The SCP Experience - God's Work | SCP-678

Episode Date: March 2, 2022

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-678: God's Work 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-678, 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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Saving those children is how we all go home. From binge all episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. The priest beckons me inside the little office with a smile. Thank you, father, I say, walking past him. I immediately scan the room, trying not to be too obvious about it. I know that what I'm looking for, only by second or third-hand description, which makes things a little harder. Right away, I see two small angel statues,

one on a bookshelf and one on the corner of the priest's desk. something you recognize, the priest says. Noticing that I'm looking at the statue on the bookshelf. No, just looking at your books, I say, trying to play it off. I was staring at the thing. Stupid. Please, take a seat, Mr. Oh, right, I say. My name is Sean Blake. You can call me Sean. Okay, Sean, have a seat. I sit in one of the two chairs in front. of the little desk. The priest sits behind the desk looking expectantly at me. So, I say, I was expecting Father Ballard. I don't think you and I have met before. No, I don't expect we have. You can just call me Father Jacob. I'm visiting here while Ballard takes care

of some personal business. He'll be back next week. But you can tell me whatever you came here to speak with Father Ballard about. That's what I'm here for. I study Father Jacob for a moment, wondering if this could really be the man I'm looking for. He looks like an aging priest, straight out of central casting. Small folds of sagging flesh hang slightly over the edges of his green eyes, giving him a sad look. But there is intelligence in those eyes. And although he walks with a limp, there is an unmistakable vigor to. him. It's easy to see that he was once a large man, but age and life have shrunken him. Still, he seems the kind to genuinely enjoy his job. Or maybe, if he is in fact the man

I'm looking for, he enjoys something else. Well, I say to him, I've been talking through something with Father Ballard, a traumatic event, I guess you would call it. And I feel like I've already put in so much work with him. I just don't want to bother you with this when I could come back next week and continue with Father Ballard. Nonsense, Father Jacob says. I'm here to help. You don't have to tell me everything. Just tell me what's on your mind today. What are you struggling with? I tell him my rehearsed story about the car accident and the death of my wife, doing my best to act like a man who has been through such a tragedy.

I just keep seeing her face, Father, I say, putting what I hope are the believable finishing touches on my monologue. I keep seeing her face, looking up at me from the wreckage of the car, and I'm just standing there, barely a scratch on me. I pray every day to see her as she was before the accident, but I can't. All I see is her bloody, broken. broken face. I don't cry exactly. I'm no De Niro, but I cover my face with one hand like I'm trying not to. The Lord works through us in strange ways, Father Jacob says. Strange ways indeed.

And I'm sorry you're suffering. He is sorry too. I hope you know that. I nod into my hand. Here's what I want you to do, he says. I want you to take this statue in your hands and pray with me. Bingo, I think, lifting my head slowly to look at the statue. It's the one from the corner of his desk, an angel standing with spread wings and arms wide. I look at it, thinking that something's not right. Father Jacob stands up from behind his desk and comes around, limping, and holding out the statue to give it to me.

And then I noticed that Father Jacob's not wearing gloves. My eyes shoot up to his face as he approaches, and I see some kind of cunning there and understanding. I move to get up, but I'm not quick enough. I've messed this whole thing up. Father Jacob swings the ceramic statue down, breaking it on my head. He then grabs the other identical statue on the bookshelf and runs out of the room. The blow dazes me, but I'm up and running after him before he's had a chance to get out of the church. He's coming out the front!

I yell, knowing that my partner Ralph can hear me through my earpiece. As I burst out of the office, I see Father Jacob running down the central aisle between the pews. His limp is gone. This whole thing started months ago when a homicide detective in Birmingham, Alabama, was smart enough to know he was in over his head. So he called the SCP Foundation. That's where I came in. Ralph and I were assigned the case,

and we met with the Birmingham detective who filled us in on what he knew. It wasn't much. Just three members of the same church went insane and died, all within a month of each other. Cause of death was a fixation in all three cases. Their bodies simply shut down. The priest, presiding over the church in question, the detective told us, had been out of town

for the month, and another priest had been tending to things in his stead. A priest named Father James, the archbishop in charge of that archdiocese was little help, unwilling to believe that one of his priests had caused the death of three parishioners. We were instructed to get a warrant if we wanted more information on the priest in question. Ralph and I left the detective in charge of finding enough evidence for a warrant, knowing that he likely wouldn't be able to. Luckily, at the SCP Foundation, we have other ways of doing things. We put the word out to our networks, and it wasn't long before we heard back from another cop in Minneapolis.

We headed there and talked to one victim's husband, a man named Gerald Hatcher. His wife had only been dead for two days. Ralph and I sat in the man's living room. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the lace-curtained windows to which illuminated the dust motes floating through the air. Gerald Hatcher was in his late 50s. A working-class man, he was solemn and soft-spoken. He seemed broken to me.

You said the visiting priest, Father Jacob, came to see your wife? Ralph asked him, when was that? That must have been a week ago Monday. Hatcher said, looking small, sitting at the edge of his large recliner chair. Nine days ago now. And that was the last time the two met? I asked. Yes. Well, we usually go to church on Wednesdays and Sundays.

But by Wednesday, Tammy was already feeling sick. She wasn't herself. So we stayed home. Can you tell us what you remember about that visit? I asked. Why do you want to know about the priest? Thatcher asked. They say she wasn't murdered.

They say her body just shut down. No explanation for it. They say things like that happen sometimes. We're just trying to gather relevant information, Ralph said. This is all very normal. So if you could please answer the question, we'll be out of your hair soon. And you boys say you're with the medical examines? examiner? That's right, sir, I said. Hatcher shrugged and continued on. It was a pretty

normal visit. My wife had our regular priest over here once a week for the past two months. She'd been robbed at gunpoint when coming home from work one night, and she was having a hard time about it. So our regular priest, Father Walsh, was giving her guidance. We must have told Father Jacob about it before he left town for his seminar, because Father Jacob showed up on that Monday, just at the time when Father Walsh usually showed up. Now, Patrick continued, I didn't usually sit in on their sessions, because there are some things you just need to be between you and your priest. You know what I mean? I nodded. So you didn't hear their conversation? No, nothing but little snippets here and there as I came out of my home office to get coffee or check up on them.

What about when Father Jacob left? Did you see him out? Ralph asked. Yes, That's the polite thing to do, after all. And the only thing that stuck out to me was a statue that the father was putting back in his little bag. I only caught a glimpse of it, but it was of an angel standing up. And the strange thing about it was that its little face looked like it was grimacing. I thought that was funny. I'd never seen a statue of an angel grimacing before. I didn't think much of it at the time. But when my wife mentioned a statue later, I remembered it. Can you remember if he was wearing gloves when he handled the statue? Ralph asked. Yes, I believe he was. black leather ones, like driving gloves almost. And what did you tell your wife about the statue,

Mr. Hatcher? I asked. She said that Father Jacob had her hold a statue while they prayed and that it helped. When I asked her later if she felt better about the robbery, she looked at me like I was crazy. What robbery? She said. It was like she'd forgotten all about it. And if that was the case, I wasn't about to remind her. But then, things started getting worse. She started acting funny. How so? It was like she was scared all the time.

We'd be watching television or eating dinner, and I'd look over and see her crying. Whenever I asked her what was wrong, she could never give me an answer. All she would say was that something was wrong, but she didn't know what. when she started crying out at random times and crawling into the corner. I took her to see a doctor, but they couldn't find anything wrong with her.

This all sounded like the reports we'd gotten from Birmingham, right down to the strange statue of an angel. Did it seem like she was forgetting who she was before she died? Ralph asked. How did you know that? Hatcher asked. What is this all about? Did that priest do this to my wife? We dosed Mr. Hatcher.

with Class A amnestics before leaving the house, making him forget our conversation. And then we headed right for the church, hoping that Father Jacob would still be there. We'd been on his trail for only a few days, all told. But it had given us enough time to determine how best to approach him. It gave me time to rehearse my story about the car accident, but apparently not enough time. Something had given me away. Now, as I run after Father Jacob, I hope that Ralph will be able to stop him. The father turns and hits the front door of the church, opening it with his shoulder.

I catch a glimpse of his hands, seeing that he's pulling on gloves. He must have the statue on him. I stop running and reach down and lift my pant leg, pulling a small revolver out of my ankle holster. It's a move that wastes precious time, but I'd rather be prepared than not. I make it to the door and slam it open,

rushing outside to find Father Jacob and Ralph wrestling on the sidewalk at the bottom of the church stairs. I run down the stairs, approaching to help subdue the priest when he pulls the small statue of a standing angel out of his pants pocket. Stop! he says, holding the statue two inches from Ralph's face. I touch him with this and he dies within a week. There's no stopping it. I put my hands up and step back. The priest has managed to get his left forearm around Ralph's. self's neck. I have no shot. Not with such an inaccurate weapon as the snub-nosed revolver in my hand. Don't you see I'm helping these people? Jacob says to me. I'm freeing them from their drama. I'm taking it away. After so many years of being able to do nothing but pray and recite empty

platitudes, God has finally given me a tool I can use for good. You're killing them, I say. My hands still up. Ralph looks up at me with wide, angry eyes. He's mad at himself for letting this happen, and mad at me for letting the priest get the drop on me back in the office. They die without the trauma they've been living through. Don't you see? They can die in peace without reliving the terrible things that have happened to them. They can join God in heaven with pure souls. Do you even give them the choice? I ask. Do any of these people know, What's going to happen to them? Do you tell any of them?

He looks up at me, the answer in his eyes. Of course you didn't tell them, I say. They'll thank me when I join them in heaven, he says. He throws the statue at my face, and I bring my hands down and reflex to block the flying object. The statue strikes my left hand and then clatters to the sidewalk, unbroken. Ralph elbows the priest in the gut and then struggles out of his grasp. but it's clear that the man is done fighting.

He knows he's caught. I look down at the statue, feeling the ghost of its touch on my skin, thinking about how I'll be dead within a week. I see that the statue has changed. Instead of the standing angel, it's now a sleeping angel, lying on its side.

A flash of memory jolts me, and I'm suddenly on a damp, dark street. I'm terrified, holding a purse to my chest. chest with shaking hands. There's a man in front of me, pointing a gun at my face. He's telling me with an acidic voice to keep up the purse. He tells me what he's going to do to me if I don't give him money, terrible things. I hold out the purse with thin, feminine hands. The man yanks away my purse and shoves me to the ground before running away. I lay there on the dark sidewalk for several

minutes, crying. Then I'm back in the sunlight in front of the church, looking down at the statue of a sleeping angel. Somehow, the statue has given me the late Mrs. Hatcher's memory, transferred to me through touch. Don't touch the statue now, Father Jacob says as Ralph handcuffs him. If you do, you really will die. That's how it works. You have to transfer the trauma before it can be used again. You get to carry her trauma with you for the rest of your life. Just as I'm carrying the terrible memories from all the people I've helped, all the ones I've saved. That's the price I pay.

So you wouldn't have killed Ralph with it? I ask. Wondering if he's telling the truth. If I'm really not going to die in a week. I'm not a murderer, the priest says. I'm only doing God's work, Something people like you will never understand. SCP 678 is a small statue of a sleeping angel

that displays no unusual characteristics under visual inspection. Upon unshielding physical contact with a subject, however, it excises highly traumatic events from the subject's memory immediately, leaving a blank period in the subject's recollections of the past. This process is damaging to the subject, and in the week following contact with SCP 678, the subject's mind continues to erode. This erosion does not stop, but reaches a critical point at any time from six to nine days after initial contact, at which point the capabilities of the brain to regulate heartbeat,

breathing, and other homeostatic effects are eradicated. When this happens, subjects typically die of asphyxiation. removing a subject's trauma, SCP 678 alter shape, the statue shifting to a standing position with its eyes open and teeth clenched. The next unshielded contact with SCP 678 will cause the transfer of traumatic memories to the subject currently touching the statue, and it will then revert to its standard form. Subjects interview during the decay process described themselves as fearful, but cannot identify the source of the fear. As their personal sense of identity disintegrates, they continue to voice a nameless terror as long as they retain the capability of speech, which is gone by the second to third day.

To date, no subject to survived touching the statue while in its lying position.