The SCP Experience - A Minute That Lasts Forever | SCP-2701

Episode Date: September 29, 2025

A prison warden’s secret “new solitary” cell—SCP-2701—doesn’t just isolate inmates, it erases them into a timeless void that breaks their minds long before it releases their bodies. This story was derived from ⁠⁠https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2701 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. ⁠⁠https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/⁠⁠ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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to buyminezzz $10 DePo Minimimumne of a way responsible. The conditions apply. Viya Rai, the voice we love. Everid Karchefsky sat nervously in a chair, fiddling with his guard cap with trembling fingers.

Behind the great mahogany desk that took up most of the office, on a rather utilitarian-looking office chair, was Samuel Deckard, the warden of the Eastern State Penitentiary. A tall built man for someone pushing mid-50s, Mr. Decker had earned himself a reputation as one of the toughest, strictest, and most hard-nosed warden's. this side of Pennsylvania. Everything about the Philadelphia native, from his perpetually frowned brow down to his erect, imposing posture, gave an air of authority of total and unquestionable leadership over every man who stepped in through the doors of the sprawling prison facility. What Mr. Decker had wanted with Everett, he had no idea. Everett had never considered himself

a star employee. Certainly there were no awards or titles to his name for outstanding. working performance. But he had always shown up to work on time, never complained about doing his rounds, had always made sure the inmates were well-behaved and kept in line as best he could. Those were all the haunt marks of a decent prison guard, right? You, uh, you wanted to see me, sir? Everett gulped, sitting up in his chair to mask his nerves. Is everything all right?

Deckered tented his fingers, looking up and down at Everett, once or twice, before taking a deep breath. His gaze was analytical, sizing up the lowly guard from the tips of his shoes to the hairs, or perhaps lack of, on his head. The warden leaned in and pointed his fingers towards him. His voice blunt, but not furious. Mr. Karchevsky, I'm going to just be up front with you. Decker's eyes never left Everett's. His tone flat and uncompromising like a single solid blow. I'm relieving you of your duty here at Eastern State Penitentiary. You're firing me, sir? It's not just you, Everett. Deckerd nodded his head in confirmation. I'm dismissing the whole staff. You, Brody, Daniels, Abbott, everyone's getting the boot.

Are we shutting down, sir? I mean, I remember hearing Governor Schaefer on the news the other week, talking about budget cuts with the prisons and all. No. Eastern. Eastern State isn't shutting down. Deckerd leaned forward in his chair, pulling from a drawer a half-empty bottle of liquor and a shot glass. While Deckerd normally never drank on the job, the recent incident regarding his daughter had steered him closer to the bottle for comfort.

He lowered his tone, sounding a bit more informal now. Look, don't go thinking I'm firing you all because I'm ungrateful. You boys have been here just as long as I have, and you kept Eastern State running like clockwork. for the 20 years I've been warden. I'll give you whatever severance compensation package you want.

Hell, if you want, I could get you a job working in that place over in Huntington for good pay. But, sir, if we're not shutting down, why fire everyone? Who would watch the inmates? Deckard finished off his slug of whiskey and seemed to give his next words some careful thought. He looked over at Everett once or twice

and then spoke up. He sounded thoughtful, reflective, as if he were looking back on some incredible achievement. Everett, would you think I'm lying if I said the world wasn't getting more dangerous? I mean, look at the papers. Any paper from anywhere in the U.S.? He gestured to a cigarette-ash-stained newspaper rolled up on his desk. Murders, rapes, arsonists, child molesters. It's the most widespread epidemic this nation has ever seen. Do you remember?

Deckerd asked, leering at the soon-to-be former prison guard with the tone of searing disgust and bafflement. About a month ago, they found that woman with their head cut off out in bucks. They found the man who did it two weeks ago. Did you know what his motive was, Everett? No, sir. He did it because he was bored. Because he wanted to see what it was like to do something like that. Decker laughed without smiling.

Can you imagine what must go on inside someone's head? that they'll not only rob a woman for whatever she's got in her purse, but then get a thrill by chopping off her head? Because there's nothing else to do? I'll tell you what goes on inside their heads. Absolutely nothing. The only thing these people know is whatever base instinct that hits the pleasure center in their shriveled, drug-addled brains.

Everett looked at his boss with a mixture of confusion and concern. God, he knew the thing with Emily had been terrible, but for as much as he sympathized with Deckerd, this wasn't the straight-laced man that he remembered. Clearing his throat sheepishly, Everett shook his head. I know what you mean, sir. It's a horrible thing, really. You're goddamn right, it's a horrible thing. That's why men like us are put on this earth, Everett. Our job is to keep these animals in line, away from actual decent people. Deckerd poured himself another drink and took it in one practiced shot.

But the world's changing, son, and it's only going to get more violent here on out. If the criminals get tougher, well, so do the prisons. Credit where credit is due to you, boys. You did a damn fine job keeping these thugs acting like they've got some semblance of civilization in him. But in my new prison, I'm afraid that ain't going to cut it anymore. What exactly do you mean new prison, sir? Deckered motioned for Everett to stand up and follow him, making a gesture to the door.

Here, I'll show you. Granted, it won't be much, but if it works the way I wanted to, you'll see exactly what I mean. Everett stood up and followed Deckerd out the door, into the halls of the administrative wing. The enormous, maze-like halls stretched and twisted every which way, leading to either dead ends, storage rooms, or now vacant offices.

It was easy for someone to get lost here, and perhaps that was a sort of safety feature in case any inmate managed to get into this section of the prison. But Deckerd walked through it as if it were his own backyard. Everett noticed how the warden looked at the walls with an almost pitiful, nostalgic sadness. Ah, it's a shame, you know, Decker shook his head, patting the wall alongside him affectionately like a master petting his dog. They just don't build places like this anymore, do they? Sure. I know Eastern States a little on the older side, but...

He tapped his fingers all along the aged brick. It works. Just like a real prison should. Not like those fancy new prisons they've got springing up all across the country. They're practically resorts. You rape a woman in an alley, and two weeks later, you're in a four-star penthouse. Everett had to admit that Eastern State was showing its age. From the outside, it resembled more of a castle than a modern-day prison. The neo-Gothic design, broken only by the recent installation of new guard towers in 65 a few years ago.

While the prison itself was famous for its rehabilitation techniques, especially those of solitary confinement, there was no denying that Eastern State wasn't exactly the world's most modern incarceration facility. Hell, the state balked at the idea of fully modernizing the place, saying it'd be cheaper to build a new one than launch a major overhaul. As they descended the creaking metal staircase, the sound echoing through the cavernous space, Everett noticed Deckard had begun habitually checking his watch. Every minute he would quickly glance at it, mumble something about the time,

and then either hurry or slow his pace drastically. They entered cell block 15 now, and all around them stood rows upon rows of cells, carved into the decades-old brickwork. Behind the heavy barred doors, inmates' slept, or watched learily as the staff members walked by. Some were hulking, enormous brutes who better resembled gorillas in zoo habitats. Others, scrawny, with shiftless, wandering eyes. You remember Thurston, right, Everett?

Who? Richard Thurston? Everett nodded. Thurston had been in eastern state for well over three years now, on a 45-year sentence. He had been caught somewhere between Schuyl and Berks on a charge of shooting two men in a gas station robbery. and then trying to burn the place down afterward. What about him? I moved him into solitary the other day. You did?

But Arnold's was on that round for half of this week, and he never mentioned anything about that. Deckard looked at Everett with a knowing half-smile, chuckling darkly as if he had just pulled a joke on him. Oh no, not that kind of solitary. What I'm talking about is a different sort of solitary. You ever wonder what the purpose of solitary is, son? isolate the inmates from the general population?

Exactly. See, the folks who built Eastern State way back when, they thought that solitary isolation was a good thing. Its purpose wasn't exactly about punishing the prisoner, so much as it was about getting them to reflect. Think of it like a penance that they can sit and think about what they've done. Decker took a large brass key ring from his pocket and rifled through the dangling keys until he found a certain one.

But you can't get an animal to look at itself and make it see what it did wrong. Not today. What I'm telling you is that you can't do traditional solitary confinement today, Deckerrude resumed his speech, alternating between looking at the cell numbers and his own watch in steady mania. The average inmate today has no family, no friends. Hell, if he did, he probably wouldn't have done the things he's done. What does he care if he's locked up by himself?

If anything, he looks for. forward to it. He can go and tell all the other thugs and molesters and gangbangers how tough he is for spending time in solitary. It beefs up their credentials, gives them more respect. They continued walking, nearing the end of the cell block. To Everett, this was strange, considering that solitary was in the opposite direction, and the only thing at the end of the block was a collection of unused, dingy storage closets, and a scantily used maintenance room. At least, as far as he was aware, considering very few of the guards and staff actually went down that, save for routine inspections.

We're here. Decker stopped dead in his tracks. They had stopped directly in front of a single prison cell, totally isolated from the rest. The number played on the side of the door labeled it as 667, which itself was unusual in the sense that there were only 666 cells in the whole prison. The cell looked strangely filthy, although every cell had some element of dirt or grime to it, thanks to age and the activities of the less than stellar clientele. There was something uniquely dirty about this particular cell that gave an unsettling air. This episode is brought to you by Nespresso.

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On the left wall of the entrance was a standard, ordinary clipboard, complete with attached pen on a small chain. Written on the clipboard and stamped letters was one word. Intake. Aside from that, the cell looked totally indistinguishable from any other cell in Eastern State. But the way Deckard looked at it, his eyes giddy with excitement. It could have easily been the shining jewel of the penitentiary itself. So, what do you think? It's just a regular cell, sir. Ha! Well, I know it ain't much to look at. but I wanted it to be as straightforward as possible.

And the boys gave me exactly that. If it works as well as they told me it would, I think you'll be impressed. Everett pulled open the heavy clearing door and looked inside. The cell was dark and empty, save for a filthy toilet in the corner and a ragged mattress mounted on a wall-mounted cot. If Deckard had been using this for solitary confinement,

it sure looked like it wasn't getting much use. Wasn't Thurston supposed to be here, sir? Or was he moved back to his regular cell? Decker shook his head. Oh, Thurston's in there. You'll see what I mean. He glanced down at his watch for the hundredth time. Well, look at that.

We're just in time. Before Everett could ask any other questions, he felt the door jerk from his hands and slam itself shut. There was a dull, metallic clicking sound as the door locked back into place, and this was followed by a more unfamiliar sound. It sounded almost like wind, though Everett couldn't feel any type of breeze on him. It was a low, rumbling type of wind, like a rush of air from something bursting open under intense pressure.

There was also a distinct murmuring, a collection of what Everett swore was the sound of soft, indistinguishable whispers and voices, all speaking at once. Deckard, for his part, seemed positively excited by it, eagerly watching the dank, empty cell with expectant delight. Then, as soon as it started, the wind and voices came to a stop. There was a brief period of silence, as he attempted to register what had just happened, followed by the sound of muffled whimpering. Unlike the voices, however, the weeping was far clearer and seemed to come from an actual

source. Said source was the previously empty jail cell, where a lone huddled figure lay curled just behind the cot. Decker took the key from the heavy ring on his pocket and unlocked the door. I'll bring Thurston out, and you'll see what real solitary does. Deckard threw open the door and walked over to the huddled figure, lifting him up by the collar of his jumpsuit, as if he were holding a harmless kitten. From whatever it could remember, Thurston was a violent, hulking brute of a man,

5'9, 240 pounds of muscle, and a mean streak that had earned a, some unfortunate men an early grave. Yet the man Decker dragged out and tossed into the cell's entrance was a trembling, weeping little boy of a man. Thurston trembled violently, to the point that he could barely lift himself from the ground before falling again. His once, stone-cold gaze

was now reduced to wide-eyed, horrified weeping, and his dark brown eyes were stained red from an endless waterfall of tears. In between his choking sobs gasps for air. Thurston seemed to plead desperately to no one in particular. Oh, God, please. Deckered laughed triumphantly as he walked out at the door, placing a hand on Everett's shoulder. That's what solitary confinement should do. Just one week in there and he's harmless. But, sir, he wasn't even in the cell. I... I already told you, Everett.

Deckered grinned, mirthful but cold. He pointed down at the still blubbering Thurston coiled on the cement floor. He was in solitary, a new kind of solitary. I don't understand. Oh, the how of it is simple. Nothing too complicated about it. Deckerd walked over to the clipboard and pulled off the form he had written on. The form was styled like a typical intake sheet, the kind the guards used when organizing inmates. One column had a space for their name, and the second column was titled Release Date. In the first column, Decker had written Thurston's full name in print and, in the second column, November 11, 1970, a week earlier than today's date.

You just put someone in the cell, fill out their name and a release date. Deckard tapped the pen on the paper for emphasis. It could be anywhere from a few minutes to, oh, as long as you'd like, really. As for how the whole other part works, I'll admit, I ain't too sure myself. The boys tried to explain it to me, but that's too. What's it called? esoteric for me to figure out. They did a fine job, though.

Damn fine job. Deckard laughed and motioned his head at Thurston, who had now barely sat upright against the far wall. He had his head in his knees, occasionally looking up with wide, glistening eyes in the same way a field mouse looks for hawks. Hey, Thurston, why don't you tell the guard here how your stay was, huh?

Oh, God, God, it was so dark. Thurston choked in between sobs, clenching himself into a tighter ball as he spoke. No, it wasn't dark, but I couldn't even see. All I was doing was just floating. No arms, no legs, no, not even eyes, like I was dead. His eyes widened even more, as if he had just come across a horrible realization, and a look of dread crossed his red-cheeked face. Oh!

Mother of Jesus, I was dead. That's what it was. The once vicious inmate led out a hideous sob, doubling over to wretch. Everett noticed that the sides of his arms had teeth marks on them, fresh ones at that, as if he had been sitting there sinking his teeth into his own flesh. Look at this, Everett. This is what solitary should be. Deckard spoke triumphantly, gloating over the weeping inmate like a lord over his slave. You put one of these sons of bitches in a padded room all by themselves, and they treat it like a vacation. If you put an animal in a kennel, it gets used to it.

But with this, he takes the fight out of him. Look it just one week did with him. Deckard raised his foot and kicked it directly into Thurston's ribs. Thurston led out a soft, miserable whimper as Deckard's polished shoe slammed straight into his fragile ribs. But he was too lost in his own hysteria to notice. The warden kicked twice more, making sure to kick the inmate over before stomping right into his stomach. All this earned was a deep groan from the convict, who merely curled up into another ball and sobbed into his sore, gnawed arms. Christ! Christ, Deckard! Stop it!

Everett grabbed at the warden's shoulders, briefly forgetting that he was still in his employ, and as such, this could be a severe violation. What's wrong with you? Look at this! You can wail on him! And he won't. won't even fight back. He's totally harmless now. Deckard spun around on his heel and looked Everett right in the eye. In the warden's eyes there was a glimmer of pride, of satisfaction that combined with an almost sadistic glee. The smell of alcohol was strong on his breath, and Deckard's usually stoic, grim face appeared illuminated with excitement. Can you imagine Everett, son? He trailed off and dreamed like wonder. Can you imagine if every prison in the country had this?

No more overcrowded cells, no more dealing with endless logistics, no more feeding and housing. He don't even need to worry about them causing a riot or breaking out. Everett looked toward the empty cell, then back at the warden. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would have believed the whole spiel was just nonsense, the product of an overworked, strained mind already overwhelmed from personal trauma. But here, Decker had just demonstrated what could only be described as an impossibility. A genuine magic trick of making individuals vanish into thin air. I don't understand. How did you build this? Where do they even go?

Oh, I didn't build it. Like I said, I had some, or let's call them outside help in developing it. You wouldn't believe the types of folks you'll meet when all you have left is hate. Deckered grimaced at an incredibly unpleasant thought. As for where they go, I call it up. He snapped his fingers. A pocket. Kind of like putting my keys in my coat pocket and zipping it closed. It holds them until the date I wrote down. Then it just unzips and drops them off back here. But what happens to them?

Everett looked at the now rigid form of Thurston on the floor, balled up and biting his quivering lip. He doesn't look like he's been torn up. At least not when he came out. I'm not too sure what happens to them. Deckard spoke with a tone that seemed uncharacteristically dishonest. as if he knew more than he was letting on. You could probably ask Thurston, but hell, I don't even think he could tell you anything. Does it hurt them? Deckard looked at Everett up and down, with the same hawkish gaze,

a combination of exasperation and morbid curiosity. He glanced back at Cell 667, and almost immediately a coy smirk appeared on his face. In the same authoritarian tone that made him infamous, the one that demanded obedience and respect from even the most violent of inmates, Deckard spoke. Get in the cell, Everett. Everett looked dumbfounded, even more so than terrified. What? Me?

Yes. If you see it for yourself, you'll understand what makes this so effective. Decker took the nightstick from his side and swung it gently but firmly against the guard's ribs. Everett was lucky Decker had decided against bringing his legendary cattle, prod down with them. You'll go in for only a minute, just enough to get the full experience. Hey, wait a second, Sam. I'm not... God, how fast Decker could be for someone in his 50s.

There was a quick, dull pain in Everett's chest as Decker's fist crashed into it, and the next thing the guard knew, he was sprawled out on the floor inside the cell. Decker slammed the door and grabbed the intake clipboard, furiously scribbling on it. Name, Garchesky, Everett, release date, 12033,000. 8, 1203 a.m., November 11, 1970. The door once again slid shut on its own, and the soft click of the lock was followed by that rushing invisible wind. Here in the cell it seemed louder now, an intense roaring like he was standing over a chasm in the middle of the floor. The voices came back, they're whispering just as indistinguishable but clearer now.

Whether it was English, gibberish, or some other language entirely, Everett had no idea. and they lacked any rhythm or pattern to hint as to what their tone was. Wait, Deckerd, let me out! Everett lunged forward, and he felt the cold metal of the bars slip just beneath his fingertips. He had expected some sort of noise, a stereotypically loud bang or a clap of thunder before he vanished. He even imagined that it might hurt, and so he braced himself for any kind of shock or burning.

Instead, he felt nothing. In one millisecond he was in the cell, nearly grasping the cell door, and the next moment there was nothing. No noise, no shock, and no pain. There hadn't even been a flash or light or puff of smoke. For all intents, Everett had just arrived here much like he would walk into a room. But this was no small relief. Whenever it looked and saw nothing, he truly saw nothing. No vast landscapes or swirling color.

twinkling stars or demonic structures that rose from an otherwise empty, all-consuming darkness. There wasn't even any sort of darkness, for darkness was a color, and a color was something tangible to the eye. All that remained was an intense nothingness, a single featureless plane that had no horizon or bottom. Was he floating? No. He couldn't be floating, because he would be moving, gently bobbing and swaying as the body

naturally does. Here he was in place, motionless, as if held there by an unknown weight. He felt nothing under his feet, and there was nothing on either side of him. In fact, he felt nothing at all. A stiff numbness had consumed him, and not like a dental procedure, with its light, tingling sensation. This was a full detachment. Every limb felt completely weightless. From the familiar heaviness of his arms at his sides to the sensation of his thighs brushing together. To wiggle his toes or open his lips made no difference, as they still had the same dull qualities every other body part had. Everett also noticed that he couldn't hear. There were no other ambient sounds around him, yes, but to not even hear his own breathing? He shouted once, twice, but no sound

came out, or at least no sound that he could hear. Flapping his hand. hands together had no effect, both because he couldn't even move his arms and see whether or not they were in front or behind him. He tried to run, to move his legs or wave his hands. It was of no use. Even the heat of his body had become a sterile chill. Not that he could feel it anyway, but it was as if wherever he was drained all the sensation from him. If he screamed again, there was no indication it was heard by anyone else. Another thought, struck Everett. Hadn't it already been a minute?

Decker, the bastard, had told him he would be here for only a minute. His mental facility still worked, and so he counted 60 seconds as slowly as he could. Sixty seconds passed. Then 120, 180. It hadn't been three minutes, had it? He hadn't counted too fast, so how was he wrong? Taking a metaphorical deep breath, Everett tried again. He counted one minute, then two minutes, and then up until he reached 300.

God, the numbness was horrific. It was one thing to not be able to move, but it was another entirely different situation when you couldn't even see or feel. At least in a prison cell, there was some degree of movement, the ability to touch your face and taste the air. Even footsteps would be comforting, because then you knew you weren't truly alone. 430 seconds now. At this point, it was just out of comfort.

It gave him something to focus on despite the emptiness. It didn't help quell the desperate urge to thrash or kick or shout. Though Everett couldn't do any of these things, it still would have brought him some comfort to know he was still alive. Then, in less than an instant, it was all over. Everett Kirchewski felt the cold, dirty concrete of cell 667 on his clothes again, and the rancid grime that lingered in the air was on his lips. The cell door slid open once again, and standing above him was Deckard, that proud grin still on his face.

So, what do you think? Deckard helped Everett to his knees and led him out into the corridor. Impressive, huh? Everett reflectively scratched his arm, letting his nails dig into the skin. He breathed with relief as the sensation of minor pain once more flowed through his body. I was there for almost 15 minutes, you prick. I thought you said only a minute. It was only a minute, Everett. Decker held his watch to the guard's face. See? From the time you went in there to now, only a minute passed. But no, that's impossible. I was in there. Wherever it was for 15 minutes, I know. I counted it out. It's...

Decker chuckled again. That's the beauty of it. Time doesn't flow the same way in there, the same way it does out here. Or at least, that's how you experience it. What's a minute to me would be, oh, I don't remember. I think it's 400 times longer or so. Everett gulped, shaking away the numbness that still clung to him. He looked over to Thurston, that half shell of a man that had once been a dangerous convict.

So, he was in there for a week, right? That would mean he experienced days in there, wouldn't he? Unless my calculations are wrong, I'd say he spent a month and a half in there, maybe more, maybe less. The end result's still the same. There was silence. Everett bit his lip and looked up at his boss, pleading and confused. He knew the answer to the question he was about to ask, but he had to ask it just to hear it from Deckard. Is this about Emily?

Emily, sir. Did you do this because of what happened to her? Deckered closed his eyes and seemed to think for a moment. He grimaced for a split second before gritting his teeth. His fist gripped the nightstick so hard as knuckles turned pale. It was meant for him. The son of a bitch who hurt my little girl. I built it just for him.

But the bastard died before it was finished. Shiv fight in the courtyard before he got to see it. Then you decided to use it on the other inmates? Why? Because Everett, the truth is that there's no redeeming these people. Every murderer, every rapist, every sick piece of scum who gets their rocks off hurting other people, none of them will ever repent for what they did. We're running a dog pound.

No, a zoo. A zoo full of the worst, most disgusting examples of human filth you can find. He patted the number plate of cell 667 with the tip of the nightstick. This here is my answer. Starting next week, once you're all shipped out, every single convict is going in here. I'll beat them with my hands if I have to. Wouldn't anyone find out? I mean, people will ask questions.

I don't care. Once they're all put away, the state can haul me off to a damn nut house and throw away the key. If anything, they ought to be thanking me. Pennsylvania, the first crime-free state in America. Deckerd walked back over to Everett and put a hand on his shoulder. He spoke low, a vague sense of threatening and persuasion in his voice. You understand what I'm doing is for the best, don't you, son? I can trust that you'll keep this quiet from anyone outside these walls, right?

Everett swallowed hard. Deckard pointed his nightstick inconspicuously back to Cell 667, shrugging his shoulders as he did so. I mean, you're a good man. You know there'd be a lot of trouble for you if you were to mention anything to anyone. Everett could remember the numbness, the suffocating silence and stillness that enveloped him like a death shroud. The emptiness of his voice as he tried to scream in the nothingness, the null space where there was never any beginning or end. A place where solitary confinement was confinement to one's mind.

A conscious death in eternal limbo. I, I understand warden. Clear his crystal. At this, Deckerd gave a triumphant smile, and he patted the guard familiarly on the shoulder. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled a roll of hundreds from it, with his other hand grabbing Everett's hand and opening it for him. He placed the roll of cash into it and winked at Everett. A little something for your helm. This was meant for restocking the cafeteria, but I think you boys deserve it a little more, don't you think? gripping the wad of cash tightly, as if it were a lifeline. Everett nodded silently.

Deckard placed an arm around his shoulders and led him away, back to the office. Come on, I'm sure you'll want to get things sorted out before you leave. Like I said, I have a connection over at Huntington, who'll give you a good starting pay. In the darkness, the man known as Richard Thurston wept in front of Cell 667. He'd served as a fine example to the other prisoners. SCP 2701 is cell 667 in a former Pennsylvania penitentiary, outwardly normal, aside from minor cadmium selenide traces on its frame, and a clipboard labeled intake fixed beside the door.

When a human subject is locked inside, and their name and a release data written on the intake form, the subject vanishes after 13 seconds, with only static or blank footage captured during the event, and faint sounds of rushing wind and unidentified noises reported by observers. At exactly midnight on the assigned release date, the door seals itself through unknown means, and the subject reappears inside the cell without any apparent physical damage,

though the psychological effects of confinement vary.