The SCP Experience - Behind This Curtain Is Your Worst Nightmare | SCP-1602

Episode Date: September 25, 2026

In a specialized prison facility, a violent inmate is brought in for what appears to be an ordinary therapy session—only to realize the staff may know far more about his past than they should. When he is led into a dark room containing nothing but a chair and a plastic curtain, the session takes a terrifying turn, forcing him to confront something deeply personal waiting on the other side. This story is derived from ⁠The SCP Foundation Database⁠ and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0.⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ ⁠⁠⁠ Author:  Matt Doggett * * * 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 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

I hear the muffled shout as the guard escorts me toward the door at the side of the hall. Pausing, I glance at the guard, coolly, eyebrow raised, coolly shrugs and then gestures with his chin for me to continue. As we reach the door, the shouting is unmistakable, and I think I even recognize the voice. What was that? The man on the other side of the door says, terrified and incredulous. What was that? What the hell was that? He becomes increasingly manic with each sentence. Other lower voices pipe up, trying to sue them.

Cooley hesitates at the door, clearly wondering if he should walk us in. The decision is made for him as the door opens, and another guard appears, shoving out a man in an orange jumpsuit. I was right, I do know the man. We're in the same cell block. His name is Lemus, but I think of him as worm lips because, you guessed it. His lips look like a couple of earthworms glued to his face. And like worms, they're constantly glistening with moisture. A scene pops into my mind of me laughing as I jammed fistfuls of writhing nightcrawlers down his throat.

He's one of those tough guys who can probably hold his own, but no longer bothers because he has a gang of other inmates to do his bidding, which is why it's strange to see him like this. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I think his terror-stricken face is going to close down. I can just see those earthworm lips coming together as he formulates the threat. that will keep me quiet about this. But it's like he barely sees me. His face doesn't close down, and his worm lips remain stretched across his teeth in a grimace. The only time they come together is when he looks over his shoulder and shouts, what was that? I see who he's talking to. The therapist, Dr. Orton, a black woman in late middle age, brown hair streaked with gray, pronounced wrinkles,

starting to form at the corners of her eyes from all the interested squinting she's. does at her patients. The good doctor sees me and my escort, and she glowers at the ladder. I'm guessing we're early. Move. The other guard says, shoving Lemus out. I know this guard too. He's a sloppy galute who goes by Vance. What did you do to me? Lemus cries, resisting. As his standard procedure in this odd facility, Lemus's wrists are shackled with handcuffs, just like mine. But as coolly steps past me to help his coworker move Lemus out of the doorway, worm lips makes a move, and the cuffs don't seem to slow him down. He slams the heel of one hand into Cooley's face, jerks an elbow and advance his gut, and then lunges back into Dr. Orton's office.

I'll kill you, bitch! He screams, but not in a tone I've heard before. I've heard him angry. This isn't that. He's scared. He's so scared. He's apparently willing to risk getting sent away from this cushy facility and back to Supermax. As I mull things over, I dart after the man. Dr. Orton dodges around her desk and starts messing with the drawer. Her eyes are so wide with fright that those entrenching wrinkles are nowhere to be seen. Lemus angles toward her, hands stretched out, fingers hooked in anticipation of gripping her throat. Whatever she's got in the drawer will do her no good if she can't get the thing out. She's still trying to open it as Lemus closes in. But before his fingers can touch her, I whip my cuffed hands over his head and yanked back,

the cold steel digging into his throat. Lemus is a big guy, bigger than me. I'm sure he earned his little gang the hard way, so I do the only thing I can. I'd plant my forearms against his shoulder blades for leverage, and then jump my legs up, wrapping them around his waist from behind. My prison slippers fly off in the process. Choking, he reaches for my face, but I keep out of his grasp, which is easy, thanks of the cuffs he's wearing. Cooley and Vance show up just as I feel Lemus's windpipe collapse

with a sound like biting into a Rice Crispy's treat. They can do nothing as we topple over. The thin carpet does little to cushion my fall, but now I'm past the point of no return. If I let Lemus live, he'll have one of his boys shank me in the shower. Probably should have thought through this a little more, or maybe I'll be going back to Supermax. Let him go! Vance cries, grabbing my left wrist and pulling it, trying to ease. the tension. I keep my forearms pressed against the inmates back, maintaining leverage. Coolly produces his baton and whips it to its full length. Leimus's throat crunches once more. Twice. I relax, raising my hands and surrender before Coolly can swing the baton at my head.

Lemus writhes, suffocating. Vance, drags me out from under the dying man, flips me over, and kneels on my back. Coolly calls for medical help, but I know it's too late. Dr. Orton comes over, staring down at the man. Then she looks at me. Twisting my head to meet her gaze, I wink. How about that session, Doc? You're quite comfortable with violence, I take it. Dr. Orton asks.

I shrug. Only when I'm inflicting it on someone who deserves it. It's hours later. Lemus is dead. The doctor has regained her composure. I'm still in cuffs, but this time they're attached to a belt around my waist, which, in turn, is attached to leg shackles.

This makes it difficult to drink from the bottle of power aid Dr. Orton has graciously given me. But since I'm sitting on the couch, I can still manage to lift the bottle to my mouth, despite the restraints. Orton squints at me, deepening her wrinkles. You aren't originally serving a life sentence, is that correct? Yeah, that's right.

It was supposed to be five years for assaulting this guy who was beating on his wife, but then, well, prison happened. And you killed another inmate. In self-defense? That's not how the guards saw it, Mr. Dotson. They say that you kept stabbing him, even after you knocked him unconscious. Like I said, self-defense.

If I let him live, he would have found a way to get me eventually. I pause, squinting right back at her. I bet you're sensing a pattern. She studies me for a moment. What would you say your biggest first? fears are, Mr. Dodson. Vivid images from a recurring nightmare flashed to mind. Curly, colorful hair, powdery white flesh, blood red lips, chubby limbs, cloudy eyes. Suppressing a shiver, I shove the images away and take another gulp of the blue drink. It's made all the more delicious

by the fact that inmates don't normally get anything other than water. I guess I don't really have any fears, Doc. Everyone has fears. I shrug again. None come to mind. Orton resumed squinting. She says nothing for a few long moments. I take another drink. You lived in Cincinnati from 2016 to 2022, right? For the first time in a long time,

my heart rate accelerates enough to make me feel sick. Not even when I was killing Lemus did my pulse rise this much. I clear my throat. I lived there for most of my life, aside from a few years here and there. Orton's gaze doesn't waver. Does she know? Yes. And that includes the years 2016 to 2022, correct? Yeah? Why do you ask? She inhales sharply and stands up.

I want to show you something. After taking my drink and setting it aside, she moves to a door I've never been through before. I figured it led to a bathroom, but now I'm guessing otherwise. She waits, hand on the knob, peering at me. As I stand, a wave of dizziness sweeps into my head. I sway, blinking. Wow. You okay? Yeah, just stood up too fast. Orton opens the door and ushers me into the dark room. It's more of a closet, really. There's a single chair and some sort of curtain hanging up, just a few feet past it. A plastic curtain.

Still feeling lightheaded, I take a moment to collect myself. Then I turn to ask Orton what we're doing. in here, catching a glimpse of one eye, and it's accompanying wrinkles as she shuts the door. My reaction time is delayed, so it takes me a moment to realize I'm standing alone in a dark room. I move to the door and knock. Doctor? What's going on? Did you drug me with the power aid? Just take a seat, Mr. Dodson, she says, voice coming through a speaker I can't see. A light recessed in the ceiling comes on. I turn to survey the room. My first impressions were correct.

There's nothing in here but a chair and an opaque, tan-colored shower curtain, which I can now see is lined up against one wall. What's going on? I ask again. This time, there's no answer. I move over and lift one edge of the shower curtain, verifying there's only brick behind it. No hidden door. Still feeling lightheaded, I take a seat and stare at the shower curtain. Saved your life, I mutter. That guy would have killed you. My head starts to dip, eyelids feeling like they're filling with sand, growing heavier and heavier. I don't exactly fall asleep, but I get close, until I hear plastic rustling as something moves the shower curtain.

The light is now off, but somehow illumination is coming from behind the curtain, a pale orange glow. At the bottom of the curtain, I see a silhouette that's maybe a foot tall. It's a little more than a blob of shadows could be anything. But whatever it is, it's pressed up against the curtain, bulging it out toward me. Then I see a small hand appear, palm pressed against the floor, pale, chubby fingers barely big enough to grip my finger, plump wrist. A high-pitched laugh issues from the figure, sounding partly artificial and fully insane. Terror sighs through me, obliterating the residual groginess from the drugs. I jerked to a standing position, but as I turned toward the door, a bullet

of dizziness hits my head. Unable to stay upright, I sway and then topple toward the shower curtain. With the chains and shackles, it's nearly impossible for me to break my fall, so I hit the floor hard on one shoulder. The plastic crinkles more. I peer up, seeing that a matching hand has joined the first. Then more silhouettes appear, accompanied by the sounds of tiny palms slapping the floor. At least a dozen distinct shadow stretch and pulse as the baby scuttle toward me. toward the shower curtain. More sickening laughter, joyous only in its cruelty. The first infant eases forward, and the curtain comes up to reveal his face, and the face I gave him. The snow-white pancake makeup coating his cherubic features, the bright red smile smeared across his lips and

cheeks, the blue diamonds over his eyes, and, finally, the neon orange wig glued to his little scalp. Screaming, I jerk myself up onto my knees. Then the rest of them arrive at the curtain, crawling on hands and knees, all wearing similar makeup. Each has a sneering, cloudy-eyed stare filled with rage, an expression that seems so wrong on a baby's face, and made even more discordant by the clown makeup. They scuttle forward as I get to my feet. Some are dressed in onesies, some only wearing diapers. Their skin is blue-green from a dearth of blood flow. I reached the door and bang on it, shouting to be let out. My movement's awkward because of my shackled wrists. The clown babies reach me. They crawl up my legs, cackling maniacly. My throat closes as an

implacable sense of jittering panic spreads through me like poison injected into my bloodstream. A foul my asthma of rotting flesh, soiled diapers and baby powder jams itself up my nose. Whipping away from the door in a screaming frenzy, I try to shake the babies off, but their tiny fists grip my jumpsuit with all the strength of death's inevitable embrace. I smash myself into the walls, trying to knock them off. They tumble to the floor, their laughter unceasing, even as they strike the hard surface. As I'm trying to get the last ones off me, I plunge through the shower curtain, barely noticing as I reach down and grip the dead infant, clinging to one pant leg. It's only when I tossed the child aside that I realize I'm no longer in that tiny room.

I sense that this room is much larger, although I can't see the walls or ceiling. I'm standing in a circle of light, cast from a single. bulb overhead. Peering around, I realized the infants are all gone. Their laughter has stopped. Swallowing, I relax a little, catching my breath. Even if someone had asked me back then, I couldn't have said why I painted clown makeup on them after they went still. Only that it was something I had to do, felt compelled to do. Traditional media refused to give me a name, despite their almost gleeful propensity for naming other killers. Maybe because, what I was doing was so heinous they felt a name would cheapen it. But the internet gave me plenty.

Bozo the baby killer, infanticide the clown, the Buckeye baby butcher, monster, demon, depraved sicko. And they never caught me. When I was scoping out what was supposed to be my next tiny victim, I heard the newborn's parents fighting. As I started to slink away, I heard the man hit the woman. A new compulsion arose in me, as unrelenting as the urge to make clown baby. I broke into the trailer home and assaulted the man. I would have killed him if the woman hadn't stopped me. The police had already been called, and they picked me up before I'd even reached my car. But even since I was only doing recon and didn't have any makeup on me, they never put it together, never even suspected that I was Bozo the baby killer. It's what landed me in prison.

It was only supposed to be for five years, three with good behavior. One thing led to another, stabbed a man to death with his own shank, which earned me a life sentence. And I'll surely get another one for Lemus. But right now, none of that matters. What matters is the insanity I'm currently experiencing. It's the drugs she put in my power aid, has to be. This isn't real, no way. Footsteps down from the darkness, I look in that direction, unable to see anything. But at least it's not the slap of tiny palms on the floor. At least, there's no insane clown laughter. Another set of footsteps coming from the opposite direction, I realize I can't see the shower curtain any longer. Dr. Orton? No answer. A man in an orange jumpsuit comes near. At first, all I can

see are his legs. Then his waist, the sleeves of his jumpsuit tied around his hips. And then his white tank top. But it's not all white. It's stained with blood from dozens of stab wounds. I know who it is before I see his face. Beck, the man I killed. He stops just inside the circle. His face painted like a clowns. I shake my head. I didn't do that. The other footsteps grow closer. I turn that way to see Lemus step into the light. Throat collapsed, clown makeup on his face. His lips seemed to wriggle under the blood-red makeup, worms squirming as though they're trying to escape his face. I don't care, I mutter, trying to stand tall, to tell myself they deserved what they got. But my stampeding heart tells me I do care. Then the laughter starts. Not from Beck or Lemus. This is clown baby laughter, from all around.

The light suddenly expands, illuminating the walls, which are constructed entirely of clown babies stacked on each other like firewood, their bulbous heads facing toward me as they laugh. The walls close in. Lemus and Beck do the same. That jittering panic returns, escalating to mind-shreading terror in a matter of moments. Toothbrush shivs dart out of Beck's wounds, sharp side out, before retreating back in.

Like burrowing critters in a whack-a-mole game. He spreads his arms as if he wants a hug. The shives, snick, in and out, in and out. A wine escapes me as I spin around. Lemus is right there! Mouth forced impossibly wide by the throng of earthworms protruding from it, each one with a tiny cruel clown face at its head. Before I can jerk away, Leemis pulls me to him.

The worms writhe against my face, squirming. into my mouth, up my nose, between my eyelids. Screaming and choking, I manage to shove him aside. But now the walls are mere feet away, clown babies cackling. But there's a break in them, a shower curtain over a gap in one wall. I dart through it, back into the tiny room. Once again, I crash into the door, banging on it, screaming to be let out. I'll admit it. I'll tell you everything you want to know. I'll write a confession. This isn't about getting you to admit anything. Dr. Horton says from that unseen speech, speaker. This, Mr. Dotson, is about one thing and one thing only. Punishment.

No. I whine, banging weakly on the door. Please. Then the door shifts. It's no longer a door. It's a wall of clown babies. I jerk away, but they're everywhere again, all around. The walls flex inward, angling toward me. Then they break apart as they collapse, and the clown babies force me to the floor, covering me, smothering me, just like I did to them. SCP 1602 is a plastic shower curtain. When spread, and placed in a room with a single human subject, it will enter its active state, and an extra-dimensional space containing SCP-602-A will be generated behind the curtain. Pre-test counseling sessions conducted with D-class subjects have shown that instances of

SCP-602-A take on forms that are representative of subjects, fears, or insecurities. The entities will eventually entice or physically force the subject through the curtain. In roughly 10% of tests conducted with D-Class personnel, the captured subject re-emerged from behind SCP-602 with no memory of their abduction, but in a state of constant agitation and panic that, so far, seems permanent. In the remaining tests, subjects did not return. Thanks for listening. Be sure to click that follow button with all notifications on

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