The SCP Experience - Eyes of the Beholder | SCP-5350

Episode Date: January 21, 2022

SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-5350: Eyes of the Beholder Author: Lucas Click This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-5350, 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

The air is thick with nervous energy. We don't look any different from any other outdoor religious revival group, humble and quaint. No one would know by looking at us that we belong to the one true faith, the only ones trying to save the world from the demons that infested. More stragglers have come to the flock, and I do my best not to frown at them. Reverend Simmons has reminded me that I was not always a godly man myself. Before finding Irma and the church, I was prone to give in to the violent temptations in my head that have plagued me since I was a boy. Now those impulses are guided by faith,

faith in my pastor, my wife, and my God. The Lord has forgiven me for my transgressions and blessed me with divine purpose. The righteous will find their way to Reverend Simmons eventually. And those unrighteous? Those are my response. The grass beneath our feet is freshly mowed, and I inhale deeply, breathing in the perfume of gasoline and fresh-cut grass. Senior members of the parish sit in quiet anticipation, smiling at what is to come. The newest ones toward the back whisper, and it takes all my restraint not to cast them out like Christ had done with the moneylenders in this sacred temple. Irma stands near me at the stage, and entwines her.

her fingers with mine. We've been married ten good years, and only she and Reverend Simmons know that my old ways always rear up right before a sermon. Another wave of relief washes over me as Reverend Simmons strolls in through the flaps of the tent. His appearance abruptly ceases the whispers as he strolls in between the two rows of folding chairs. Jedediah Simmons, like our church, has an assuming appearance. He stands short, just barely over five feet tall, with a pot belly and a few determined strands of hair cleaning atop his otherwise barehead. His steps are filled with gods, giving him an air of authority and righteousness as he mounts the stage and stands before his podium. Every day, our flock grows stronger. He doesn't even need a microphone. His faith propels his voice.

and it echoes around the tent. Every day, more and more people come to join us. Why is that? Because people are drawn to the truth. Don't listen to the lies. This isn't a virus. Oh, you'll hear all kinds of crazy talk. That this is a sickness cooked up in a lab somewhere,

or that it started from animals. But no, my friends, it came from one place. from that same serpent that tempted us eons ago. Now, my friends, I ask you, what is the only way to combat that worthless liar whose name is not even worth speaking? Faith! The senior members of the communion shout.

Reverend Simmons frowns and tugs on his earlobe. I'm sorry, folks. What was that? Faith! This time, even the newcomers pick up the word with Irma and me shouting the loudest of all. Yes, indeed. Reverend Simmons brandishes his Bible and pauses until the clamor calms down. Yet, you all know the saying, don't you?

The good Lord helps those that help themselves. And so that duty has fallen unto us. We need to be the shepherds of this world to tend to the flock, and, if necessary, to hunt the wolves. It's the signal that Irma and I have been waiting for. We step up from one side of the stage as Bobby and his boys come up from the opposite end. Between them, they have three demons, each with a burlap sack over their heads. Bobby's oldest sons bring a table onto the stage.

They set it down with a loud thud, revealing the sets of straps adorning it. Bobby himself, a tank of a man wrapped in overalls, brings the first forward. and yanks off the sack. An old man with kind blue eyes wide with fear stares at us, looking around the room. No, not a man, I remind myself. A demon. I saw the marks of Satan on his body myself

in preparation for today's sermon. The demon screams against the gag in his mouth as the boys lift him onto the table and strap him down. Now, now, you newcomers, don't get too excited. Reverend Simmons says, I know what you're thinking, but the devil takes many forms. That's why we must do our due diligence

in finding their witch's mark. The Reverend nods to Irma and I. She begins setting up our tools near the table, sharp instruments for myself, and gauze and disinfectant for her and the other women crowding near the stage. I walked toward the demons struggling against the straps.

Eventually, I managed to remove his boots and socks. I stand back, and the crowd gasps as they see his feet. Eyes blink at us from the souls of his feet. They're mismatched and not even remotely human. A layer of chitin has formed over the eyes, sturdy but clear enough for all to see the pupils. The first one is a wide circle, staring inquisitively like an owl. The other eye is fierce, like an angry wolf. Yes, my friends, this poor man has been possessed. Reverend Simmons nods toward me again, and Irma hands me the machete. Sadly, we found our poor brother too late.

I tap the end of the machete against the eyes. The reverend's voice falls for a moment, so everyone can hear the tap of metal against the hard surface. The owl pupil grows wider, and the wolf one narrows before Reverend Simmons raises his voice for all to hear. Once they get to this point, I'm afraid these demonic eyes, the windows for Satan from hell, can't be removed. But where there is faith, there is a way for deliverance. My machete comes down in one clean blow, cutting clean through meat and bone and thumping against the wood beneath it. Before the demons start screaming, I've already lopped off the other leg,

and used the broadside of the machete to slide the severed limbs to the steep. stage with two wet thuds. Irma and the rest of her nurses rush forward, dousing the area with bleach and alcohol and tend to the man's legs. The aroma of singed meat fills the air as they slap burning hot metal plates against gaping wounds, searing them closed with a long hiss.

The women wrap his stubs with gauze and dispose of the feet into a bag to be burned. Bobby's boys lift the men gently from the table and into a wheelchair and take him off the stage. Yes, my friends! Reverend Simmons wipes his brow with a handkerchief. Grim work, I know, but now our friend is free of the demon that possessed him.

It's better to crawl to God's kingdom than to walk in Lucifer's shadow. The congregation erupts with cries of hallelujah and amen. Even some of the newcomers join in. Several, though, rise from their seats and slink out the back way as quietly as possible. It doesn't matter. One of Bobby's youngest is outside, already taking down their plates. Sometimes the unbelievers have to be dealt with so that we can go on carrying out God's work.

Bobby drags the next demon out on stage. He removes the sack and shows the face of a young man just barely in his 20s. Bobby holds him steady as Irma hands me the knife. The boy trembles on shaking knees as I step forward and slice his shirt open from the chest. collar. Once more, I step back to the sound of gasps. Over the boy's heart is a red eye with a slit pupil. Reverend Simmons crosses the stage, drawing all eyes on him as Irma hands me the pistol. This poor child, Reverend Simmons rests a hand on the demon's slim shoulders. We could remove the

eye, yes, but see where it is. To do so would be to remove the boy's heart and fill him with agony before death. My friends, what can we offer this poor soul? Mercy, mercy, mercy. The chant grows louder as I stroll forward and put the barrel of the gun to the boy's head. The close proximity acts as a silencer. The gun only makes a small pop,

barely audible over the cries of devotion. The cheers erupt at the spray of brain matter and the boy topples over, free from demonic possesses. Something inside of me growls in disappointment. The kill was too quick and clean. I thirst for more. Guilt wrestles with my desire to do harm, as it has done my whole life.

Closing my eyes, I send a quick thanks to God for leading me to Irma and the good reverend. Finally, I have a righteous outlet for these dark desires that plague my heart. Bobby brings forth and unmasks the last demon. This one has taken a young woman with hair the color of golden wheat. I lift her bound hands while Bobby holds her tight, while I peel the gloves from her fingers. The crowd murmurs and excitement again. Ten eyes stare out from her hands, each one more grotesque and bizarre than the next. Now you see why we toil like we do, brothers and sisters, Reverend Simmons says,

Tonight, we might have saved only two lives, but we will have liberated three souls. I lose myself in the excitement of the shouts as I set to work. With a long thin knife, I pry apart the first eye. It flops on the ground with the long optical cord still attached. I stomp down on it, and more cries of jubilation rained down on me, as if from the heavens themselves as I cut away the other eyes. in my eagerness to start on the next hand. I forget about all the blood seeping through the woman's restraints. She twists and contorts her arms, and then she's free.

She shoves a knee into Bobby's groin and runs down the aisle. People are so shocked that they don't even try to stop her. I leap down from the stage and give chase. I find her in the gravel parking lot, banging her bloodied hand against one of the locked cars. I ram my shoulder low into her spine, and she bounces off the metal and onto the gravel. She grasps at her gag and stares up at me,

all her eyes wide with fear. I'm not going to kill you. It's the truth, despite how much I wish it wasn't. I'm going to free you, sister. Please. She sobs and cradles the remaining eyes of her hands. Please don't. The things I can see.

I don't want to be blind. Her words freeze me. You don't want to be rid of them? She shakes her head, and the slight motion ignites the rage within me. I launch myself at her and plunge the knife in again and again. For the first time in years, I give in to my animal instincts without the tranquility of God's purpose keeping them at bay. Unlike the other demons tonight, I am neither quick nor merciful.

The demon struggles the whole time. She balls her fists and flails them at me. At one point, they collide against my forehead, but I barely notice. I lose track of time and see only red, savoring each of her screams. When I'm done, I look down. The demon is a torn, bloody mess. The eyes of her hand have burst from her futile attempts to defend herself, making a rainbow of red as it mixes with her blood.

I turn back and see Irma and Reverend Simmons staring at me. I drop the knife, and my head is dragged down by the weight of my shame. I'm sorry, I say, and a saw breaks from my throat. I'm so. Irma shushes me and holds me in her arms despite the blood on my clothes. Reverend Simmons steps forward with a fresh handkerchief. He wipes the tears from my face, then the blood and gore. It's all right, son, Reverend Simmons says with a heavy sigh,

Some people don't want to be saved. my fit, the Reverend sent me home, entrusting Bobby and his sons to deal with the faithless deserters from the sermon. I spend the night with Irma wrapped around me, but it doesn't ease my guilt. I feel unworthy of both her and Reverend Simmons' affection and attention. As the sleepless night drags on, my skin starts to itch. My cheeks feel warm, and a strong cough starts from deep in my chest. My vision blurs, and I stumble from our bed to the bathroom and flick on the light. The world around me is cracked and fractured, distorted with different shades of colors I have never seen before. I make my way toward the mirror by memory alone. A monster stares back at me.

Across my forehead, four eyes. The same one from the demon's hand, wink at me. I scream, and Irma runs into the bathroom. She takes one look at me. and raises both her hands to her mouth. She hesitates, but then takes me into her arms and leads me back to the bed. I bawl for hours until I have no tears left. Irma shushes and holds me close. I'm sorry, baby, she whispers into my ear. Those eyes are in your brain.

I can only offer you one thing. I feel the press of cold steel against my temple and hear the cock of a pistol. Mercy. SCP 5350 is an altered pathogen derived from the influenza virus that spontaneously grows into a fully functional eye on contact with mammal tissue. These eyes are often non-human in physical appearance and can exhibit conflicting biology with its host. The eyes easily burst, further propagating the spread of SCP 5350. As such, initial high-density infections on human bodies,

are in areas frequently subject to friction or prolonged contact with objects, such as the palms, back, groin, or soles of feet. SCP 5350 is weak to extreme temperatures and can only last outside of a host for 30 minutes before expiring. Infection of SCP 5350 has been correlated to a high degree of certainty to a meat-based diet. Symptoms may include sore throat, ulcers, upset stomach, eye-filled diarrhea, little to no appetite, and difficulty breathing.

There is no known cure for SCP-5350, only preventative measures. Treatments can neutralize the spread of a SCP-5350 infection in its early stages, but even as SCP-5350 ceases to be virulent, the eyes become coated with a hard, translucent chitin, remaining fully functional but rendering excision from the surrounding tissue next to impossible. Lazang surgelley, puissance-moyane

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