The SCP Experience - Hear No Evil | SCP-513

Episode Date: June 3, 2025

After fifty years of pushing a mop through blood, bile, and the forgotten corners of a decaying asylum, Eddie thought he'd seen everything. But when a rusted cowbell rang from the basement, something ancient stirred—and now the thing behind the sound won’t stop watching him. This story was derived from ⁠⁠https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-513 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. ⁠⁠https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/⁠ Author: James Tully * * * 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 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Eddie pushed the mop over the mix of blood and vomit, splattered over the linoleum tiles. One of the inmates, no, patience, he always had to remind himself that these psychos were patience, had swallowed the head of a bick razor. Five orderlies had held him down while another forced fingers down his throat, until he heaved up the thing. Eddie had watched the fiasco. He had stood shaking his head. He didn't give a shit about that lunatic, but he knew he'd be the one cleaning up the mess. He'd pushed mops in the loony bin since he was 19, and he was 65 now.

At least he thought he was. He didn't bother counting. He plopped the now-red mop into the yellow bucket, pressed the handle down, and watched the liquid as it squeezed into the old tub. He dunked the mop in the pink water and dropped it back into the pile of blood vomit. God damn it, he said. Nobody heard him. The place was damn near empty at this hour.

The maniacs were locked in their cages and the doctors were at home, tucked into bed with their trophy wives. It was him and the night watchmen. He didn't mind them much. Three good old boys from around the panhandle, but still, he wasn't much for chit-chat. How these kids, everyone under 40 was a kid to old Eddie, got hooked into this mess of a place he couldn't imagine,

and he wasn't going to ask. Eddie heard the clang, clang, clang of an overburdened keychain coming down to the down the hallway. Speaking of the devil, the watchman with the satellite dish ears stepped into the doorway and watched Eddie sliding his ancient mop across the floor. Shit, Ed, what happened? Big Ears said. One of the space cadets sucked down a razor. God damn. Yep. Big Ears stepped back into the hallway, and Eddie heard his keys jangle away. That was about the extent of nighttime conversations around the funny farm, and Eddie liked it that way. Sometimes the one with the scar in his chin would ask Eddie about football.

How about them buccaneers, huh? Scarface would ask. Ed didn't give two shits about football. He dropped his mop in the bucket and leaned on the worn wooden handle. He looked down at the floor. It was barely pink, good enough. He pushed the bucket along by the mop's handle, and the wheels squeaked as he walked through the dim light. He guided the screeching bucket. He guided the screeching out the door and into the hallway where its noise fought with the sound of overworked air conditioning. He squeaked on down the hallway and stopped at a heavy metal door. He breathed slowly and deeply. He remembered the first time he went through that door.

He'd nearly pissed himself. Now he was only annoyed. He pushed the door open and the creaking bucket wheels were drowned out by the sounds of overlapping voices. The hallway was barely lit, which was supposed to help the nut job sleep. But fuck all that did. Eddie pushed his mop and shook his head as the sounds of wailing spilled out from behind the bolted doors that kept the inmates in their cells. Sorry, patience and rooms, he reminded himself.

The muffled sounds of the lunatics was like a cacophony of sea beasts screaming from below water. He fucking hated it. He picked up his pace, pushing the bulls. bucket through the gauntlet of howls. Heavy doors streamed past him as he hustled across the hallway. He kept his eyes on the door at the other end, its tiny window, a light at the end of the expanse.

He made it. He opened the door, jogged through, and slammed it shut. The heavy barrier halted the noise to silence. He stood for a moment and realized that maybe it still got to him after all. Fucking psychos. He got moved. and squeaked his way down the empty, quiet hallway. The lights were still dim, but brighter than what he had sealed behind that door.

He made his way to the custodial closet, his closet, and slid the bucket into a corner. The pink water slashed and then settled with a nice layer of foam on top. Fuck it, he'd empty it tomorrow. He just had to clean the staff shitter, and he could get out of there. He grabbed a tray of cleaning supplies off the shelf and walked, the familiar path to the bathroom. The day was bright and the sun felt good on his face when he walked into work the next day.

He pursed his lips and got himself ready as he pushed the door open. He knew Dr. Smith was going to blind him with that bleached-toothed smile of his. Daytime was different. Night people were quiet. Day people just had to ask you how your morning was. Howdy, Eddie? How was your morning?

And there it was. Eddie loosened his mouth and forced the evening. edges of his lips up. Dr. Smith bared his teeth like a cornered chimp. Ed swore he could see his reflection in those white chicklets. Just fantastic, Doc. How about you? Good, good. Hey, listen, Eddie. I hate to bug you right off the bat. Here we fucking go. But one of the patients, uh, had a bit of an accident. Great, somebody's shit everywhere, Eddie thought. No problem, where at? Eddie asked. His lips.

still struggling against his natural frown. Room 17. I'll head right over. Thanks, Edd. Anytime, Eddie said. He was sure as hell going to have his coffee first. He slipped past the front desk before the receptionist could look up from her phone. Ambush averted.

The day people were out in force as Eddie made his way to the staff lounge. Orderlies and nurses were helping the patients. They guided them to the recreation room to checkups, to the yard, and wherever the hell else they were off to. Eddie didn't care. He was thinking about coffee and trying not to think about smeared shit. He made his way to the staff lounge and poured stale dark roast into a styrofoam cup.

The black sludge rattled his teeth when he gulped it down. It didn't stand a chance. He drained the cup and sucked his teeth. He tossed the cup at the trash can and it bounced off the wall and landed onto the floor. He stooped down, grabbed the cup, and slammed it into the bin. The first mess of the day. He wandered through the bright hallways, heading towards his closet. He nodded at a nurse, and she smiled back.

She pushed a creaking trolley that was covered in clear cups, filled with an assortment of colorful pills, candy for the loons. He made it to the closet and stepped in. The old bucket stood front and center, still filled with bloody vomit water. Shit. He wheeled it to a basin in the corner and flipped it over.

The pink slop flowed down the drain and chunks of something were left behind. He stomped through them through the grate with a booted foot and scraped the residue off his soles against the floor. He popped a hose into the mop bucket and twisted the tap on. He grabbed a tray of his usual shit cleaning supplies off the shelf and waited for the gray water to fill the yellow tub. It did, and he turned the tap off and headed for the cells. These freaking maniacs were always doing something with their fluids.

If it wasn't vomit, it was shit. If it wasn't shit, it was piss. If it wasn't piss, it was blood. They just couldn't keep it in him. The daytime filth almost made him miss the nighttime howls. Almost. He pushed the door to the residential block open and slid the bucket along. It was quiet, mostly.

A few straggling moans dripped from closed doors, but with the locals carted off to their daily routines, there weren't many there to screech at nothing. He shuddered the bucket to a halt outside room 17. An orderly stood by the door holding a napkin over his face. He nodded toward the room. A real shit show in there, Ed. The orderly said. A chuckle filtered through the napkin. Nice, Eddie said.

A pun. typical day people nonsense. He stepped into the room and was not surprised. The smell was brutal. He could taste it in the back of his throat. He wouldn't say he was used to it, but it was normal. Amazing what was normal around here. He remembered seeing a hippo take a dump at a zoo once.

They just let loose and wagged their ragged little tails around like mud-slinging propellers. Well, it looked like a family. of hippos let it rip in room 17. Honestly, he was amazed a human could do all that and get it all over. The brown finger smears on the wall helped paint the picture. Oh God, a pun. The day people virus was unavoidable. It took him two hours to clean the place, and his eyes stung from the river of bleach he unleashed in the tight room. He peeled off the latex gloves from his hands and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. What damn time was it?

He checked the black Casio on his wrist. 6 p.m. Almost time to lock him up and wave goodbye to the smiling day people. Thank God. Lazzang surgellied, puissance-molyne, for 15 minutes.

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as he waited to hear the wave of thuds that meant everyone was bolted up nicely for bedtime.

He was pumping a plunger in the staff bathroom when he heard the bolts clang shut one by one. He flushed

the freed toilet and let the swirling water rinse the pink plunger before he left the bathroom. He shut the lights off behind him.

The usually glaringly bright hallway was dim now, and he breathed deeply as he listened to the silence. He walked to his closet and put the plunger in its place. He reached for trash bags to refill the cans, but his fingers fell into an empty box. He pulled it out and reached into the box behind it. Again, nothing. He pushed empty boxes on the shelves,

and the muffled sound of shifting cardboard filled the space. Damn it, he said to the empty boxes. Now he had to go to the basement. He hadn't been there since Christmas. Doc Smith had made him fish out the Christmas lights. It'll liven up the place, Doc had said. Eddie watched the glazed eyes of the residents do nothing when he switched those lights on.

It was like putting treadmills in a morgue. Anyways, he just popped down, get the bags out, and get out. Not much freaked him out anymore, but that damn basement gave him some solid hebi-jeebies. He could cut around the residential block. Thank God. He was sure they were warming up their singing voices already. He stood at the door of the basement and took a breath before pushing it open.

It creaked as it swung on its hinges. Of course it did. The stairs dropped into the black void below him, and he stared into the abyss. He flipped a switch on the wall, and the old fluorescent lights hummed to light. He walked down the steps, and they screeched with every footfall. Of course they did.

It was bright, though, and the lights had plenty of oomph to fill the old basement. He wasn't scared of the dark anyways. It was something else. He didn't know what, really, but it didn't matter. Something was freaky down there. The basement was unfinished, and wire shelves lined the bare stone walls. The lights were bolted into the sand. were bolted into the ceiling and stood out against the ancient rocks they hung from.

More racks stood free throughout, and Eddie walked through the industrial maze. He didn't slow down, and he didn't look around as he made his way to the shelf he was looking for. He stood in front of the old shelf and scanned across the piles of random items and taped boxes that were squeezed into every available space. They were there somewhere. He grabbed a box of paper towels and dropped it at his feet. More crap was revealed in the gap the box left behind. God damn, what a mess. He pulled another box off the shelf and he heard the sound of metal on metal as he wrestled it out of its place. He dropped it next to the paper towel box and it clanged again. What the hell is that? He looked down and pulled the flaps of the box open. An old,

rusty cowbell laid alone in the two big box. He reached in and reached in and pulled the bell out by the sheet metal handle that was welded to its top. The bell was heavy and had no markings besides the orange rust that polka-dotted its surface. Eddie held the old bell at arm's length and gave it a shake. The sound cracked through the silent basement like an engine backfiring. Eddie flinched and dropped the bell onto the stone floor. It rang out once more as it bounced off the ground, and Ed covered his ears to block out the terrible noise. The basement ate the sound, and Eddie stood staring at the rusted bell.

He rubbed his temples and blinked his eyes. What the hell was that? God damn, nothing was normal in this place. He picked the bell up gently and placed it delicately in one of the few spaces on the shelves. He looked at it again. His ears still rang from the god-awful noise it had made. He shook his head hard, forcing the phantom sound away. Whatever. He spotted the garbage bags behind a box of bedpans and scooped them off the shelf.

He hightailed it out of the basement, switched the lights off, and slammed the door behind him, leaving the old bell resting on the crowded shelves. Eddie shuffled from room to room, replacing garbage bags for the rest of the night. He enjoyed the silence, and it was easy enough to avoid any conversations with the jingle of keys making it loud and clear where the watchmen were strolling. He skirted big ears and turned into the recreation room. Card tables sat empty in the dim light. The old couch by the silent TV showed deep creases

where dazed patients sat for hours staring at nothing. It always fascinated Eddie that they were pushed into this room, plopped down in chairs in front of card decks and fuzzy TVs, as if everyone expected the goddamn psychos to suddenly come alive and deal each other hands of canasta. They didn't. ever. They held their hands folded in their laps and let their chins fall to their chest. The cards stayed undelt and the TV kept yapping at a comatose room. Eddie bent down and dropped a bag into

a bin against the wall. He wrapped the black bag around the rim and tied a knot in the excess plastic to keep it in place. He wondered how many of those damned knots he'd died. Maybe it was time to head down to Key West. When was the last time he took a vacation? He could kill a plate of shrimp, and that pie? The ruffle of shuffling cards was loud in the silence. Eddie swung around and looked toward the noise. A table against the far wall was almost entirely dark in the shadows, but sitting at one of the chairs was something. The sound came again from the looking shadow. Eddie's heart sunk and he grabbed his chest. Hey! He yelled at the shadow as he stumbled backwards. He slipped over the trash can and tried to catch himself with the chair. Eddie, the

can and the chairs all clattered to the ground and a loud heap. What the hell? Eddie, man, are you all right? It was big ears. He reached down to help Eddie up, but Eddie was already kicking the tangled chair off his legs and getting to his feet. Who is that? Eddie shouted. and pointed to the shuffling shadow. Who? Calm down, man. Big Ears said, and switched the lights to full blast. Eddie shielded his half-shud eyes against the blaze.

At that fucking table! Ed said while his eyes adjusted. Where? Oh, come on. Right fucking! Eddie lowered his hand and looked at the table. It was empty. A deck of cards was stacked neatly and alone in the center.

Big Ears took his hat off and slid his other hand, through his black hair. It's getting late. Why don't you head out? Big Ears said. He put his hat back on and looked at Eddie with warm eyes. Eddie hated that shit.

He didn't need sympathy, and much less from this kid. He did have a point, though. Yeah, I guess you're right. You sure you're good? Yeah, yeah, I am. Like you said, long day. All right, man. Just take it easy.

Big Ears went back to his. rounds, and Eddie stood alone in the brightly lit room. He stared at the table with the cards. What the hell? Was this place finally sending him over the edge? Nah, just tired. Maybe he'd huffed too much bleach earlier. Who knows? Who cares? Time to go home. It was another bright day when Eddie walked into work the next afternoon. The birds sang, and Eddie frowned as he shoved the door open. He made his way through the gauntlet of smiles and small talk before finally closing the door of his closet behind him. He leaned against the door and rubbed his face. He was getting tired of this shit. He grabbed some

things off the shelf. He'd go wipe down tables. That'll look nice and busy. People don't usually bother him when he was busy. The walk to the wreck room was mercifully devoid of chit-chat. He stepped in and looked around. He'd have to work around the patience, but that wasn't too bad. Just avoid eye contact with the zombies and everything was fine. Usually. He leaned between two men who didn't shift a muscle. It smelled like they needed their diapers changed, but that was none of his damn business, thankfully. He squeezed some green liquid from a spray bottle, and it fell nicely onto the vinyl tabletop. It smelled sharply of chemicals. The chemical smell mixing with whatever was squished up in those diapers was very familiar. He swiped a rag across the

white table, and strands of green slid out from behind the cloth like the trail of a decaying snail. It smelled like one too as the swing of his arm wafted the chemical diaper smell into the air. He wondered what it was like to just sit there and let it loose. They'd sit and stare, and their eyes wouldn't move as they filled up those diapers. He tried not to think that it could be him in a few years. He finished wiping the table and chucked the green-stained rag into his tray. He stepped back, careful not to nudge any of the statues that sat idle around him. It really was freaky. He never got used to seeing them staring. How the hell were they the same people that screamed bloody murder all night? It was just him and Mike, one of the day people orderlies,

and the patients. Mike sat against the wall reading the funny pages of the Gazette. He was all right, not much for talking. The ceiling fans spun lazily, and their motors hummed over the sound of the TV set. Nobody was watching the reruns of Gilligan's Island that blinked across the screen. It wasn't like this in the movies. They always had a cast of lovable lunatics, a clown, a stoic, some sort of wise maniac. People were always yapping. Things happened.

Nothing happened here. There was nobody talking to imaginary friends. There was no one going on about reptilians taking over the government. Nobody philosophized over their cups of pills. Here, the fans spun, the TV droned, and the patients watched nothing with their glazed eyes. Eddie shook his head as he balanced his tray on the mop bucket. What a fucking wreck of a place.

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The Voice That Wee The Voice Kornem The Sound of Shuffling Cards ripped through the familiar din of the room Eddie's mouth went dry And he looked

toward the noise His eyes stretched wide But his vision tunnelled He saw the man sitting at the table again His face was shadowed But his damn white teeth dripped from inside the darkness.

The Shadowman's fingers gripped the cards like tarantula legs as he shuffled the deck. Eddie tried to swallow as he stepped backwards, but his dry tongue filled his mouth. He bumped the mock bucket, and the tray fell to the ground. He stumbled backwards with his mouth hanging open, but said nothing. You all right, Eddie? Mike said, but Ed's heart was pounding in his ears. Mike jogged to Ed and grabbed him before he tripped to the floor. Edman, what the fuck?

Look! Eddie felt Mike's arms holding him as his legs turned to jelly. He looked up with still gaping eyes. Right there! He's there! Eddie said as he pointed at the shuffling shadow. Damn, man, take it easy! Mike said, as he helped Eddie find his footing.

Take it easy? Who is... But the shadow man was gone. Eddie looked at the empty table with the stacked cards and felt acid climbing up from his stomach. His dry tongue turned wet, and his mouth was gone. filled with saliva. He bent over and puked up coffee-black vomit. It splashed loudly to the floor, and he let out another load with a loud wretch. Shit, man, Mike said. Another wretch, and this time only bile dripped out of Eddie's shaking lips.

Maybe you should go home, was all Mike would think to say as he watched Eddie. I'm all right, Eddie said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. At least sit down for a minute. I said I'm fine. All right, shit, relax, Mike said. He raised his hands in surrender and walked back to his chair. He picked the newspaper up and tried to ignore the coffee and bile smell that the fans pushed around the room. Eddie looked at the black muck around his feet. Fantastic.

Time to clean up his own mess. He pulled the mop from the bucket and shoved it across the bottle. What was going on with him? Who hell was that? He always worried he'd lose his mind in this place, but it was usually a funny thought. The irony of it all. Him cleaning up after these people day after day, night after night, until he was sitting right there with them, not watching reruns.

It usually made him laugh. It didn't, this time. He thought of that white-toothed shadow and its spider fingers. And twice? Come on. Someone must be fucking with him. He squeezed blood. black vomit into the bucket and shoved the mop back into the pile.

Nah, he knew no one was doing that. No one ever did anything like that here. It was either plastic small talk from day people or nodding grunts from night people. It could be one of the loons, but he'd never seen a single one of those freaks do more than shambled to their perch. Another squeeze of black liquid, another slide of the mob.

No, he saw it. He fucking saw it. Twice. those damn fingers. That sound. There it was again. He turned to the noise but saw nothing. Come on, Ed, get it together. You're going to be sucking down cups full of psycho candy if you don't relax. Said someone. Eddie spun towards Mike. What did you say? Mike looked over the top of his paper. I didn't say shit, he said, and went back to reading.

Eddie shook his head and mopped up the last of his keep. He started his walk back to his closet. He never wanted to be a janitor. Come to think of it. He never really wanted to be anything. When his fifth grade teacher asked the class what they wanted to be when they grew up, he said cosmetologist, because the girl before him said it. He thought they were the guys that went to space. Somehow he graduated. It took him an extra year, but he did it, and slung his application into the mail slot at the hospital after he saw the ad in the classifieds. Lo and behold, he was pushing a mop through the halls a week later. Those fucking halls. The lights were louder than normal as he walked under their oppressive glow. You'd think in 50 years they would have switched to something

better. But no, the same shitty lights that beat down on him back then lit his path now. A nurse nodded and smiled as he passed, but he didn't notice. Those goddamn cards. He felt like he could still hear the sound of their crisp paper snapping against each other. He wasn't losing his mind. He knew what he saw. So what if no one else did? They didn't notice shit around this dump. It was always up to him to stumble into whatever needed cleaning or fixing or moving or what.

They were all just as bad as the patients. The damn doctors with their shiny white lab coats. He knew they thought he was nothing. Their smiles disgusted him. What did they know about a hard day's work? And the nurses following the doctors like lost puppy. Yes, sirring everything the lab coats said. And the orderlies were nothing but piles of muscle

to keep the patients from going berserk. But that never happened, so the meatheads just got a free ride while Eddie cleaned up the mess. And the watchmen. Well, they were all right, actually, night people and all. His head was pounding when he opened his closet door. He slammed it behind him and shoved his mop into a corner.

It rattled against the shelves and brown water slashed onto the floor. Fuck! he yelled. He pulled a box off the shelf, and bottles of floor cleaner rolled across the floor. He screamed from his chest, picked the bottles up one by one, and slammed them onto the ground. They burst in explosions of purple liquid. This goddamn place! He shouted, punctuating each word with another destroyed bottle. His chest heaved as he stood over the purple puddle.

The sound of his lungs, sucking air, and the drip of bubbling liquid. falling into the drain were the only noise that filled the closet. He closed his eyes and thought of blue ocean water as he steadied himself. Time to retire and get the hell out of here. He'd head down to the keys and drink Mai Ties on the beach until his heart finally gave out. They'd find him croaked in a beach chair, sunburnt and smiling, a million miles away from the nearest mop bucket. He opened his eyes and sighed as he looked around the old closet. The purple fluid still dripped steadily down the drain, and the single light bulb that hung from the ceiling was enough to light the depressing room. He could almost taste the rum on his lips. He was so ready to be done.

A series of thumps filtered into the room through the walls, the patience being locked up for the night. He felt a wait to come off his shoulders. At least he had the night to himself if he played it right. Shit, he'd just stay in his closet for a while. He pulled a sealed box of toilet paper off the shelf and sat down on it. His head still pounded. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. White teeth flashed from the black shadow behind his eyelids. He gasped and opened his eyes. No, no, he was fine. Just a memory. Eddie? said a voice from outside the door. Eddie gathered himself, stood, and opened it. Scarface was standing there with his hands resting on his belt. Hey man, couldn't find you. Well, here I am.

Yeah, uh, Doc told me to tell you that residential needs to be mopped. You mean tonight? Yep, Scarface said. He looked down at the floor. Come on, man. Hey, I'm just here to pass the word, Scarface said and held his hands up. All right, Eddie said. He closed the door and ended the conversation. He never cleaned over there at night. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with those clowns screaming at nothing, while he dragged that fuck. walking mop around. And tonight of all nights, after the shit he had seen, he could just skip it. Probably no one would notice.

He thought about it, but just couldn't do it. He might be at the breaking point with this damn job, but he still had some pride. He replaced the water in the mop bucket and headed towards the residential block. He stopped outside the door and tore a sheet of paper towel from the roll he had slipped over the bucket's handle. He peeled it in two, balled up the fragments, and shoved them into his ears. He pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway. The sound was immediate.

The paper in his ears muffled the already foggy noise, but the steady screams still pressed into his head. He slapped his mop onto the floor and tried to ignore it. He mopped a spot, then moved his bucket along and mopped again. He mopped and pushed and pushed and mopped, and the sound. was relentless. He felt his teeth crushing against each other and saw his knuckles white against the mop's brown handle. That damn sound. The hallway was dark. The lights dimmed again in the useless attempt to calm the people locked behind the metal

doors. Eddie shifted across the floor again and continued to sweep his mop in arches across the gray tiles. The wailing got louder and louder. The plugs in his ears were losing the fight, and his face was twisted into a grimace. He hated these fucking people. Better off just to sneak some cyanide into their candy cups and be done with it. What use were they anyways? The sound continued its crescendo. Even the heavy doors did little to block the screaming chorus. Eddie wasn't a violent guy, but damn if he wouldn't volunteer to slip the poison to these fucks. Shit, at this point, he'd walk down that hallway with a nine millimeter and put a bullet through the face of each of them, one by one. That'd shut him up. Maybe a knife would be better.

Really give him something to choke on. It's never too early to plan your summer story in Europe with WestJet, from rolling countryside to cobblestone streets. Begin your next chapter. Book your seat at westjet.com or call your travel agent. WestJet, where your story takes off. He pushed the mop along with white knuckles and grinded his teeth to fight the noise. It was unbelievable now. How the hell did those comatose motherfuckers manage to make that racket? He threw his mop to the floor and squeezed his hands over his ears. He could feel the pressure of the air as it was shoved into his eardrums.

Shut! He yelled, really giving the last word some oomph. The terrible noise snapped to silence. The hall was still. Holy shit! They listened to him. Imagine that. He pulled the paper from his ear slowly,

not believing the hell hall was still. finally quiet. He could hear the old white clock halfway down the hall ticking away the seconds. He whispered to himself. His voice was loud in the empty silence. The metallic noise cracked through the room like sharp thunder. Eddie fell to his knees and covered his ears. His head pounded and his heart skipped. That sound. He knew that sound. It was the bell. He looked toward the door at the end of the hall, his way out. He stood and started running. toward the square of light that glowed through the door's window. He stumbled and caught himself.

He looked up and saw something blocking the window's light. He slowed to a jog and squinted through the dark. He sighed. The shadow moved, and tarantula fingers shook a rusted cowbell on the other side of the door. He fell as he tried to turn 180 on his feet, crawled on hands and knees until he could pull his legs under him. He was sprinting for the other door. Again he focused on the square of light that seemed to glow.

golden in the darkness. Metal doors streamed by, but he barely saw them as the edges of his vision closed in. His foot hid his discarded mop, and he fell hard onto the yellow bucket. Dirty, soapy water spilled onto the floor and spread down the hall in front of him. He slipped in the slick puddle and slid down the hallway, flailing his limbs like a pathetic turtle. His head smashed against the heavy door, and he looked up at the yellow light in the window. Stars filled his vision, he squinted through them. He climbed to his feet and wrapped his hand around the door handle. Get out of here. Get out of this place. Run! He felt his eyes water. Some unfamiliar feeling of terror and joy. He was going to get the fuck out of there. He pulled down on the handle. It didn't move.

He grabbed it with two hands and rattled it. Still, it did not budge. He shouted at the unmoving door. He pulled and kicked and pounded and pushed. Help! He yelled at the metal bed. He yelled at the metal barrier. He shouted, but he knew how well that door blocked the sounds that filled that place at night. He stopped his struggle and looked out the door's window. Big Ears was walking down the hall on the other side, chomping away at a powdered donut. He pounded against the door. Big ears didn't look up from his pastry. The light disappeared from the window and Eddie jerked his head back. His lips quivered and the tears finally fell from his eyes. The joy was gone now, dread filled him.

No! He said, backing away from the door slowly. He fell to the floor and clawed at his face as he stared up at the darkened window. He sobbed as he looked at the wide-mouthed grin that spread from behind the glass. Jagged, bone-white teeth stuck out from wet pink gums that shone like raw meat. Eddie grabbed his knees and laid crying in a soapy puddle. Finally, they found him the next day laying in a drying puddle of a frying puddle of soap. He was babbling something about mitis and tarantulas. The hospital had admitted him shortly

after, might as well. No need to ship him off when he was already there. They'd fed him his pills and wheeled him to the wreck room. They set him up nicely between two other unmoving patients. He said nothing then. He had finished his ramblings hours ago. His blank eyes stared at nothing, and his hands sat folded in his lap. He couldn't force the fog from his brain. His eyes pulled wide as he heard the sound. Something deep inside the fog remembered. Mike looked over at him with his eyebrow raised. Oh!

Eddie filled his diaper as he heard the sound of shoveling cards pierced through his stupor. SCP 513 is a rusty, unremarkable cowbell that emits a sound inducing immediate and intense anxiety in any sentient being who hears it. After exposure, individuals begin to experience hallucination of a mysterious entity, designated SCP 513-1, an emaciated humanoid with large hands

that appears during sudden visual shifts, always vanishing before others can see it. These recurring sightings cause severe sleep deprivation and escalating psychological deterioration, including paranoia, aggression, and depression. Victims are often physically attacked in their sleep and ultimately driven to suicide. SCP 513-1 is visible only to those exposed to the bell,

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