The SCP Experience - Dr. Demento's Insane Asylum | SCP-3054

Episode Date: June 10, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-3054: Dr. Demento's Insane Asylum This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-3054 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt D. * * * 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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small amount of GLEA Gini Pigs. Cowering under a syringe filled with tuberculosis. Monkeys going under the knife to test brain link, or whatever the hell that technology is called. The guy in the two large orange jumpsuit standing next to me shivers as I talk to him.

We're standing outside the fence surrounding a crumbling Gothic insane asylum from back when those were still a thing. Fog floats around, reducing the afternoon sunlight to a weak parody of itself. Thick walls of pine tree stand half obscured by the fog, like Homer's Sampson disappearing into the hedge from that one meme famous episode. Behind us, two other suckers wearing orange jumpsuits stand transfixed by the imposing structure. A couple of heavily armed guards stand watch, making sure we don't flee,

while the scientists take their sweet-ass time getting their shit together at the vehicles arrayed behind us. God damn scientists. The shivering guy to my left must be in his early 20s, and I briefly wonder what kind of messed up shit he had to do to end up here. Or maybe he's innocent, I think. The notion provokes a donkey-like laugh that brushes out of my mouth before I can think to stop it. That happens to me a lot. My thoughts are too slow much of the time.

Too slow for my knee-jerk reactions. Like part of my brain is always always, was one step ahead of the rest of it. It's a blessing in disguise. The fuck is wrong with you, the guy says. Why are you laughing? What the hell else am I going to do? I say. Cry? Nah. I prefer to laugh while I still have the breath to do it. You'll do well to follow my lead, chappy. The guy whose name I don't know looks at me with bulging brown eyes and then turns his gaze back toward the abandoned asylum.

They're sending us in there, but why? For shits and giggles, I say. Because that's what scientists do. They like to watch other people suffer, animals too. Remember I told you about the rats, the guinea pigs, and the monkeys? You've got to learn to listen, Chappie. It might make you happy. I lose another bray of laughter, but I can see I'm not getting through to Chappie.

My words aren't a comfort to him. Sometimes I have trouble reading other people. Sometimes I say the wrong things to them. Even though I'm trying to say the right things. Sometimes I feel a little crazy. All right, gentlemen, scientist one says. Open the gate and send them in. Chappie tenses and turns to bolt.

To try for the far off wall of pine trees. I grab his arm to keep him from going. Don't do it, Chappie, I whisper. They'll shoot you in the back. I've seen it happen. Best to take your chances inside. You're crazy, Chappie says.

Eyes bulging as though they might pop out of their sockets. I shrug, still gripping his thin arm. Yeah, but you know how many of these little excursions I've survived? He shakes his head. Nine, I say. Nine of them. So I'm saying, little guinea pig, that your chances are just as good as mine,

better than getting a couple of slugs and the back. I can feel two of the guards watching us, waiting, hoping that Chappie will bolt so they can practice on a live target. But I feel the urge to run leave the guy's body as he absorbs my words like a good little sponge. With a momentary drama over, one guard unlocks the gate and waves the four of us inside. There's three men, me, Chappie, and a guy I've nicknamed Sly because he looks like a more haggard. less juiced up version of Sylvester Stallone. The one woman with us has attached herself to Sly.

Maybe she's a big Rocky fan. So I've named her, Adrian. The scientists and guards only call us by our numbers. But I've never been good at remembering numbers, or real names for that matter. It's just easier for me to go by the names I invent for people. Scientist One gave us the whole spiel on the way over. But I'm an old hat at this by now,

and I kind of dozed during the thing. Now, I finger the small wireless camera sewn into the lining of my jumpsuit, and then I press the radio earpiece snugly into my right ear. I lead the way while the others dragged their feet. I've never seen any sense in putting things off. Whatever will be will be, okay sarah, sarah, as the old song goes. But as I reach the top of the stone steps

and grab one large handle on the set of double doors, I glance back at the scientists, a raid on the other side of the game. They have their little mobile labs set up inside of what is essentially a fancy RV. But two researchers stand outside and watch us. One of them, an old man with a bird's nest of white hair and a bushy gray beard, meets my eyes. His is the one name I know as well as my own, despite only having known him for a few years. He's Nicholas Beckwith, and he's part of Wyon's. still alive. We've gotten so close, I just call him Haas, which is his nickname. After trauma bonding

on our first experiment together, we developed a friendship, and he was instrumental in getting me assigned to the less dangerous experiments, as well as keeping me in the facility as long as possible between excursions. He's like the father I never had, mostly because the father I did have was a psychotic meth head who liked to burn me with his torchlighters when he was really high. I whip a jaunty salute at the scientists, making it seem like it's really for all of them. When Beckwith knows it's my way of saying, So long, and thanks for all the fish. He nods once, which is about all he can manage without raising suspicion with stick-up-his-ass scientist one.

Beckwith has been careful not to telegraph our friendship, calling in favors behind the scenes and only with people he trusts. Apparently, the brass don't like researchers getting close to their experiment subjects. I face forward again and open the door, stepping into the lobby of the old place. The room is long and empty, with high windows letting in weak, fog-filtered sunlight. I can imagine a reception desk on one side and a cluster of seats on the other. ominous double doors face me from directly across the space. The floor between the two sets of doors is littered with paint chips and broken plaster and dust,

built up over the century or more that this place has been abandoned. Behind me, the other three jumpsuit-clad lab rats move uneasily into the space, one says in my ear. I know all the others have gotten the same transmission. I reach one hand out, put the middle finger up, and then reverse. I reverse it, so I'm flipping off the camera on my jumpsuit. Then I let out a maniacal laugh that bounces off the walls like a basketball full of 50-cent rubber balls. Let's find a fucking cheese, I say. And skip toward the set of double doors, determined to face whatever is on the other side of them with the same

fuck-you-very-much attitude. I've employed it as a coping mechanism since I was a child getting burned with tweaker torches. I shoved through the doors. I'm able to help myself from crying out as two burly men in classic white, orderly uniforms grabbed me by the arms. It's like they were waiting for me to come through the doors, because they don't hesitate, securing me and dragging me down the hall, which I notice isn't in disrepair like the lobby. The puke green floor is shiny, although a little worn in some places. The institutional gray walls aren't cracked or fading.

They're glossy from a coat of paint that can't be more than safe. months old. What the hell is this? I say, struggling feebly against the much larger men. I glance back as the double doors are swinging closed, and I see a well-tended lobby, with a reception desk on one side, complete with a prim female receptionist, and a cluster of seats on the other. I don't see Chappie, I don't see Sly or Adrian.

But I do see a youngish doctor with a clipboard in one hand. He wears a skinny tie over a starched, white shirt. Over that, he wears a white lab coat. His head is tilted down slightly, and he's glaring at me from under his eyebrows. His green eyes are full of guile. His faint smile makes a weak the out of his mouth, the shape only bolstered by his sharp chin. Then the door is shut, and I'm dragged down the hall and thrown into a room. The door is slammed and locked. My sense of direction tells me that the tiny, barred window doesn't face toward the front of the facility. But I go to it anyway, looking out.

I see nothing but fogged in pine trees, a formidable-looking fence, and an exercise yard where a dozen people wander around like zombies, dressed in pajamas and gaping dumbly, oblivious of their surroundings. Might not make it out of this one, I say to myself. And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like laughing. Door to my little room opens, startling me out of an uneasy sleep.

It's the middle of the night as far as I can tell, and I've spent the last several hours trying to contact the scientists with the earpiece still in my ear. Once, I heard a faint transmission with Beckwith's voice, but it was so faint and garbled that I've come to believe it was just wishful thinking. Sitting up on the thin mattress,

I looked toward the open door and see a doctor standing there between two different orderlies. He has that same tilt to his head, that same V-shaped smile above his sharp chin. He even has a clipboard in one hand. My name is Dr. Demento, and it's time to cure you, he says. I'd rather stay crazy, I say, stretching back out on the bed and closing my eyes.

Footsteps rush into the room. Rough hands grab me. An elbow crashes into my face. as I'm pulled up. My left eyebrow splits and blood pours down into my eye, forcing me to close it as the orderlies drag me out of the room. The four of us get in a rickety elevator, which starts a lurching descent into the depths of the asylum. I still have my earpiece in, and suddenly it crackles to life. I raised my head, surprised. Loud and clear, hoss, I say. Shut up, one orderly says.

at me, shakes his head, and then scribbles something on his ever-present clipboard. Quith asks. In the asylum, I say. They got me, hoss. And I don't know what they're going to do to me, but I got a feeling it won't be pleasant. I said, shut up, the orderly says, punching me in the left ear, the one without the radio transmitter. Motherfucker! I say, you hit me in the ear.

Ow! Christ, why the ear, man? If you don't shut your mouth. Wait, Dr. Demento says. Let him talk. Who are you talking to? My good friend, Nicholas Beckwith. I say through clenched teeth. He's outside, and he's going to come in here and rescue me.

You just watch, asshole, Demento says. Very interesting delusion. He scribbles more on his clipboard, Beckwith says in my ear. Well, have you looked back in time? Because I got a feeling it's not so much where. But when I'm in the asylum? There's silence from Beckwith as the elevator continues its descent. Then it lurches to a stop, and Demento opens the door.

We step out into a damp stone passageway with pools of weak light, illuminating dark, moss-coated walls. A horrific scream erupts from down the hall, echoing off the walls and making me wince, Beckwith says. I have to be more specific, I say as the orderlies drag me down. down the dreary hall. I don't do numbers, remember? Oh, Chappie?

No, I ain't seen him. Did he disappear too? You think that's why it took us? But not the others? I ask. Well, shit, hoss. I don't know. I stop speaking as we come to a room.

And I see Chappie inside. Demento gestures for us to wait as he steps inside and walks up to Chappie, who is strapped to a reclining chair that looks like some kind of ancient torture device. The top of the young man's skull has been removed, exposing raw, fragile brain matter. Situated above his brain is a complicated-looking apparatus, with thin metal appendages arcing down toward different parts of the exposed organ. Chappie's head is strapped down, and his eyes are held open. He looks at me and cries.

Help me! Help me! Then his eyes go to Demento, and he screams. Demento steps behind the chair, does something to the outside. apparatus. A blue-white bolt of electricity extends from one of the metal appendages and shocks part of Chappie's brain. Chappie screams again, but this time it's a more visceral, guttural scream that seems to penetrate my bones. Demento messes with the apparatus some more, and then he steps aside and stares at the thing, apparently immune to Chappie's continued screams. Another bolt of electricity shoots down from an appendage, shocking another.

part of the brain. Chappie's left eyeball pops like a grape with a firecracker shoved inside. The young man screams once more before passing out. Oh dear, Demento says. A bit too much power, perhaps. He steps again to the apparatus, messes with it, and then comes out into the hall. Okay, let's continue. I struggle against the two orderlies, trying with every ounce of my strength to get free, so I can attack Dement.

but it's no use. All it earns me as another couple of glows to the head until the good doctor tells them to aim for the body. By the time they're done beating on me, I'm swimming in a toxic pond of pain and despair. I barely notice as they strap me to a table in another dingy room. It's around this time that I realize Beckwith has been talking in my ear the whole time, repeating the same two sentences like a mantra,

and soon enough, I find I'm not sure how long has passed since I walked into the dilapidated asylum, but it has probably been four or five days. They've got me so drugged, I probably wouldn't even know if four or five months have passed. The last I heard from Beckwith was not long after the first operation Demento did on me. He sounded truly pissed as he told me over the radio that he didn't have permission to try and rescue me. Apparently, after reviewing the data scientist one presented, the O5 Council voted to allocate their resources to another SCP.

But he left me with one promise before they shut off the radio, he said. Don't worries, Haas. I said. There won't be much left to get, it was the last time we spoke. But I've kept the radio in my ear. I'm surprised Demento hasn't noticed it. He probably wouldn't know what to make it. of it even if he did. Because after I do what I'm about to do, I'll surely be killed. And I'm okay with

that. As long as I get to take Demento with me to hell, I'll be a happy, crappy camper. Right on time, Demento shows up to retrieve me. This time, there's only one orderly, because I'm not as much of a threat as I once was. I've been diminished. The orderly walks behind my wheelchair and pushes me toward the door as Demento steps aside, still wearing his demented, tilt-headed smile. I looked down at the place where my knee joints used to be. Now, there are only dirty, blood-stained bandages around the nubs where Demento cut my lower legs off. Similarly, my right arm ends a few inches below the elbow. I don't understand why he didn't just cut through the elbow joint. It probably would have been easier. But I have a feeling he left more

arm because he intends to take the rest of it piece by piece. Demento explained to me that he's testing a theory about curing mental illness through the removal of limbs. But it sounds like hoars-dooky to me. I think he just likes torturing people, and his weak justifications give him some small amount of self-importance. He's a demented freako, all right. And tonight, he's going to take my left arm, and I'm going to let him. Well, up to a point. I've given it a lot of thought since he took my right arm that first night.

I've thought about any other way I could kill him. I've even tried a few times, but he's careful. There's nothing that could be used as a weapon, at least not a good one. But I've studied him, and I've noticed that there is one time, and one time only,

when he lets his guard down. So I'm going to take advantage of it. Tonight. For the very first time, time since I arrived at this happy, crappy place, I feel like laughing. But I keep my donkey-like outburst from leaving my body with monumental effort. Until now, I've forgotten the very words I spoke to Chappie before we came into the asylum. I said, I prefer to laugh while I still have the breath to do it.

You'd do well to follow my lead, Chappie. I think of the young man as we ride down in the elevator. I haven't seen him since that first night, probably because. he's dead. But I've thought about him often. Should have let him run, I say to myself. A couple of bullets in the back would have been a better death. What's that? Demento asks. Nothing, doctor, I say with a cross-eyed smile. Demento furrows his brow and writes something on his clipboard. Down in the operating room, the orderly straps me in. Even my leg nubs are strapped down tight, making them bleed a little

more into their rancid bandages. My left arm is strapped down at the wrist. A tourniquet is placed just above my elbow. Demento steps over to me with a handheld bone saw held ready. Like every other time, I wish I'd been transported to a time after electric saws were invented. But for all I know, they have been, and Demento just prefers the old-school method of chopping off limbs. He smiles at me from behind his cloth, surgical mask, and then leans to down. The sharp teeth of the saw slice easily through the flesh of my forearm, but I don't scream, not this time. I simply watch. Soon, this unnerves Demento, and he looks up at me as he works, splattered in my blood. I just return his gaze flatly, showing as little emotion as possible.

This feat is only achievable because of how my father used to torture me with his meth lighters when I was a child. My father lost interest in torturing me when I learned to stop reacting to the pain of the torch, sizzling my flesh. Looking back on it, I should have killed my father back then when I was still a teenager. Maybe I wouldn't have received life in prison, which is what ultimately got me hooked up with the SCP Foundation. But I had to wait and kill him when I was 25. I just had to wait. Story of my sweat springs up on Dementos' four. forehead as he works. I can feel the teeth cutting into the bones of my forearm, and I close my eyes waiting for the right moment. Thankful there's not a strap around my upper arm.

Demento stands up straight, taking one of his breaks. He breathes heavily and looks down at his work. Almost done, he says to me. I smile up at him. As he leans back down to resume cutting, I yank my arm directly toward his face as hard and fast as as I can. The strap around my wrist holds that part of my arm down, and the sawed-through bones snap under the pressure, breaking my forearm in half backwards and creating two sharp bone splinters. The two parts of my arm are still attached by the flesh underneath the bones, but it tears easily as I lift the nub and jab those two bones splinters directly under Demento's

sharp chin. I pulled them out, unleashing a torrent of blood from Demento's body while the Terniquet keeps my blood loss to a dribble. He drops the bone saw and stumbles back, choking, sputtering and whimpering. The orderly, who has been sitting nearby reading a magazine, launches to his feet and races toward the good doctor. Now's the part where I die. I'm a quadruple amputee, and when the orderly realizes there's nothing to be done for Demento, he'll come finish me off.

Hell, all he'll have to do is release the tourniquet to let me bleed out. But he won't be able to stop the same. smile on my face, or the glee in my voice I shout, That's for chappie, you demented piece of human garbage. I followed this up with a brave, insane laughter. Demento goes limp in the orderly's arms, and pretty soon, his cruel green eyes are closed, and his V-shaped smile is nothing but a curved purple line above his stupid pointy chin.

Fury twisting his caveman features, the orderly stomps over to me. But just as he's about to inflict some horrible violence on me, the door to the room snows open. Nicholas Beckwith steps inside. Bird's nest of white hair perched atop his head, big gray beard fanned out over his chest. He's armed to the teeth, and he wears some kind of strange contraption on his chest, on which green lights blink in a seemingly random order. The orderly spins around. Who the fuck are you? He asks. Beckwith doesn't answer, but the shotgun in his left hand does, blowing the orderly's head all over the room.

The sight of Beckwith only makes me laugh harder. Boss, you made it. I say between bouts of shrieking laughter. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Beckwith says, stepping over the dead orderly's body to look at the state of me. Can you believe this happy crappy horse shit? I ask him. Let's get you out of here, Scruggs.

Yes. I say, chuckling. Let's! As Beckwith works, pulling wires from the contraption on his chest and attaching them to my body, I look at my nubs. Part of me wants to break down and cry about it. If anyone has ever had an excuse to cry, it's the guy who's had all his limbs chopped off by a mad doctor, without anesthetic. But then I think, once again, about the words I said to Chappie.

Cry? I said. Nah. I prefer to do. laugh while I still have the breath to do it. You'd do well to follow my lead, Chabby. So as Beckwith prepares to bring us back to the world we came from, my laughter grows louder. Pretty soon, Beckwith is smiling. And as he finishes up his preparations, we're both cackling like a couple of hysterical hyenas. SCP 3054 is an anomalous phenomenon which affects

patients interned in mental health facilities throughout North America. Under certain circumstances, unobserved patients will disappear. Anomalous paperwork will automatically generate, detailing a transfer to SCP 354-A for said patient. SCP 354-A is Craggstaff Sanitarium, an uninhabited psychiatric institute located in a forested region, 50 kilometers west of Hudson, North Carolina. As of now, there have been 912 disappearances associated with SCP 3054. However, due to a recent experiment, it has been discovered that any person with a documented history of mental illness may experience SCP 3054 while inside of Kragstaff Sanitarium.

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