The SCP Experience - Godsnoose | SCP-2121

Episode Date: December 25, 2023

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-2121: Godsnoose This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2121 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 4.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/ 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 #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Oh, God, it hurts. There was blood on my fingertips because of how far I had driven them into my ears. I had shoved them so deep that my ear canals ached. And every now and then, a pulsing thread of pain would shoot across my temple, like a nail being driven through the bone. She drove the tent peg through his temple. It was another voice intruding on my pained thoughts. It was not my own, although it sounded like me.

It filled my skull with the pressure of a steadily inflating balloon, growing bigger and bigger until there was no room for anything else. From the pain in my ears, I was not certain I could hear properly anymore. I certainly could not hear my own fists pounding against the steel door. I could only feel the sharp needles of pain in my fingernails peeling back whenever I tried to tear the hinges free. The voices were coming from inside of me. I had no other way of explaining it. It was like having lungs full of froth, and I could barely breathe. Each voice bubbled up my throat and popped behind my teeth.

They were unintelligible words and languages that I had never studied, and sometimes just screams. My throat was raw from how I had been screaming and wailing with a despair that was not my own. And yet, I felt it deep behind my ribs, like some cold claw of agony that had seized my heart in its frankness. grip. My tongue was too big for my mouth. Rip it out, rip it out. It was stuck between my teeth like pulled taffy, thick, chewy.

Chew it out, swallow it, swallow it home. I pounded my fists against the steel door again, leaving rust-colored streaks of blood in the path of my flaccid fingers. It hurt to blink. My eyelids might as well have been made of sandpaper, the way they scraped over the surface of my eyeballs whenever they slid back. Tears or something thicker, I was not sure, gathered in my ducts and spilled over whenever I tried to close them. I could not remember anything before the pain, and I was not sure there was going to be anything after. If there wasn't after, I hoped that it was silent. I hoped that when all this came to an end, I would be floating in serene darkness, free from a mortal form, free from this disgusting mound of flesh that I inhabited.

I wanted to pray, but the words would not come. The little gold crucifix I always wore around my neck had fallen from its chain, and I had not been able to find it again. I stayed on my knees for what felt like ours, searching the same square feet of dirty white tile to try to find it tucked into some dusty corner. I never did recover it. The chain hung limply around my neck, a sign of failure, draping like a hangman's noose.

A noose, a noose, a noose. Hanging would be better than this. I thought about what it would be like. I touched the gold chain around my neck and considered how hard someone would have to pull for the fine links to sever my trachea and cut off my breathing altogether. Of course, realistically, a gold chain would not do it.

The pretty jewelry would break and the links would scatter, and I would be right back where I started. It was too delicate, too divine, too good for me. The loss of my crucifix had been some sort of sign. I was no longer worthy of God's eyes. He turned his face away from his own son in that final hour, so why would he spend another minute looking at me? I was a wretch, an outcast.

I was not worthy of drawing in one more breath through my slimy, fleshy, ugly human mouth. My two big tongue would just lull and flap around my slippery mouth and push itself into my puppy cheeks, and it would all be flesh, skin, spit, squelching and writhing, only good to feed the maggots. Maggots in the flesh, tiny white bugs buried in goopy red tissue, gnawing at the muscle, twisting intestines filling with gas until they burst. The images would not leave my mind, grotesque, orific. I could see it all so clearly. My bloated body expanding and exploding,

my distended stomach engorged with gas and bulging organs that spilled out hot and sloppy, like chum to call the sharks. Nothing made sense anymore. I touched my necklace again. The chain burned my skin. But I kept pressing my thumb against it. The pain was the only thing that was grounding.

I had a gun in the holster on my waist. No, it has to be a noose. The chain would not work. I would have to use my belt. There was nothing to wrap it around, or I would have done it before the voices filled my head, and before I jammed my fingers into my ears trying to block them out. I was not sure why,

but I knew that if I could break through the door and get to what was on the other side, then everything could end. They never told me what it was. when they handed me my badge and told me my only job was to keep anyone without higher clearance at bay. All I knew was that my shifts were slightly longer than I was used to. But the pay was good enough to make it all worth it. I never asked questions, although maybe I should have.

State executions were never pretty. I had worked death row long enough to know that. I had learned to keep my eyes forward and focus on my job. I never listened. and never looked at their faces. Maybe I should have. But the door was always closed. There was not even a window.

Even the lethal injections had a window where the aggrieved witnesses could look on. None of that was my business. I had been lucky enough to get this job with the record that I had. And so before now, I had followed every rule by the letter and had never even been tempted to peek.

I had never been inside, and now I knew that I had to be. Whatever waited for me in that room had the answer. I pulled on the chain around my throat. I could smell my own burning flesh as it sizzled against my skin like fresh meat on a grill. My mouth watered and my tongue lulled out of my mouth. A thin line of drool spiraled from the tip,

and I felt it hit my wrist. I slammed my head against the steel door. Pain shot across my cranium like an iron bolt. I slammed my meaty, fleshy palm against it in despair. It was the same despair that squeezed my heart and lungs and made it impossible to breathe. I sank down to my knees, dragging my hand and forehead down the door at the same time, and curled inward until I was bent over double with my forehead pressed against my knees. I was in so much pain and drooling excessively,

sinking further and further into overbearing woe that was piling up on my chest like concrete slabs. A martyr. A martyr? Worthy. Qualifying. Lasagne sur-joled, puissance-molyne for 15 minutes. We'd say that's the

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Bookiné. Oh, that also. And profite. Villaray, the voice that we love that we have. I was not aware of falling asleep. If anything, it was not so much

falling asleep as it was simply crumpling underneath the weight of my despair. It was too heavy to move. There was nothing I could do except keep my head pressed against my knees and fight to pull in my own ragged, labored breaths. Hands grabbed my arms and pulled me to my feet. It hurt.

My back and knee screamed, and for a moment I was not sure I could stand upright on my own. Everything tingled, like pins and needles, but worse. My head rolled around on my shoulders like it was full of lead, but I finally managed to turn it enough to look at whoever was holding me in the face. When I sucked my tongue back into my mouth, it was dry. It scraped against my teeth and made the make. We tried.

I caught the tail end of my supervisor's words. Recognition came slower than it should have, considering how many times I saw his face in a week. We thought it would be different. I narrowed my eyes, unable to make sense of what he was saying. If anything, I was surprised that I could hear him at all. He glanced over my head at something else and shrugged. Every movement of his was in slow motion, like I was watching him try to move underwater.

Someone else emerged from my peripheral vision and stepped up to the steel door. They swiped a red card through the black-mounted reader and a green light flashed. My heart leapt, joy unspeakable, rushing through me with such a violent speed that my stomach slashed, and I almost spewed vomit. I managed to swallow it, somehow, and clung to my supervisor as he walked me through the door. At last, at last. I wanted to see what was on the other side. I wanted to stand in its presence and bask in its glory. I was ready for it, whatever it was.

The steel door swung open. and the first thing it revealed was a solid black frame. It was crafted from plain wood, and it swung like the arm of death itself over the center of the room. My heart started beating faster behind my ribs, although it still felt like there was a band of thorns around it, getting tighter and tighter the closer I approached the gibbet. Dangling from the arm was a rope.

From afar, it could have been any rope, but the closer I got, the clearer my vision became. I saw that it was not made of rough hem, but flesh. Grotesque, twisted yards of tissue that looked like pieces had been harvested from all areas of the body. I saw pink, fatty bits of what might have been intestine and red, stringing tendons woven tightly through other things. They were all squished and pulled together to form a hangman's noose.

And even the long rope that attached it to the frame was squishy and pink. Vomit burned as it surged up my throat, and I could no longer keep it down. I hurled, and it all came gushing out, blood and putrid yellow bile that smelled absolutely foul. It splashed all over my supervisor's shoes, and he made a face. But the other man stepped away, seemingly unbothered by the splatter on his neat black slacks.

The other man pulled out a clipboard and pressed his thumb down against the clicker of a ballpoint pen. He nodded to my supervisor and adjusted the rectangular blackboard. black-framed glasses that sat upon his nose. I think we might proceed, he said. His voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a tunnel, but at least I could hear it. My supervisor said something back,

but I did not catch it. I was staring at the noose, the glorious and disgusting noose. It waited for me, dangling invitingly, a promise. It beckoned. I could no longer hear the screams.

The world and, inside my head was serene, almost numbingly silent. If I had a voice any longer, and I doubted that I did, I was not sure I could use it to form any words. My tongue was useless, but the fleshy noose was wet. It glistened in the bright white light like a jewel, pink, white, and red, precious and divine colors of life. A sound came out of me that I did not recognize. It felt like a groan the way it rumbled in my parched throat, but it sounded like the bleeding of a wounded goat. My supervisor looked at me, and I noticed a strange expression crossed the craggy features of his hardened face. He was afraid of it. He was afraid of me. What a fool. If I could

have laughed, I would have. There was nothing to be afraid of. Not for him. Not for me. I was blessed. He was damned. I did not know how I knew. knew, but I did. He was damned, and he would be, forever. He did not believe in God. He cut his faith loose at the age of seven. That was how he could get close. That was why he could still hear and use his fleshy, flapping, slimy tongue. He led me up onto the gibbet. The boards creaked underneath my feet and I swayed, almost giddy in finally receiving my blessing. The noose slipped over my head, dragging a trail of slime against my skin. It smelled foul, like necrotic bowels, and it fit snugly around my throat. The way it pressed against my Adam's apple was almost comforting

in a way, and for a few more blissful seconds, I experienced peace. Then the noose tightened, and everything evacuated my body. The bliss, the peace, the pain, it was all gone. My sight whited out, and the rest of the room vanished around me. I was eclipsed in light like the heavens, and I had been granted a vision. Hot, thick tears streamed down my face. I was not sure at this point if they were pus or blood. When they fell into my mouth, they tasted like pennies and salt. My whole body quaked.

I felt like I was going to be split apart from the inside. It was like being filled with bright, unbearable. light that was breaking me apart at the seams. I could not breathe. My face was hot and dumb, and my pulse pounded hard in my throat, beating against the rope, which beat back. It was alive, twisting and sliding around my neck, squeezing the life out of me as I dangled. The platform gave out underneath my feet. My whole body jerked, and I tried to cry out, but no sound came from the gaping hole of my mouth. Colors flashed across my vision like. an oil painting, slightly grainy, very bright. Vivid, medieval colors as the smell of rotten

bowels filled my nostrils. It consumed me with the sound of screams. There were cries and languages I had never heard, languages I knew that had never been discovered. There were angels, or something like them, with feathery wings being ripped apart, and holes being drilled into the heads of saints until their brains leaked out of the holes like slop. There was the sound of hammers, splitting wood, more screams, splintering bone. I could smell blood and more screams. My mouth was moving, my jaw ached, my tongue was rattling off words I did not even comprehend. The only thing I could hear now was the sound of my steadily decreasing heartbeat thudding in my ears. The noose tightened further and I choked. I could not breathe, I could not feel. My extremities were none.

All I could see was blood like paint on rich floors that I did not recognize. All I could smell was death. All that, too, was starting to fade. It was being replaced by darkness. It was blackness, absolute, like spilled ink. But the quiet never followed. I could still hear them screaming. I could still hear them suffering. I was in agony, just as they were in agony, the saints and angels and the servants of the divine. The servants of God. As I was a servant of God, it all went dark. It all went cold, although it never went silent.

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But he had learned to employ the use of both written words and recordings to get the most out of these hangings. There were not many, after all, and SCP 2121 had proven very resistant to being studied. These sessions were all they had. The uniformed man across from him looked very dissatisfied. The interviewer got his attention only to give him a wry smile. It was just an experiment. The interviewer said, You know better for next time.

We wasted a whole 48 hours on what we knew was not going to work. The uniformed man replied. We knew he was a man of faith when we ran the background check. It never pans out well when they have faith. He qualified because of his history. The interviewer shrugged. So in the end, you don't need to look so glum. We know a little bit more now than we did 48 hours ago.

He spared a look at the gibbet. The man hanging from the end of the fleshy noose was in a horrendous state, with his strangled face purple and his infected eyes bulging out of their sockets. His stomach was round and tight, pressed up against the buttoned uniform like it was ready to burst. Careful getting him down, the interviewer said. Remember the last one exploded on you. I was cleaning maggots out of my teeth for a week, don't remind me, the uniformed man grunted. Do you have all the notes you need?

Yes. The interviewer pulled up the top piece of paper on his clipboard to glance at the one underneath. He won't be giving me anything more, but I will go back to study these names. These are not any saints or divine beings that I recognize. All right, the uniformed man said. I will send someone in to get him down after 24 hours, although I don't think it is going to take that long. I think he is already starting to rot.

The interviewer smiled tightly and then nodded. holding his clipboard against his chest as he walked out. Behind him, the fleshy noose writhed, and it sounded like a chorus of angels singing. SCP 2121 is a hangman's noose composed of a variety of fleshy tissues. The tissue is resistant to all attempts to acquire samples for analysis, but visually appears to be composed of ligaments, tendons, portions of intestine, and a single 1.3 meter tongue, tied and woven together,

into a single rope, which is itself tied in a traditional hangman's knot. The tissues appear fresh and feel wet to the touch, but do not decay or dry out, regardless of environmental conditions. If SCP 2121 is not used to hang a qualifying individual at least once every lunar month, it will begin to emit a chaotic noise composed of screaming, moans of pain, and seemingly panicked vocalizations in a variety of unidentified languages. identified languages. This noise will steadily increase to a maximum of 137 decibels over the course of 24 hours and will not cease until a qualifying individual is hanged using SCP 2121. The noise also has a telepathic component and can be clearly heard by any sapient being, including those who are in soundproof chambers or who are sensorinearally deaf up to a distance of 1.7 kilometers. Any individuals who actively possess faith and any religious belief will become increasingly despondent as the length of exposure increases,

and will attempt to commit suicide via hanging at the earliest possible time. If the affected individual is aware of the existence of SCP 2121, they will attempt to use it to commit suicide, although this is not an overriding compulsion. Individuals who have committed suicide without use of SCP 2121 will not be. experience its other effects. Religious individuals who make physical contact with SCP 2121 outside of active broadcasts experience the same effect to a lesser degree, manifesting symptoms of a variety of depressive disorders with only a slightly increased rate of suicidal ideation and attempts. Qualified subjects hanged using

SCP 2121 will remain conscious for an average of 3.7 minutes longer than expected by use of a non-anomalous noose, and remain capable of speech for the entire duration prior to loss of consciousness. Vocalizations are exclusively of a religious nature, and include wales of shock and despair over the apparent deaths of a variety of divine figures, curses against and insults towards an unidentified and unnamed deific figure, and pleas of mercy towards the same figure. Epithets used to describe the unknown deific figure indicate a tendency towards jealousy and violent retribution. Once an individual is deceased, the body will desiccate, with all bodily fluids exiting the body via orifices and skin pores. Although most liquids will stream downwards off the body to pool below it, all blood will flow towards SCP 2121, into which it will be absorbed.