The SCP Experience - Can't Wake Up | SCP-838

Episode Date: February 9, 2022

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-838: Can't Wake Up Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-838, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drscp #scp #scpfoundation #doctorscp #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Oh, that also. And profite. Viaray, the voice that we love. The man sitting opposite me slid a newspaper across the table. The classified section facing up. Near the bottom right corner of the paper was a red circle around a single help one.

added ad. Mr. Delaney, the guy across from me said, this is the ad for which we will pay you to respond. He wore a khaki suit and had the frazzled look that I associated with professors. And the way he spoke simply reinforced the notion. I looked down at the classified ad, reading it quickly, then back up at the man. Are you a professor? I asked. No, Mr. Delaney. He said, a professorly tone. I am a doctor, though. As he said this, he lifted up the little badge clipped to a suit jacket.

Sure enough, under a picture of him, there was his name, Dr. Robert Bircham. Close enough, I said, smiling to myself. The doc smirked, and I got the hint. All right, I continued. How much are you going to pay me? The posting online said 300 bucks. That's correct, Mr. Delaney. We'll...

Just call me, Chuck, I said, getting tired of the Mr. Crab. The doc smiled before continuing. As I was saying, we'll pay you the initial 300, and then, if you're offered the job, we'll pay you an additional 300 a week for as long as the experiment goes. Whoa, I said, for as long as it goes. I got another job, man. I can't be coming here every day. No, Mr.

Chuck. You will only need to come in once a week on Saturday. The rest of the experiment simply requires that you write down your dreams upon waking in as much detail as you can. Oh, I said. Okay.

I thought it was a weird experiment. What does applying for a job have to do with your dreams? I wasn't about to be. point that out, though. An extra 300 is an extra 300, no matter which side of your bread you butter. And what if they offer me the job? I asked. Like I said, I already... I understand, Chuck. Dr. Bircham said, if you are offered the job, you'll need to accept it. But you won't have to do anything else. You'll still have your days free for your other job. Okay, I said, skeptic. Well, if that's the case, you have yourself a deal.

Great, Bertram said, leaning over in his chair and grabbing something from his briefcase on the floor. Why don't you call the number now on speaker? And I'll record it. Then, we'll send you on your way with your $300. You got it, I said, pulling out my phone and dialing the number on the classified ad. I waited until Bircham had his little digital recorder set up before I hit the call button and then the speaker button. The line started ringing after a couple of seconds. Pallas Incorporated, a female voice said through the phone.

This is Jenny with human resources. How can I help you? Hi, Jenny, I said, giving a thumbs up to Dr. Bircham. My name is Charles Delaney. I saw your ad in the newspaper about the janitorial job. I'd like to apply, please. Hello, Mr. Delaney. Jenny said. That's great.

Give me just one second. The line went quiet for a few moments, and I assumed she had put me on hold. Mr. Delaney, are you still there? Jenny said. Yes, I'm still here. Great. We would love to interview you. Someone will be in contact for the interview process.

Okay, I said. Do you need an interview? anything for me? Phone number or email address or anything? We have all we need, Jenny said. Thank you, sir. Have a wonderful day. I ended the call. Well, that was easy, I said. Yes, Bertram said.

Now remember, starting tomorrow, you'll need to write down your dreams in as much detail as possible. My assistant, Sean, out front, will give you the relevant information and the $300. Give me a call to let me know if you got the job. If so, we'll plan on meeting here again next Saturday. Same time. Sound good? Sure thing, Doc, I said. Easiest 300 I ever made.

I got my money in the small folder with the contact information and instructions in writing before heading home. It was Saturday, and I was planning on having a few beers, watching a movie, and passing out on the count. And with a fresh 300 in my pocket, I'd go for the expensive beers. My night went exactly as I planned, and sometime around midnight, I fell asleep. I woke up the next morning with a headache and the memories of an extremely vivid dream. As Sunday morning turned into Sunday afternoon, my headache cleared, but the memory of the dream stuck with me.

Finally, I picked up my phone and called Dr. Bircham. You knew this would happen? I asked him as soon as he said hello, he asked. I had a dream last night where I interviewed at that place. Pellis, it was so real. They offered me the job and I took it, just like you said. But how? I don't get it, Doc, and I don't like it.

I hypothesized that this might happen, Dr. Bircham said in a calm voice. This is why we're doing the experiment, This is important. Besides, would you have believed me if I had told you they'd be contacting you in your dreams? I considered this for a moment before answering. Hell no. I'd have laughed in your face. Exactly. Which is why we do it the way we do. Now, did you write everything down? No, not yet, I said.

Please, write it down now. Everything you can remember. And don't worry about it. I assure you, this is completely safe. And you'll be making another 300 for doing nothing, but going to sleep and writing your dreams down the next day. Fine, I said, thinking about how much I could use the money. But this is weird. I just wanted to put that on the record.

Duly noted, Mr. Delaney. Now please, write it down. I wrote the dream down. like I was told. Sunday night came around, and I fell asleep shortly after midnight. I found myself in an institutional gray office building, wearing blue coveralls with a name tag on the chest and a mop in my hand. I dreamed of mopping floors, emptying trash cans, cleaning bathrooms, and vacuuming the thin, padless carpet in the offices. After the initial shock of having my dreams invaded, it was all pretty boring.

Dreams were vivid, but they weren't strange in any way. They were excruciatingly normal. All I did was clean until I woke up. The week went on like this. I would dream of cleaning, wake up, write it down, and then head off to my real job doing data entry. That is until Friday night came around. It was technically Saturday when I finally went to bed,

and the dream I had was spectacular. I was flying around like Superman, fighting bad guys and saving the world from comments. Everyone cheered me on, and I felt invincible. And I remembered every second when I woke up, almost like I had actually lived it instead of dreaming it. I told Dr. Bircham about all this when we met Saturday afternoon. Those are the payments for your week's work, he said.

You'll probably have another great dream tonight. Then, once 12 a.m. on Monday comes around, it's back to the grindstone. Yeah, wow, I said. I didn't think of that. This is one wild experiment. This went on for a month, cleaning in my sleep five nights a week

and then having the best dreams of my life on the weekends. The weeknights were pretty boring, but the weekends made up for it. Plus, I was making an extra 300 every week. But then everything changed. I got a call from my sister in Florida with terrible news. My dad had died. The world closed in on me, and the dreams took a back seat to everything else.

I booked travel arrangements down to Florida immediately, selecting a red-eye flight direct from Chicago. I called my real job and told them what happened, and they told me to take all the time I needed. I also called the doc, and he reminded me to keep up with the job. me to keep up with the experiment while I was gone. When I finally got settled into my seat for the flight,

it was nearly two in the morning. Once the plane was in the air, I fell asleep. You're late. The janitorial supervisor, a burly guy named Harry Collins, said in my dream. What? I said, looking around one of the main halls of Pellis Incorporated. You were supposed to be here two hours ago, Harry said. You're kidding, right?

I said. My dad died. Harry shook his head and crossed his arms. I'm sorry, but that doesn't change the fact that you have a job to do. If you can't do it, tell me now. I'll find someone else. Fine, I said, turning around to find the door. I realized I'd never actually seen any doors leading out of the building,

or any windows for that matter. How the hell do I get out of here? I asked Harry. Are you quitting? he said. Yes. What the fuck does it look like? You can't give a guy a break even when his dad dies?

You can leave, but you need to tell me that you're quitting first. Harry said. His arm still crossed. What the hell did I just say? I quit. I quit. I quit. Is that good enough?

Okay. Harry said. Go then. He pointed over my shoulder. I turned around to see that a pair of doors had appeared at the end of the hallway, where a wall had been moments earlier. I stormed to the doors, throwing them open, and stepping out into six inches of snow and a blowing blizzard.

What the hell? I said, hugging myself for warmth. I was in some sort of city center, with buildings all around, but no people that I could see. Everyone else had the sense to stay inside during this blizzard, I guessed. Screw this, I said, turning around to gather myself back in the warmth of the palace, building. A blank concrete wall faced me. No doors. They were gone. Hey! I shouted. Let me back in.

I banged on the wall and walked around the whole building, but found no entrance, not even a window. Sir? A voice asked. Sir, I need to use the restroom. I woke up in my aisle seat on the plane, still shivering from the cold. The woman next to me was looking at me. Sorry to wake you. she said. But I need to use the restroom. Oh, right, I said, unbuckling and standing up so she could get out. The relative warmth of the plane was like heaven after the freezing winter wasteland outside of the strange palace building.

I shrugged it off, going the rest of the flight without sleeping. In fact, I didn't sleep again until the next night, after a long day of visiting with friends and family, soaking up the terrible shock of my. Father's death. Lazangue surgelley, puissance-moyane for 15 minutes. We're saying

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Depos minimum of $10. Veal each way I'm in a fashion responsible. The conditions apply. As soon as I fell asleep again, I found myself in the snowy landscape I'd left nearly 24 hours earlier. Only things were a little different now. There wasn't a blizzard anymore.

There was only snow on the ground. Night in this dream city was quiet and nothing was open. No restaurants, no homeless shelters, and nowhere to sleep, but a dank alleyway. nothing to keep me warm but an old ratty blanket that I found in a dumpster. When I awoke in the morning in the guest bedroom of my parents' house,

I couldn't help but cry with relief. Eight hours in the frigid cold was more than I could handle. I decided to try to sleep as little as possible until I could get back to Chicago and talk to Dr. Bircham about it. So by the time my dad's funeral was over and done with three days later, I could barely keep my eyes open. My flight back to Chicago was in the middle of the day, and I fell asleep almost immediately, despite my best efforts to stay awake.

I found myself in that same dank, freezing alley. But now there was someone else there, another man. Excuse me, I said to him, looking at his head where it stuck out of a large cardboard box across the alley from me. Is there no homeless shelter around here? He opened his red eyes at my question. a move that seemed to cause an immense pain. You must be new here, you poor bastard, he said. Let me guess.

You answered an ad in the paper. Got a weird job you only did in your sleep, but then you lost it. I quit, I said with a hint of pride. No difference, the man said. The only ones that end up on the street in this place are the ones who quit or get fired. I've been on these streets every night for years. You don't know how to make it stop? I asked, bundling myself further in the damp blanket. Have you tried to get your job back or get another one?

It doesn't work, kid. I've tried it all. So, what do you do? Just come here every night? I asked. Unable to see how I could come to this place every night for the rest of my life. It's the only thing you can do. unless you want to kill yourself, that is. One guy I met in here, we met in real life, figured we could get out of this together. The old two heads are better than one thing, right?

But we worked at it for years and never found a solution. But at least we had company here. We'd meet here every night and talk the cold away, if such a thing is possible, because it's never summer here, always winter. Then, one day, I went to sleep, and he wasn't here. Next day, I found out that he put a bullet in his brain. Couldn't take it anymore.

But that's not me, kid. I got a family on the outside. I can't leave them behind, no matter how bad it is here. Jesus! An elbow to the ribs woke me up on the plane. The man next to me gave me a sheepish grin and said he was sorry. Thank you, I said. He gave me a strange love.

but I was really thankful that he woke me up. I spent the rest of the flight thinking about suicide. How I would do it, whether it would be worth it, how long I could continue living if I had to go to that place every night. I started considering doing speed or meth to keep me up, or narcotics to keep me from dreaming. I'd have to sleep eventually, though, I knew that much. I walked like a zombie off the plane into O'Hare Air Air. The hour or so of sleep I'd gotten on the plane wasn't nearly enough to energize me, and I waited for my baggage in a stayed halfway between a sleep and awake. I managed to make it back to my car in long-term parking with no problem.

As I sat behind the wheel, I slapped my face a few times to wake up, then started on my way home. I drove out of the airport, the air conditioner blasting cold air to keep me awake. Then I was suddenly in the alley again, wrapped in my pitiful blanket. I looked around in panic, realizing that I had fallen asleep driving. I slapped my face and slammed my head into the wall. But it didn't wake me up. What did wake me up was the blaring of a semi-truck's horn.

I jerked my eyes open, the truck's headlights blinding me. It squealing breaks my own personal swan song. I yanked the wheel to the right, but it was too late. I hit the truck going nearly 50 miles an hour. The impact snapped my head sideways, smashing it into the door frame. The next thing I knew, I was back in the frigid alley. My damp blanket pulled tight around my shoulders, but providing no real protection from the cold. At first I thought I'd simply been knocked unconscious, but I know that's not the case now.

The days, if they can even be called days, drag on, and I never wake up. The only thing that makes sense is a coma. I'm being kept alive by machines. My mother and sister holding out hope for my recovery without knowing they've locked me in a prison where the sun never shines and it's always cold. A place where I can never get a job or sleep in a bed or eat a proper meal.

But that's not the worst of it. There are rats here, thousands of them. They started coming after me when they realized I couldn't leave. They gnaw at me, tearing my freezing flesh apart, but I never die. I can't even talk to others like me, because the rats keep them away. I spend my days praying for death, but I can't die. Not here. And that's all I want now.

I want to wake up, but not to live my normal life. I want to wake up so I can finish the job, so I can end it all and escape this wretched existence. But I can't wake up. I'm trapped here. And if there's one thing I wish for more than death, it's that I'd never taken that fucking job. SCP 838 is the collective term for a series of job ads appearing in newspapers that print in the Chicago area

and whatever agency is behind them. The job offered varies between instances and has included positions in accounting, management, and janitorial work, among others. Attempts to trace these classifieds have proven unsuccessful. The next time a person who has responded to SCP 838 falls asleep, he or she immediately enters REM sleep. Upon awakening, the affected individuals report experiencing extremely vivid dreams

of having had a job interview for the advertised job in a large, windowless office building at a company called Pellis, Inc. Subjects deemed qualified are offered a job. Anyone hired by Pellis Inc. is to be considered part of SCP 838-1. Those not offer jobs are unaffected. When members of SCP 838-1 sleep during the week, they report vivid dreams of working the Pellis Inc. building. Testing has shown that communication while asleep

between members of SCP 838-1 is possible, indicating some degree of connectedness between the dreams. During the weekend, members of SCP 838-1 experience good dreams. Though the exact nature of these dreams varies greatly between individuals, they are universally reported to be highly enjoyable. This effect appears to be payment for the work done during the week, as persons with higher-ranking positions generally seem to report better dreams than those in lower-ranking ones.