gasped as the syrupy liquid fought its way down.

The only word I could think of that describes the sensation is… euphoric. It was as if I had been falling for a long time and someone finally caught me. Like it understood me. I know it sounds like every relapse story ever, but I promise you this was different. It didn't feel like a single time I had alcohol in my entire life. It didn't even taste like whiskey. I don't know what to even call it, but I wanted more. I kept drinking, and the thick liquid continued to flow. I drank and drank until it began to choke me. Gasping for air I threw the bottle down, but it didn't shatter as I expected. It smacked against the ground as if it were a wet piece of meat. I knew whatever I just drank, despite how good it felt, was bad for me. So I did the only thing I could think to do. I went to the bathroom and forced myself to throw it back up in the toilet. I did this until I passed out on the bathroom floor.

I awoke to daylight pouring in through the hallway window. To say I was inconsolable was understatement. I felt weak, and that I lost a part of myself. No even that's underselling the feeling. I felt empty without it. I knew I had to be rid of this thing. I got up, expecting the mess of last night to still be waiting for me. But it wasn't. There the bottle sat, clean and with no spillage whatsoever. I felt like I was losing my mind. The only hint of what had happened last night even being real, was the soggy and destroyed cardboard box. I threw it all out, but when it came time to get rid of the bottle I couldn't do it. It felt as painful as I imagine abandoning one of your pets would feel. So I put it away. I swore never to touch it again, it could rot in the bottom of my freezer.

I showered, trying to get a sense of feeling whole again back to myself. It was as I dried off I noticed something had changed. I looked just like Damien did. In one night, I had lost pounds off my body, and I was as gaunt as they were. I was angry. I called Leighton and asked him to get Damien's number so that I could give that bastard a piece of my mind. I knew they did this to me. It shouldn't have surprised me that Leighton replied back that Damien's antique shop was empty. Packed up and completely gone as if they were never there. So there I sat in my flat, with something my body ached for night after night. Then I noticed how it worked you see. Every time it rained, no matter how little or heavy it was, the bottle would fill with that dark ichor. That was when the pull to drink it was strongest too. I didn't want everyone to think I had just relapsed, and was going crazy again. I tried to take a video of it, but it never showed anything. I had my mom come over and asked her what she thought of the bottle on a rainy night, but it was as if the bottle knew. It knew it was being perceived.

I haven't drank it since though. I've still held strong. I won't let it tempt me… so I came here. I know you all take things like this, and I'm at my breaking point. I don't want to be at my flat when it's taken, so please send whoever you need to collect it. Just… be careful. I don't think the next person it chooses will be as lucky as me. If I didn't already know how to deal with a habit… I loathe to think what would happen if someone fell for its charms.

"Statement Ends."

"I guess this fellow really was lucky. Not many people can survive an encounter with- The Ambrosia. Goddammit. I didn't need to know what it was and what it's done to people. But that's why you showed me isn't it? You aren't showing me things to help me, you're feeding off me like everyone else. You bulbous parasite. I swear I'll-" The Archivist is cut off as the sound driver's side door opens. Rain batters down on the outside of the car as a young woman with hearing aids sits down. She turns to give Monroe a soft smile, lying some grocery bags in the backseat.

"Are you okay darling?"

Due to all of the noise around, Monroe signs back their response. "Yes. Thank you. I love you." Finishing that thought in sign language and saying her nickname to her immediately after, so that she can read her lips. "Tabby." Tabitha nods, pulling the gear shift, and getting them on their way. Monroe knew that with all these storms lately, Tabby was likely having a harder time than normal and keeping her hearing aids dialed down.

Sighing and turning back to the window while Tabitha focuses on the road, the Archivist tries to think of anything that statement provided them about their hunt for Damien. If anything, the fact Damien can go anywhere and quickly proved that finding them was going to be more difficult than the Archivist originally thought.