The SCP Experience - Everyone Knows Vince—But Vince Isn’t a Man | SCP-1075

Episode Date: September 7, 2026

Two federal agents chase a routine missing-persons case into the aspen forest outside Pagosa Springs, Colorado — and find the whole town would rather they didn't ask questions about "Vince." What they discover changes everything they thought they knew about the man everyone loves, and why the woods have gone completely silent. Listen ad-free + get access to exclusive bonus stories with a 7-day FREE trial of⁠ ⁠SCP Premium⁠⁠ — Cancel anytime. No commitment. 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:  Jake Bible * * * 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've never been a fan of Colorado. I prefer the big city, skyscrapers, subways, and a real damn breakfast. The scrambled eggs are somehow runny and overcooked at the same time. I have to admit, though, that takes skill. Not hungry? Agent Manilow asks me. He points at my plate with his fork. If you aren't going to eat those, I slide my plate over to Manilow,

then relax against the surprisingly comfortable booth back. For a diner of this, quality. I was expecting cracked vinyl and duct tape on all the seats. I try to glance around without being obvious, but quickly realize we haven't exactly blended in. Eyes are on us from all angles of the diner. The guy at the counter, the woman with the three kids in the corner booth, the older couple at the two-top table by the front windows. Folks here in Pesoga Springs, Colorado are keeping tabs on the newcomers. I'm not sure if the forest service uniforms are helping or hurting. Stop staring, Manilus says around a mouth full of eggs. Just act normal. I think we're

too late for normal. They think we're feds. They don't know crap. We're both dressed like smoky bear. All they see is forest service. He gives me a stern look. And button it up, will you? Neither of us can afford another screw up. We got to sign this shit show because we have one more chance before we end up as lab assistants in Site 38. 38? No. They wouldn't. Would they? Manilow shrugs. Our waitress walks up and sets our bill down. Take it at the table or at the register. Whatever works for you. She starts to walk off, but I clear my throat and she pauses, raising an eyebrow at me.

Do you know Vincent Aspinson? What are you doing, Keyes? I wave away Manilow's question and smile big for the waitress. What about him? The waitress looks about, not worried exactly, but cautious. Vince. Why do you rangers always cause him so much trouble? We're not rangers, just forest service workers, Manilow says. Her eyes narrow, then she nods. Great. Then take my advice and leave Vince alone, alright? She walks off, headed to a table

with four young men looking to kill their hunger before they start their workday. Great job, Keys. Way to get the locals on our side. Me? What did I do? I was just asking a question. Maybe don't ask that question in the place we'll probably be eating every morning until we find Hollister and grieves. Just a suggestion. I sigh and rubbed my temples. Headache again? I nod. Dry willow bark.

I hear that helps. Bark? From a tree? Yeah. I think it's how aspirin was invented. From tree bark. Why don't I just take aspirin? He shrugs.

Sure, you can do that too. I think a more natural approach is better. More natural? Whatever. You're taking this forest surface thing too seriously. The guy at the counter is still staring at us. I give him a nod. It's like nodding at a statue, and when he doesn't respond,

I focus on the older couple by the window. They're staring at us too. Christ, Gies, just relax. Manilow finishes the eggs and pushes the plate away as he pats his belly. You can't beat the eggs at diners like these. Yes, yes, you can beat the eggs. Anyplace can. Those eggs were shit. Sorry, you felt that way, the waitress says, suddenly at my elbow. Can I get you any more shit, or are you all wiped? Manilow laughs.

All wiped, good one. I give him a whose side are you on, look, and he just smirks and dabbs at his mouth with his napkin. No, that'll be all. I say and fish out my credit card, setting it on the bill. The waitress takes the card and bill, walking off in a huff. I get a chance. chill. You don't think these people had anything to do with Hollister and Greaves's disappearances, do you? These people? Nah. I look around and notice everyone's still staring. I shake my head. The waitress brings my receipt back and plops that and my card on the table. Here, thanks for the fine eggs. Maniloh hands her a 10. She stares at it, then stuffs it into her apron and walks off. He laughs and stands up. Let's go, friend maker. I roll my eyes and follow. I

him out of the diner, very aware that we are being watched the entire time. I take a deep breath once we're outside in the brisk and bracing Colorado air. How is it chilly in early September? Summer is barely over. Stupid Colorado. I fold my arms around my chest. You get the feeling folks are protective of SCP 1075? Manilow turns to me and frowns. SCP 1075 is the effect keys.

We're here for SCP-175-1. The instance these folks call Vince. Right, the Aspen Trees. Yeah, the Aspen Trees. I study the small Main Street we're standing on. Quaint shops, small park in the square, a lot of beater pickups and even more Subarus. You'd never guess that the entire town is under the delusion,

that the Aspen Forest, just outside town, is actually a man named Vincent Aspinson. I chuckle. What's so funny? Aspinson. That's the guy's last name. And he's actually an Aspen Grove. Just a little on the nose. I guess. Manilow studies the square, then points to our car across the square. What the hell? He takes off, and I follow behind in a quick jog. When we get to our forest service green car, I stare at the four flat tires. What the hell? Manilow says again. He tips his smoky bear hat back and looks around.

Shit. One is an accident. Four is sabotage. I realize that, keys. Maybe we should call in some backup. Hollister and Greaves go missing, and now our tires are slashed. Before Manilow can answer, a bell dings. I look over, and a man is walking out of the outfitter's shop we're parked in front of.

Oh, well, you look at that. Can't just throw the spare on now, can you? Did you see who did this? Manalo snaps. Sorry, I was busy opening the story. And before you ask, the camera above my door is just for show. But I bet it's just some darn teenagers. Um, do you know a tow truck we can call?

I ask as Manilow circles our car. Oh yeah. Well, Billy is who you would call. But he's on a fishing trip. Sold him a new fly rod myself just the other day. Manolo gives me a look. I agree with the look. This is all off.

Great. We'll call the Ranger Station and get a new ride. Manolo growls. low. Oh, right. While we obviously aren't calling any rangers, we can't call the foundation either. Third strike, and we are out. I change tactics. Is there a car rental place in town? Here? In Pasoga Springs? The outfitter laughs. No, sorry. He looks back at the shop, looks back at us, then smiles. I'll tell you what. Let me lock up, and I'll play chauffeur for the day.

Give me a chance to chat with some real authentic forest service rangers. Not Rangers, just workers. Of course, just workers. Before either of us can object, he hurries back into his shop. The lights flick off, and then he's back outside, locking the door and jingling some keys at us. Let's go! Seriously, sir, we'll figure something out.

Don't you need to talk to Vince? Manilow and I look at each other without looking at each other. Vince? I ask. Vince and Aspinson. Word is, you're looking for him. Word travels fast. The outfitter shrugs. I can take you to him if you want, although you'd be better off talking to Charlotte first.

Charlotte? His girlfriend? Vince has a girlfriend? Another shared non-look between Manilow and me. Manilow nods, then glances about. Not a lot of options are presenting themselves, and we can't blow this assignment. Okay, yeah, a ride would be great. This way. The outfitter leads us.

around the block to an alley behind all the shops. There's an old Ford Bronco sitting by a dumpster. It happens to be Forest Service Green. Got it at auction. The outfitter says before either of us can ask. He hops in the driver's seat and waves at us. Well, come on. Get in. We do, both thinking the same thing. Manilow sits up front and I sit in the back. We barely have our seatbelts on before the the outfitter is tearing out of the alley and speeding through the square. Don't worry, he laughs. I know the sheriff. He never gives me a ticket. Great. Manilow glances at me over his shoulder.

So, you know, Vince? Oh, sure, I know him. Great guy. Always has been. Even with those unfortunate rumors swirling back a couple of years ago. I stiffen. The foundation had tried to turn the whole town of Posoga Springs against SCP-1075-1, a few years back. back by spreading rumors he'd assaulted folks. We thought the ploy had worked. Then Hollister and Greaves went missing. Oh?

I say in an innocent voice. Was there some trouble? Well, just a few false accusations. Nothing that couldn't be cleared up. Charlotte arriving really has been a change for the better. Charlotte? Pence's, um, girlfriend? Yep.

We drive out of town, and I turned to look at the scenery. So, um, what do I call you? Aniloh asks. The Outfitter laughs. Oh, how forgetful of me. I'm Roger, but I go by Raj. Well, Raj, how often do you talk to Vince? Oh, gee, I guess pretty often. I own the Outfitter shop in town, so I'm out in those woods a lot. A lot, huh? You ever come across a couple of other Forest Service workers? Like you guys? Anot forms in my stomach. Was there a hidden meaning to that question?

It felt like it. The one thing about this cover story is that since we aren't rangers, we can't carry service weapons. Don't want to alarm the locals is what the brass said. I wonder how Hollister and Greaves feel about that policy, now that they have been missing for weeks. Yeah, like us. They had the green suits, too. Hard to miss. Raj laughs. Yeah, I suppose you folks do stand out, don't you? He falls silent as the last houses disappear behind us, and the road carries us deeper into the pines and furs.

Their names were Hollister and Greaves, Manilow says. They were supposed to be doing an assessment of that huge Aspen Grove. Huge Aspen Grove? Yeah, the one you're taking us to. Vince doesn't live in any grove. I'm taking you to talk to Charlotte first.

Hold up, no. You're taking us to talk to Vince. You'll want to talk to Charlotte first. We would like to chat with her too, but Vince first. Raj doesn't respond. He grins and keeps his eyes on the road. I lean forward, resting my arm on the back of Manilow's seat.

But before I can say anything, I look down, I notice something that doesn't make me feel good about this ride at all. Three drops of blood are on the floor mat at my feet. You good, Ranger? My head snaps up, and I see Raj staring at me in the rearview mirror. You look like you saw a ghost. You must be real worried about your Ranger friends. Or not?

Never mind. Manolo looks back at me. I keep my expression blank, which tells him everything he needs to know. You said you bought this Bronco at auction? Manilow asks. Yep, got it for a steal. Funny, our colleagues.

Hollister and Greaves, right? Yeah, Hollister and Greaves. They were driving a Bronco just like this. Hmm, don't think so. Pretty sure they drove into town in a car like yours. I think they had a Bronco. I beg to differ. Watch them drive away myself.

Manilow clears his throat. You saw them leave? Yeah. They were going to chat with Vince, too. He's pretty popular lately. We'll have to ask Charlotte if she saw them before they left town. What makes you think they left town? Raj frowns.

Well, they aren't in town anymore, so I have to assume that they're gone. We take a sharp right turn onto a dirt road. The road twists and turns, taking us through patched. of pines and furs, than aspens and birch. We cross a small stream, Raj going slowly, just smiling at the scenery. Used to be an old mill out here. That's why it's called Old Mill Road. He laughs. I bet Rangers like you see all sorts of old stuff out in the woods. What's the weirdest thing you've seen? Can't really say. Manila whips his head to the side, studying the landscape intently. So, is that where we are? Old Mill Road? Yep. You'll see. You'll see.

in just a second. The Bronco slows and we round a curve. He isn't kidding. Raj pulls the Bronco up to the ruins of a literal old mill, calling the structure crumbling would be generous. Most of it has collapsed on the banks of the small stream it sits next to. Raj turns off the engine and the hot metal ticks in the cool Colorado morning. He points out the windshield. I'm going to see if Charlotte's willing to chat. She usually is. She loves meeting new people. Go? Go where? Manilow See that gate? Raj nods at what may have been a fence at some point in the distant past. Leads to a trail.

It'll be a quick few minutes for me to find her and explain everything. And you think she'll be around? I ask and look out the window. I'm not seeing a cab in her house. Charlotte prefers living off the land, just like Vince does. She's got a spot way back in the woods. Can't see it from here. He hops out and smacks the top of the Bronco.

Back in a bit, boys. before we can object, he's jogging towards the dilapidated hunks of wood, barely hanging on to each other, which must be the gate. The fact that any of it is upright as a miracle. Raj slips through the sagging gate and disappears into the shadows of the Aspen Grove. Screw this, I say, and Manilow nods. We get out of the car and look about. I bet this was once a decent river, Manilow says, looking at the stream, probably got partially damned or something. Don't pretend you know anything about it. about mills or rivers. Oh, I won't, don't worry. Just puzzling things out. We aren't going to

stay here and wait, are we? Hell no. Manilow trudges over to the gate, barely touches one of the boards, and the whole thing falls apart. He shrugs and keeps walking. I quickly catch up, and we hike through the tall grass, headed into the shade of the tall, thin aspens that surround everything. About 50 meters in, Manilow stops. What? Shush. I shush. I shun. shush and wait. He turns in a slow circle once, then looks up at the tops of the trees and turns again. I'd ask you if you hear that, but you don't because there is nothing to hear. What the hell are you mumbling about? No sounds, geez, no birds chirping, no frogs croaking, no pissed off squirrels chattering at us to get the hell out of their woods. The woods are quiet. Woods shouldn't be quiet.

It's because that Roger guy was running through here. Manilow gives me that look of his. Neither of us, is a forest expert, but I know he's right. There should be animal noises, even with us here. But there is only the wind, and even that feels like it's afraid of something. Bad feeling, keys. Yeah, same. Without a word, we both look behind us, back toward where I think the old mill is. You know how to hotwire a car? He asks me. Nope, but I'm willing to try. Same. We turn and jog back the way we came, except we can't. What the hell? Manilow spins in a circle.

We didn't go that far. The gate was just there. I don't say a thing. We keep going. Another hundred meters, and we are deep into the aspens, not back at the ruins of the old mill. There are nothing but skinny trees with fat, hand-like leaves starting to turn yellow all around us. As we've proved, a person could get turned around and confused in a place like this. Maybe Hollister and Greaves just got lost, trying to find their way back to their car.

Except they didn't have a car. They had a goddamn bronco. I think of those drops of blood. What's that? Manilow stops and aims his chin at a large outcropping of rock, set into the hillside. Is that a cave? I squint, my eyes fighting the gloom of the Aspen woods. It's nothing but shadows and tricks of light in here.

Could be. Let's check it out. We approach the rocks carefully, each of us taking our steps with, caution and precision. We may not be mountain men, but we know how to approach a location without giving ourselves away. About two meters out from what is definitely a cave, I smell it. Death. It's not strong, not overpowering. No roadkill during the summer smell, but it's there, and I can see by the wrinkle on Manilow's face that he smells it too, even though we say nothing to each other. Once at the cave's mouth, we each take aside and look into the darkness.

The smell is much stronger. It's like the smell a museum has, all dry bones and tanned hides. But death is death, so we know that whatever is in there isn't a vegetarian, that's for sure. Manilow fishes out a small flashlight from his pocket. I do the same. At least we have these. Yay. We catch each other's eye, the nod, and he steps inside the cave first while I cover our rear.

Turning to face the woods, I walk backward while he leads, making sure nothing can sneak up on us. The cave ceiling is low, so we have to crouch as we walk. There's a dripping noise from far inside, and with each step, that dry death smell increases, a few more meters in, and I can feel it coating the back of my throat. I want to cough, but force myself not to,

for fear of giving our position away. To what? I'm not sure yet. Rounding a corner, Manilow stops abruptly, and I almost run into him. Wow, I whisper. He smacks my arm to make me shut up, and also to get me to look where he's going. I do and gasp. He smacks my arm again.

We've reached the back at the cave. The ceiling is higher, enough that we can stand upright with a few feet of clearance above our heads. But our eyes aren't on the ceiling. We're staring at the cave floor and what covers it? Skeletons. The cave is full of skeletons, not bones here and there, but full, complete, intact skeletons. skeletons of all sorts of animals, from chipmunks to what looks like a full-grown elk. You name the critter, it's being represented.

Manolo goes rigid. It's like he's become a statue. I follow his gaze and start to ask what the hell I'm looking at, but he slams a hand over my mouth and shakes his head. Then he starts walking us backward, out of the main part of the cave. Once we're a few meters back and the carpet of skeletons is out of sight, he grabs my arm and pulls me into a sprint toward the cave entrance. What the hell was that?

I snap once we're outside. Shut up. He his his head on a swivel, his eyes looking in all directions at once, especially up. What is going on? And don't tell me to shut up again. You didn't see them? See them? Who?

What? Hollister and Greaves! That was Hollister and Greaves? I saw something, but I thought... I shake my head. I honestly don't know what I thought, until the image in the cave snaps into focus. And the green uniforms. Manilow's head is still on a swivel, and he's muttering to himself.

Real funny. These people think they are real funny. What are you jabbering about? He gives me a look, as if I'm the dumbest person on the planet. Charlotte? Seriously. Something skitters behind us. I turned to look, but there's nothing there. Manilog grabs my arm again, hurrying us both back through the Aspins, hopefully headed toward the old mill this time. There's a rustling in the treetops above us, and Manolo looks up.

It's a mistake because he doesn't see the tree root at his feet. He trips, but I hold on to him, keeping him upright. There's more rustling, and I swear I see a few aspens in front of us bow one way, then spring back the other way before they settle down. Probably just a raccoon, I say, not believing my own words. Manilow gives me that look again, shakes his head, then keeps moving on his own, this time paying attention to the forest floor. After an hour or so, we stop and take a break.

Maniloh pulls out his phone. No ping. I glance at him. The tracker on our car is dead. I can't get a ping from it. Just like with Hollister and Greaves is Bronco. Bronco. He laughs.

God damn right. Bought an at an auction, my ass. What about the GPS on your phone? Manilu checks the screen, then scoffs. Useless. No signal. Okay, great. I look around, then find the sun through the leaves above.

It's the afternoon, so that way is west. If we came in from the west and traveled down, for a while on that road, then we should head towards the sun. I learned that in basic. A branch snaps above us, and our discussion ends. Manolo starts jogging west with me right on his tail. More branches snap, and I look over my shoulder, seeing something leaping from Aspen trunk to aspen trunk, only a few meters behind us. Um, we have company. No shit. More branches snap overhead. I resist the urge to look up. Whatever is moving through the canopy is keeping pace with us, and I have no desire to see it any closer.

We are no longer jogging and are now full-on running. We dodge trees and bushes and roots and puddles and dips and rises and just run our asses off. I look at the flashlight still in my hand and tuck it into my pocket. Useless piece of crap. I see a rock that looks familiar and nudge Manilow on the shoulder. He sees it too and heads straight for it. Once around the rock, I can see a hint of a trail. Some of the grass has been recently trampled, hopefully by us.

We follow the trail. The only sound now filling the forest is our labored breathing. Was this how it went down for Hollister and Greaves? Do they get a chance to run to? Or were they ambushed in that cave? I have a lot of questions. But I'm not sticking around for answers. As soon as we are back in cell service, I'll call it in, and we'll let Mobile Task Force Michael Palin's deal with this shit. The foundation should have sent them in instead of us. I mean, what were they thinking? It's like they wanted to get rid of us. Well, shit. Before I can spiral into depression, I catch sight of something through the trees and cry out. The old mill! In seconds, we're at the collapsed gate, hurrying past the rotten wood and rusted hinges, our eyes locked onto the Bronco, which is surrounded by people. Raj steps away from the group, frowning.

Where'd you guys go? You people need to leave them alone. A woman in the crowd says, murmurs of agreement ripples through the group, and I recognize several faces from the diner. They just want to be happy and raise their family in peace. Ush, Linda, Raj says. We'll let them apologize to Charlotte themselves. Manilow and I hear the crunching noises at the same time and turn to look behind us. A spider the size of a small bus blocks the trail. A hundred smaller dog-sized spiders flit and skidder around her impossibly long legs.

The aspens weave around the spiders, almost caressing them. Oh, Charlotte, I say. Now I get it. Manilow spins and holds his hands out to the small mob. We can work this out, he pleads. Whatever Hollister and Greaves did to piss you all off, we'll make up for it. Let's just cool things down and talk. Not with us, Raj says.

You can take it up with Charlotte. She handles all of Vince's conflicts now. I'm yanked off my feet and whipped around as fine silk wraps me from head to toe. I struggle, but the cocoon is too tight for me to even move a millimeter. Right before the cocoon is punctured by a hundred fingers, or sized fangs. I wonder how many agents the foundation will send before they realize they need to just nuke the place. The Aspins, the town, Charlotte and her nightmare babies, everything. Just nuke it all. Colorado, really not a fan.

SCP 1075 is an anomalous psychological effect affecting the permanent residence of Posoga Springs, Colorado. Those under its influence believe that SCP 1075-1, a clonal colony of 493 populist Tremayuloids' trees is a human resident named Vincent Vince Aspinson. SCP-75-1 itself does not appear to be anomalous. Before Foundation intervention, residents regarded Vince as a respected member of the community. They believed he served on the town council, participated in local charities, and attracted romantic interest from several women and at least one man. Following foundation efforts described in document Lambda 4,

newly formed memories of SCP-175-1 shifted toward avoiding Vince. Those affected cannot be convinced that SCP-175-1 is anything other than a human being. Long-time residents recall detailed interactions with them, and local organizations maintain numerous official records in his name. These include a birth certificate dated February 10, 201 AD, a driver's license, marriage and divorce records involving Elizabeth. Elizabeth Aspinson, a high school diploma, a bachelor's degree in astronomy, a property deed for the land occupied by SCP 1075-1, and several police reports. Thanks for listening. Be sure to click that follow button with all notifications on to get notified every time a new episode is released.