The SCP Experience - From Below Comes the Horde | SCP-2003

Episode Date: September 18, 2026

Deep beneath an abandoned Pennsylvania town, thousands of people have spent decades digging through a burning coal mine—unable to die, and seemingly unable to stop. When two Foundation agents arrive to investigate a missing operative, they discover something has changed underground. 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 Check out all of Jake’s horror story collections at: https://jakebible.com/short-storiesnovellascollections/ * * * 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

The dead squirrel's skull is crushed under the front tire of the unmarked black sedan, sending shards and dust spraying everywhere, adding to the various bits of trash and detritus spread across the cracked and weed-choked asphalt. The sedan slows, then stops, both men inside turning their heads to stare at the seemingly abandoned house. Agent Denny, young, fit, and rare to crack a smile, lowers his sunglasses and shakes his head. This is a foundation outpost? Agent Crawford, older, fit, and always has a smirk lurking at the corners of his mouth, nods. Yep. The point is not to be noticed. The locals aren't exactly friendly.

I thought there were only about five people even left in this hellscape. Centralia has five official residents, sure. But they aren't who we have to worry about. Then who? The ones in the mine. Agent Denny retrieves a folder from his briefcase. as Agent Crawford studies the landscape surrounding them. Pines and oaks are visible through the ever-present smoke that drifts about in low-hanging clouds only inches from the ground. Houses up and down the block sit idle, dark, uninhabited for years.

The residential street is nothing but potholes and chunks of asphalt sticking up here and there. I should get a vacation home here, Agent Crawford says with a chuckle. He aims his chin at the folder, agent Denny is studying. Anything in there we don't already know? Not that I can see. It's a pretty straightforward posting. Just a watch and listen assignment. Agent Lincoln should be inside, but he hasn't been in contact with the foundation in over a week, so maybe not. Maybe not.

Crawford pulls his suit jacket aside to show his sidearm. It's your up, kid. Go in with guns drawn. Oh, do we feel things out first? Denny glances up from the fire. and looks blankly out the windshield. A wisp of coal smoke drifts past the hood of the car, like a ghost out for a stroll. Drawn, Lincoln doesn't look like a slacker from his personnel file, so my guess is foul play. Around these parts, that's a solid guess. Denny stuffs the file back into his briefcase, draws his own sidearm, checks the chamber, then slides it back into its holster.

Crawford does the same. Then the two men exit the car in unison. at the car in unison, looking as if they practiced the move. They each turn in a different direction, clocking the street for any movement or for any possible surveillance they may be under. Not that either expects to see a living soul, not in Centrelia. The town is dead, even if the inhabitants, mostly former citizens, seem not to care. Except for the five stragglers who refuse to leave, and refused to be interviewed or messed with, the entire former population of Centralia is in the coal mine, focused on digging, digging, digging.

One of the eggheads working for the foundation joked that the residents were going to dig to China if they weren't careful. The joke fell flat, and the scientist was reassigned to slime duty and Antarctica. We doing this? Crawford asks. Denny nods, and they both pull their sidearms. There are soot-coated paving stones set in a whimsical pattern, attempting to be a footpath across the lawn. But since there is no lawn, only hunks of dead grass in the dirt, Denny and Crawford don't bother with the stones. When they reach the house's front door, Crawford shields Denny from prying eyes, as the younger agent finds the hidden keypad and enters the code. There's a barely audible buzz from the keypad, and a red light flashes three times.

Didn't you look the code up? Crawford asks over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the area constantly for threats. Of course I did, Denny snaps. I literally just looked at it. 867309. Denny tries again. Another buzz. Three more flashes of red. Here, let me try.

Crawford says and nudges Denny out of the way. They switch positions, with Denny now scanning the street for signs of hostility. Technically, from what the file and reports say, the inhabitants of Centralia are rarely seen above ground. But with Agent Lincoln non-responsive and possibly MIA, Neither Denny nor Crawford feel comfortable giving the place the benefit of the doubt. Crap! Crawford snarls as he receives a buzz and three flashes of red too.

Okay, I'll call it in. Maybe one of the texts changed the code and forgot to log it. Maybe. Crawford tilts his head, giving his partner a quizzical look. You got a different theory? Lincoln changed the code from inside. Why? Denny shrugs.

Real helpful, kid. Denny shrugs again. then nods toward the corner of the house. We split up and circle around, meet in back. Better than standing on this porch with our dicks in our hands. The partners split up. Denny heads right, walking across the barely visible driveway, passing the soot-stained garage door.

Crawford heads left, walking through what may have been flower beds at one point, but are now just rows of dirt covered in coal dust. Denny tries to peer through the small windows in the garage door, but they are too dirty to see through. and the garage beyond is pitch black. He keeps moving. Crawford gets to the corner of the house, ducks his head around, then back, then swivels and steps into the side yard. There's a coiled water hose on the ground next to a spigot. Three windows lie in the side of the house.

Crawford approaches the first, going up on his toes to see inside. But like Denny's issues with the garage door windows, Crawford can't see through the layers of soot, coating the glass. He thinks he can make out the shapes of furniture in the house. side, so he assumes he's looking at the living room, but he wouldn't lay any money on that guess. He moves on to the second window. There are some cinder blocks resting against the house, so Crawford moves them into place, giving him a boost up to the window. This one isn't quite as dirty, but it's still nearly impossible for Crawford to see any details beyond vague shapes. A bedroom? Maybe? What's wrong with a carpet? It doesn't look right. He shakes his head

and steps down off the cinder blocks. Dragging them under the third window, Crawford checks the last space and has to hold in his gasp. The glass is dirty, but he doesn't need detail to see what's inside. Immediately, he jumps down and covers the area with his sidearm, carefully turning in a slow arc,

making sure he has eyes on every vantage point. Whatever happened to Lincoln, the man didn't do it to himself, that's for sure. Crawford doesn't plan on getting jumped by whoever might still be in the area, may be watching him right this second. Not sure he's alone, but fairly confident that he won't be attacked immediately. Crawford slowly sidesteps his way around the corner and into the backyard.

Denny is waiting for him at the back porch, an eyebrow raised. See something? Denny asks. Bathroom, not pretty. Lincoln? I think so, yeah. You think so? Window too dirty to see through? I wish. Dear God, I wish. Denny gulps.

When Crawford joins him, the two men turn their attention to the back door. Denny tries the coat again, this time on the back door's keypad, but gets the same result. A buzz and three flashes of the red light. Move, Crawford says, and Denny scoots aside. With a swift, hard kick to the strike plate by the doorknob, Crawford nearly breaks his ankle as the lock refuses to bust. I would have warned you not to do that, Denny says. He puts his sidearm in its holster and pulls out a small,

black bag from a suit pocket. This might work. Watch our asses. Crawford takes up a guard position as Denny kneels in front of the keypad. He takes out an impossibly small torch from the black bag, lights it up, and smiles at the intense blue flame. It's so hot that it's almost hard to look at, and Denny has to fetch his sunglasses from his pocket before proceeding. Then he cuts around the keypad, basically melting the house as siding in the process. Inside the house, an alarm rings out. It's not a blaring claxon, but it's also not a quiet sound. Crawford glances over his shoulder, but Denny waves him off. With the cuts made, Denny switches out the small torch for a solid screwdriver from the black bag.

He quickly pries the keypad out of the wall and lets it hang by its wires against the soot-coated siding. Crawford coughs. How much longer? This air is a bitch. Not long. Denny shoves the screwdriver into the gaping hole, twists a few times, then shoves the screwdriver. harder, pounding the screwdriver deeper with the palm of his hand. Then there's a click, and the door unlocks. The alarm inside stops instantly. Denny smiles and stands up,

placing the screwdriver in the bag and the bag into his pocket. He grabs the knobs, twists, and shoves the door open. The smell causes Denny to take a step back, bumping into Crawford. Christ, that's rank, Crawford says, coughing a few more times. Damned if we do, damned if we don't. Denny draws his side of arm again, placing his mouth and nose into the crook of his elbow. He steps inside, quickly followed by Crawford. They are in the kitchen. It's a mess. Not with food or garbage left out, but with broken plates and cups, splintered chairs, cracked cupboards, and more shell casings than either Denny or Crawford can count. Damn, Denny says. This way, the bathroom. Crawford takes

point, leading them out of the kitchen and into a short hallway. The stench gets exponentially worse, the closer they get to the bathroom door. This was recent, Denny says, his voice muffled behind his elbow. It wouldn't stink so bad if time had gone by. Yeah. Crawford says as he nudges the bathroom door open with the toe of his shoe. The sight in the bathroom is nightmare fuel. Stretched by his arms, his legs, and by the skin flayed from his back, Agent Lincoln is suspended above the bathroom tile.

Every inch of him stripped and peeled. A pool of black blood has dried into a still-stick. Dennie and Crawford both stare at the horrible scene, their eyes taking in everything. The deep gouges on the wallpaper, the cracked toilet, the torn down and shredded shower curtain and the scrapes and scratches all over the bathtub, and so much blood, it's everywhere. Floor, ceiling, walls, light fixtures, everywhere. Crawford is the first to dare step a foot into the bathroom. The second he does, the blood splattered tiles under his shoe crumble and fall away. Denny barely gets a hand on Crawford's shoulder to pull him back into the hallway before the entire floor

disintegrates. The two agents stare into the abyss before them. Coal smoke wafts up in thick tendrils, and far below, there is just the hint of light. Crawford and Denny lean forward, their sidearms aimed into the pit. The edges of the space are jagged, rough, looking like a hundred hands dug their way up through the earth and into the bathroom, except that the floor had been intact only seconds before. The agents both come to be. to that realization at the same time. They back quickly away from the huge hole and spin as one, covering the rest of the house. This isn't normal. Then he whispers as he takes a step down the hallway toward the living room. No shit. No, I mean that the instances, 2003-1, don't usually come up

out of the mine and do whatever this shit is. Well, it wasn't gofers, I can say that for sure. No, no, it's instances. I don't doubt that. I'm saying the behavior is abnormal. They stay below in the mine. I don't think we have recorded occurrences where they come to the surface and attack people. Maybe something changed. It must have. As the agents walk down the hallway, Denny peers into the single bedroom. He stops and sighs.

That explains it. Crawford joins him at the doorway. There is no floor in the bedroom, only an open chasm with more coal smoke drifting up from it. Christ, we better hope they haven't dug out the ground under the whole house or... A noise from below. very much like an intentional grunt echoes up to the agents. After a second, the grunt is replied to by a whistle, then several loud claps. Both agents back away from the bedroom.

We need to call this in, Denny says. He holsters his sidearm and pulls out his phone, while Crawford covers them both, swiveling back and forth so he can see the kitchen, then the living room over and over again. Is this house shielded? Denny asks, looking at his phone. I can't get a signal. Switch to satellite. I did. Still nothing. Crap. Okay.

There should be a comm set up in the living room, plus surveillance equipment hooked up to the underground cameras. Denny nods, and they move his one out of the hallway and into the small living room. Just as Crawford said, an entire wall of the room is set up with a bank of dark monitors, with a desk filled with hard drives and a keyboard and mouse. Crawford keeps his weapon out while Denny hurries to the equipment.

Anything? Crawford asks. He has his sidearm aimed at the hallway, his eyes locked onto the bedroom door. There may be more grunts and whistles echoing up from the hole, but it's hard to tell. Crawford isn't taking any chances and has the safety off. Nothing, Denny says, shoving the keyboard aside when he can't get the comm's system to boot up. One of the monitors comes to life, showing a scene from hell. Hundreds of instances, their bodies in various states of burn, are rushing in one single direction down a mine shaft.

But as Denny leans in and looks closer, he realizes the instances aren't rushing downward. They are moving upward. We need to go! Now! Denny shouts. Crawford is about to ask why, but the words are lost as the grunts in the hole become howls, which become screams, which become a lot louder and closer than the agent would like. Crawford doesn't argue, and the two agents run to the front door, which is locked down tight. I'm on it! Denny shouts and races back to the keyboard.

He brings up a menu, scrolls through it, until he finds the security setting, and desperately types as fast as his fingers can. Come on, come on, Crawford mutters as he keeps his aim on the hallway. The noises are increasing with every second, and Crawford is sure he hears earth and dirt being torn away as scorched hands scrabble at the sides of the hole. Denny types furiously, then cries out in triumph. He doesn't need to say anything as he runs to the door and flings it open, because Crawford is right on his heels.

They both are out onto the porch and then racing across the dead yard to their sedan. Behind them, the house begins to teeter and then crumble. The agents are in the car, with Crawford driving and Denny taking shotgun, literally, as he reaches into the back and lifts a Mossburg 12-gauge pump-action shotgun from the seat. From the collapsing structure of the former Foundation outpost, dozens of scarred and scorched instances, former citizens of Centralia, pour out onto the dead yard, their mouths open as they have.

and screech and scream and shout. And they are all headed straight for the car. Crawford floors it, causing the front tires to spin and smoke for a moment until they grab and shoot the car forward. Denny rolls his window down and aims the shotgun at the horde, but he doesn't fire. The sedan is gaining speed

and is leaving the instances far behind. Then Denny sees something that makes his blood run cold. Other houses on the block, ones farther down from the foundation outpost, are shaking and crumbling as well. And out of their doors pour more and more instances, until the street behind them is filled with an entire horde of mad Centrelia residents. Some are wielding crude weapons. Some still wear tatters and strips of clothes.

Most have their arms outstretched, their dirty, unclipped fingernails, looking as sharp as any animal's claws. We need to go faster, Denny says. Yeah, I know. Crawford glances in the rearview mirror and snorts. But let's see those malnourished abominations catch this American-made V8. We got more horsepower in this engine then. Denny turns his attention from what is chasing them to his partner. Crawford's face is white, and his eyes are widening.

Denny then swivels in his seat and focuses on the street ahead. Bloody, burned, deformed people are streaming out of the doorways of abandoned houses all up the block, all headed for the street. The two well-trained agents both quickly estimate the number of instances they are dealing with, and also both gulp when they reach an insane number. Thousands, Crawford says. He pushes his foot all the way down on the gas pedal. What are you doing?

Only way out is through, kid. Buckle up. I am. Good. The first wave reaches the street and steps directly in front of the sedan. Most are mowed down, causing the car to thud, thud, thud, over their bodies. Some are thrown up over the hood, over the windshield, over the roof of the car, and tumble onto the street behind them, where they are almost instantly crushed by the pursuing horde.

But a few aren't crushed, aren't thrown over, and cling to the car's hood like angry rats. Crawford swerves the car back and forth, trying to throw the clingers free. But in seconds, he hits the second wave, and more bodies are run down, tossed aside, or added to the mound forming on the hood. Ear plugs!

Crawford shouts. Then he nods, knowing exactly what his partner means. He grabs a pair of earplugs from the center console, then shoves one in each ear. Without being asked, he grabs a second pair and leans over Crawford, placing a plug in each of the agent's ears too. Then he racks the shotgun and takes aim at the windshield.

Hold until you absolutely have to! Crawford shouts. Denny nods. His eyes locked onto the things that used to be people at one time. Their eyes are blood red, with many of them having teeth filed to points and fingernails like talons. One instance crawls over all the others

and presses his face to the windshield right in front of Denny. Then it turns its head and looks over at Crawford. The thing opens it. its mouth and screeches. There may be words in the noise, but neither agent can tell. What they can tell is that the thing screech is an order, and all bodies on the hood shift focus to Crawford, to the driver. Nope, Denny says, and aims the shotgun at the windshield. Then he fires twice, shattering the glass. The instance in front of him nearly tumbles into the car, but Denny braces the barrel of the shotgun against the thing's chin, preventing it from falling further.

Then Denny squeezes the trigger, and the thing's head becomes missed. Denny slips out of his seat belt and gets on his knees on the seat. He fires. He bludges. He bludges. All while Crawford keeps the car moving, never letting up off the gas. The sedan's interior becomes soaked in blood. To Denny, the blood smells rank and rotted, even though technically the instances are alive. But with the way SCP-2003 works, he knows that no one in the mind dies, so who knows what constant regeneration does to a person's circulatory system.

He has an inkling that it's nothing good. Crawford shouts as a hand grips his throat. Denny fires. The hand still grips Crawford's throat, but the arm it's attached to doesn't exist anymore, blasted away by the shotgun. The owner of that arm tries to reach its spare inside the car, but the thing loses the arm and its head for its trouble.

In front of the sedan, as far as the agents can see, the street is clogged with people. Yet the car keeps plowing through them. Crawford is laughing and laughing as he mows folks down. Denny is firing and firing, doing his best to take out the ones who clamber onto the hood. Then there's glass shattering behind them. And Denny looks back to see the rear window busted out and two instances crawling into the back seat.

He paints the backseat red and black with their brains. Up front! Denny swivels and barely has the barrel of the shotgun cleared from Crawford's face when he opens fire on the three things trying to crawl into the front seats. Crawford screams at the gore that splatters him and shakes his head, sending blood and flesh flying like a dog shaking after a bath. Denny keeps firing until the shotgun clicks empty. The sedan is slowing, and a not-so-great noise is coming from underneath. Something is stuck! I bet it is!

Denny has to hammer the faces of two instances to pulp, letting their bodies drape across the dashboard while he reloads the shotgun. A groan and cry from the back seat forces him to look over his shoulder. The two things he thought he'd killed have pieced the same. themselves back together and are slowly riding themselves for another attack. With the shotgun loaded, Denny shoves the two bodies out of the empty windshield. When he turns and crawls into the back seat, what are you doing? Crawford shouts. They're already regenerating.

Oh shit. That's what I was thinking. Denny blasts the head off one thing, reaches past, and opens the back door, kicking it out into the herd. The second thing is on it. It's sharpened teeth gnashing and snapping at his face. He manages to get the body of the shotgun up under the thing. chin. As he holds it there, he reaches behind him and opens the door. Then he heaves the thing backwards, tossing it out into that side of the herd. The crush of bodies slams both back doors

closed, and Denny sits up, his entire body coated in gore. We going to make it? He shouts at Crawford, who is cackling madly. Maybe. Probably not. Denny nods, racks a shell into the chamber, and turns and fires at the instances climbing over the car's trunk. The ones he doesn't blast off, He knocks off as he slams the butt of the shotgun into skull after skull after skull. Crawford's cackling gets louder as the sedan jolts and lurches and slides and thumps and bumps its way down the street. The car continues to slow as the press of bodies becomes too much. What do they want? Denny yells over the screams, the engine whine, and the constant shotgun blasts.

Let's not find out! They keep going, keep pushing, keep fighting. Then there's a loud grinding noise, and the car begins to chug a truck. chug-a as it slows rapidly. The agents don't even hesitate. They each grab a door handle and shove, throwing themselves into the herd. Denny keeps the shotgun barking, trying to plow a path through the herd toward that side of the street. Crawford fires his sidearm until it clicks empty. Then he uses it as a club, smashing in skulls one at a time, inching toward the opposite side of the street. Nails gouged their skin, teeth nearly bite off their noses, their ears,

hands grasp at their hair. Still the agents' fight. Then a piercing whale tears the very fabric of reality apart. Almost as one, the instances drop to their knees, then fall over onto their feet and curl in on themselves, their hands clasped to their ears, leaving Crawford and Denny standing in opposite gutters, bloody, battered, bruised, but alive. Like dominoes, all up and down the block, the herd collapses. Then the air is whipped about in a maelstrom of tattered fabrics and bloody strips of skin. The two agents look up, and Can't help but grin as a helicopter hovers over them, two banks of speakers underneath vibrating visibly. Then harnesses are lowered, and Crawford and Denny quickly strap in and let themselves get

hoisted up into the chopper. Once they are pulled inside the helicopter and secured, the horrid wail stops, and the helicopter lifts higher, banking sharply as it races away from Centralia. Crawford plugs the earplugs from his ears and smiles at the operatives sitting across from him. Thanks! he shouts. The operative nods. Denny pulls his earplugs out and leans his head back against the rest. He's about to close his eyes when Crawford taps him on the shoulder, indicating to put a headset on, just like he has. Denny does, and the voices of the helicopter crew come through loud and clear. The co-pilot says,

Lucky we-you knew what to do, Crawford says. It's weak that things are changing in Centralia. That's an understatement. As the helicopter straightens out, Crawford and Denny stare at, Danny stare out of their respective sides at the massive herd of Centralia residents below. It's like a sea of burn victims that goes on and on and on. Denny asks, I don't know, but hopefully it doesn't mean they finally dug through to where they wanted to get to. The statement hangs there in the air like a wait suddenly dropped on the helicopter.

No one replies as all eyes look down. Things have definitely changed in Centralia. SCP 2003 refers to anomalous phenomena within the underground region beneath Centralia, Pennsylvania, USA. Its primary effects include humanoid entities designated SCP-2003-1, rapid regeneration from physical injury, and the apparent inability to die. Centralia has been affected by a non-anomalous underground coal seam fire since 1962. SCP 2003's effects currently extend approximately 200 meters below the surface, far deeper than the town's original mines. This range continues to expand as SCP-2003-1 instances excavate new underground areas.

SCP-2003-1 entities are physically indistinguishable from ordinary humans, but attempts at communication have been unsuccessful due to Centralia's hazardous conditions. and the entity's constant extreme pain. New instances spontaneously appear underground through unknown means, causing the population to steadily increase. Current estimates place between 5,000 and 6,000 SCP-2001 entities within the affected area. Foundation research primarily focuses on documenting

SCP-2003-1 behavior and obtaining viable tissue samples for laboratory study. Thanks for listening. Be sure to click that follow button with all notifications on to get notified every time a new episode is released.