Clive Blackwell collected junk any way he could get it: church fairs, bargain shops, the side of the road. He had a particular fondness for funeral sales and police auctions. A bit of a ghoul was old Uncle Clive... right up to the strange, gruesome accident that finally did the old bastard in. Now Clive's family are holding a garage sale of their own, and everything's going cheap.
"It's a beaut, isn't it? Genuine bone carving from some tribe up north, and see some joker's turned it into an ashtray! You wouldn't get away with that kind of thing THESE days. There was a legend about that tribe, but it skips my mind...
"Yeah, that old dial telephone still works. You might say it works a little TOO well. It gets all the calls that other phones don't.
"I used to know the last owner of that leather jacket. Good thing he wasn't wearing it when the cops caught up to him, or it'd be full of holes! Ha ha, yeah, the thought of that fella still gives me the odd nightmare.
"Oh sure, the ukelele needs tuning. But trust me, once you start playing that thing you'll never want to stop.
"There's a couple stains on that old mattress, but if you flip it over you'll never know the difference. Blood? Nah mate. No that's... Marmite."
Take your time, have a look around. But be careful what you take home with you, because everything comes with a price at THE GARAGE SALE OF THE DAMNED.