The SCP Experience - A Convincing Whiteboard | SCP-2330

Episode Date: April 26, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-2330: A Convincing Whiteboard This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2330 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Cyrus S. * * * DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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There were no dense in the aluminum frame, and it even looked like someone properly bolted it onto the wall. He had not been brave enough to put his eraser to it yet, but he had a feeling that it would not shake and clatter against the wall when he swept his hand back and forth across the surface. It was surreal, almost. He wondered what would come next. Maybe they would fix the broken window sill,

or give him a desk where all the wheels were intact. He could not imagine what it would be like to sit down and not immediately dip towards the opposite side. Baby steps, he supposed. One thing at a time. Ten years down the road, he might have a functional classroom. Sam lined up his dry erase markers along the shiny aluminum strip at the bottom of his new whiteboard, red, blue, and black.

They were all ready for much. Sunday. His students would get to watch him diagram sentences on the shiniest, brightest white surface for about a week. Not one of them would notice or care, but he did. He just wondered how long he could keep any of them from touching it. Knuckles wrapped against the open door and Sam looked up. He caught sight of a dark swath of long hair before anything else, and then he locked eyes with Audrey Smith. She taught history in the classroom across the hall. Their students shared a lunch schedule, so they had gotten to know one another pretty well. She was in the middle of a divorce and had been clocking in extra hours to avoid going home.

Sam smiled and gestured proudly to his whiteboard. Of all the people in the building, Audrey would understand. The other teachers were too tenured and jaded to be impressed by something so menial. Sure enough, she mirrored his expression while wrapping her own. arms around her chest. It looks great, she said. You're moving up in the world. Tell me about it, he said.

What's next? A raise? Audrey laughed. I wouldn't get your hopes up, she said. But look at that. Not a single scratch. She stepped closer to the whiteboard and picked up one of the markers. She pulled the cap off with a soft little pop and hovered the felt tip over the shiny, blindingly white surface. It even smells new.

Call me easily impressed. Sam picked up another marker and pulled the cap off as well. How were things going with Mark? Audrey burst her lips, but she did not verbalize her response. Instead, she wrote her reply out on the whiteboard in flowing cursive, the dry erase red ink, leaving a trail of dust around her words. Mark Smith needs to drop dead. She put little sparkles around the words to illustrate her point.

The words were like a fist thrown in the words. into Sam's gut. A wave of comprehension washed over him, making everything suddenly clearer. And of course, he agreed. From everything Audrey had told him, she and her two-year-old son would be much better off if her, soon-to-be ex-husband, fell off a cliff. Sam placed his marker against the whiteboard and wrote out his own thoughts. Audrey Smith should hit him with her car. Audrey laughed again. You're right, she said, even though she did not sound, like she was joking. He would look a lot better as a stain.

She replaced the cap on her marker and set it down. I don't know, she said thoughtfully. It just never seems like the right time. You will get there, Sam said. I know these things aren't easy. You're really supportive, and I appreciate that more than you know, Audrey said. She wrapped her arms around her torso again and glanced back at the hallway. She huffed out her breath.

and threw one last smile his way. It was more sad around the edges than anything. Guess I should get back to work, she said. I've got a bunch of papers left to grade. Godspeed, he told her. He picked up his brand new, clean eraser, and set it against the whiteboard. I will see you tomorrow.

See you tomorrow, she said. Then she walked out. Sam took one last long look at the words written on the whiteboard before he swiped his eraser through them. The dust came away and left behind nothing but clean, stark white space. It was incredibly satisfying. Audrey Smith sat in her driver's seat while her hands gripped the steering wheel. Rain drizzled onto the driveway and turned the white pavement, dark gray.

At least what parts of it she could see were illuminated by the garage light. Long trails of rust-colored water slid out from underneath her wheels and pulled into the street. She cranked up her engine again, but her front wheels spun in mid-air. Growning deeply, she mimicked the car's deep rumble of frustration. She was stuck. Audrey could not get those words out of her head. She could see them clearly in her mind, written out in Sam's boxy black dry erase ink lettering across his brand-new whiteboard.

They flashed like a billboard advertisement, obnoxiously bright and embedded in the creases of her brain. Audrey Smith should hit him with her car. Audrey Smith should hit Mark Smith with her car. It was not even a question. Even though somewhere deep down, she felt like she should have hesitated at least a little bit. But the words kept running through her mind,

like she was reciting back a grocery list, or mapping out everything she needed to do for the day. It had put her into autopilot. She came home and there he was. She could see him through the open screen door, barely a silhouette against the dim yellow living room light. Their toddler was in bed. That was really the only thing she had been worried about. She did not want to wake him up, but she had honked the car horn anyway to get Mark's attention.

The garage door operated on a remote, but the remote had stopped working and they never got it fixed. Mark was the only one who could get the door open and so. Even though it was raining, he came outside to help her out. He cared about the car, and he did not want to wake up to it coated in pollen and rain like yellow snot. He avoided looking at her when he went to fiddle with a door latch and coax it open from the bottom. His back was turned to her, and Audrey's thoughts focused down to one single idea. Now is as good a time as any, she thought. Her inner voice was soft and tinny inside her skull.

It seemed smothered by the bigger thought. The big, red bold words, Mark Smith needs to drop dead. She pressed her foot down on the gas pedal without hesitating. It did not feel like she was the one making it happen. Mark did not scream. He did not make a sound when the car slammed into him from behind in such a speed that it crawled up his back

and bore down on his shoulders. Audrey heard the crunch as her tires rolled over him and bones snapped underneath the pressure. She could not get her car up over his body entirely, and she ended up stuck against the half-opened garage door with her front wheels off the ground. The red in her rear-view mirror was getting darker by the second and running down the street, carried by rippling currents of rain that raced down the asphalt. Panic sank into her chest.

She revved her engine again and tried to put the car into reverse, but it was the same as before, spinning front tires and another sickly crunch. Audrey grabbed her door by the handle and pushed it open, and she got down from the driver's seat. Her short heels hit the driveway, and she backed up a few paces, her head, light, and spinning as the rain pelted her shoulders.

Audrey bent and placed her hands against her knees, scanning underneath the car. Mark's body was crumpled up like a squashed bug. His head was wedged underneath a wheel and mostly flat. There was very little left of it aside from the bone shards floating around in the squashed brain matter. It reminded Audrey of sorry. spoiled oatmeal. She rubbed her face and sighed. If there was one thing Mark was good at,

it was making things really difficult for her. She leaned back inside the car long enough to turn the engine off and pull out her keys. Who would she call? Should she call the police or a mechanic? Under the smell of rain was the sharp, coppery scent of blood. Audrey rubbed her nose to keep from sneezing and then started towards her house, still not sure of who she needed to tall, still dizzy. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she ought to feel something. Maybe not remorse, but something. She had killed him as casually as mowing her lawn, and somehow, that had been the right thing to do. RBC Training Ground has discovered potential in over 20,000 Canadian athletes and counting.

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There was a police officer waiting for Sam in his classroom. Six o'clock in the morning, an hour before students would start trickling in, groggy from the buses and ready to start their day. He had a coffee cup in one hand and a paper bag with two blueberry donuts clutched in the other. The police officer stood by his desk, rustling through the scattered papers as casually as if he was flipping through magazines in a doctor's office. Something about that rubbed Sam the wrong way. He froze in the doorway and glanced around the room, but there was no one else present. Can I help you, officer? Sam asked. The policeman looked up.

The expression on his rough square face did not change. Samuel Cater? The officer asked. Yes. Sam responded warily. Am I under arrest or something? I'm here to ask you a few questions. I hope that is all right,

the officer said, skirting around the actual question. Sam realized his hand was trembling, and he gripped the paper bag a little tighter. Sure, he said. Is there a problem? Did something happen? He approached one of his students' desks carefully and set his breakfast down. He did not want to get any closer to the officer than he had to.

One of your coworkers went home and killed her husband last night, the police officer said. It was a grim sight for my boy's first thing in the morning, let me tell you. Oh, not that we are thinking you had anything to do with it. But we thought we'd go around asking everyone. And then I noticed, he said, gesturing to the whiteboard. this interesting bit of writing right here. Sam's eyes fell on the new whiteboard, and his heart plummeted down into his shoes.

Audrey's looping cursive was written out in damning red across the stark white surface, and there was his own scrawl underneath it. Mark Smith needs to drop dead. Audrey Smith should hit him with her car. But he had erased all that, hadn't he? He clearly remembered pulling his eraser through it and watching the red marks disappear.

It had been such a clean swipe. Everything had disappeared completely. He remembered how impressed he had been. This had to be a prank. Some kind of weird, sick joke. He abandoned his breakfast and his coffee to walk over to the whiteboard. The officer held out his hand to stop him halfway. Don't touch that, the policeman said.

That is evidence. Wait, Sam said. He don't get it. That wasn't... He stared at the whiteboard for a half second longer and shook his head. Hold on. Wait, are you telling me that Audrey killed her husband last night? Who wrote this on the board?

The officer tapped on the shiny surface. Sam's entire mouth went dry. She did, he said. Well, I mean, she wrote that part. The red? He wiped at the corners of his mouth. I was just trying to make her feel better. Telling a woman that she should go home and hit her husband with her car?

The officer frowned. That's not really funny now. Now is it? No, Sam said. Not funny at all, officer, but I... He took a deep breath. I wasn't telling her to hit him. None of this felt real.

I really thought I had erased it. The last part came out as a mutter. The officer picked up one of the dry erase markers and pulled off the cap. He walked over to the side of the whiteboard and started writing in stark blue with big, unwieldy letters like a fourth grader. Samuel Cater should stick a pin in his eye. He popped the cap back on and set the marker down on its linoleum strip. Not really so funny, is it? An awkward silence settled between them as something in the air shifted,

and Sam furrowed his brow. Not funny at all, he said. He was not sure what the officer was trying to prove. After all, Sam had walked into the classroom that morning intending to do just that. He was going to drink his coffee, eat some breakfast, and he was going to stick a pen straight into his eye, In fact, that was probably the only thing that was going to drive his building headache back long enough for him to concentrate on his lesson. He could stick a ballpoint right through his pupil, and the relief that would come with the whole thing, just bursting and then oozing down his face would be immense.

He could almost feel it already, and the thought made him shiver with anticipation. I had already planned on doing so, sir. The officer stared at the whiteboard for another half a second and then nodded. See that you do, he said. I think that will do you a bit of good." He turned back to Sam. And if you do hear anything about Mrs. Smith, I want you to give me a call. I am going to leave my number here on your desk.

He pulled out a rectangular white business card and flashed it before setting it down on top of Sam's messy papers. Of course, Sam said. He had almost forgotten about Audrey already. He needed to erase the whiteboard and get prepared for class. Word was going to spread, especially when her class. was met with a substitute, and by lunchtime, the whole school was going to have questions. The sooner the officer left, the better, actually. The officer lingered only for a second longer, as if he had forgotten something else he was

supposed to say, and then he just walked out without another word. Sam watched him leave and then grabbed his coffee and his paper bag of blueberry donuts. He moved his way towards his desk and sat down, setting the bag deliberately on top of the business card. Poor odd. He could only imagine what she had been going through. Of course, Mark deserved it. She did right to hit him with her car. He had seen the look on the officer's face at that last minute, and he knew the policeman believed it too.

Some things were just undeniable facts, written out plainly on a whiteboard for all to see. Sam reached into his desk and rooted around for his favorite ballpoint pen. He finally found it and clicked the stopper on the end. The fine tip slid out. tip slid out, and he gave it a quick examination before setting it down and popping open the tab on his coffee. He took a few minutes to enjoy his breakfast, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling of being confronted with a cop first thing in the morning. Samuel Gator should stick

a pen in his eye, the words flashed across his brain, hotter and brighter than a neon sign. He felt like he could see the officer's blue childish writing so clearly, even though it was written behind his head. He was not sure what had prompted the man to come in and write something like that on his board, on his brand new, shiny, state-funded white board. Sam picked up his ballpoint pen and rotated it between his fingertips. He should have written something for the officer, something like, officer should sit on his thumb and shout.

That probably would not have gone over very well. Sam wrapped his hand around the pen, gripping it in his fist, and tilting his chin downward before swinging the pen back. He drove it deep into his eye, not sure if he hit his pupil, although that was what he was aiming for. Pain rocketed to the back of his head, and he wanted to cry out. But the sound got stuck in his throat as all the fight left his body, and his shoulders slumped forward. His head hit the desk, and bloody white jelly ran down his cheek. The blood soaked the papers underneath his head, and then the world went dark in the other eye, too.

The pain eclipsed his entire brain until the only thing he could think about, were those silly blue words dancing across his whiteboard. The same thought danced around as his entire world slipped away. Why would a police officer write a silly thing like that? SCP 2330 is a dry erase whiteboard. The writing surface of SCP 2330 is white, with no apparent markings. No brand name can be found anywhere on SCP 2330's surface. All powders and liquids applied to the writing surface of SCP 2330,

including but not limited to ink, graphite, and paint, may be easily removed by friction or running water with no lasting marks on the whiteboard surface. Chemical analysis of SCP 2330 reveals no abnormalities, but analysis shows that the surface is substantially flatter than would be expected, with a flatness grade of less than 0.1 picometers. Whenever a clear declarative statement is legibly written on SCP-2330's writing surface, the statement exhibits a memetic effect whereby any conscious human directly viewing

and understanding the statement will instantly be convinced, both that the statement is true and that they have always believed the statement, independent of exposure to SCP 2330, becoming an SCP 2330-1 instance. Through no means has an SCP 2330-1 instance been convinced of the statements falsity so long as the memory of first infection remains in their mind.