The SCP Experience - I Never Should Have Left Her Alone with The Doll | SCP-2116

Episode Date: March 18, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-2116: I Never Should Have Left Her Alone with The Doll This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2116 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Patrick G. * * * 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

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can't I put some gum in my mouth. I always do before any investigation. In the foundation, we get used to strange missions, but there are still some that manage to catch me off guard sometimes. I've been to some of the weirdest places on Earth and seen some anomalies that most people would never actually believe. Agent Durantz sits next to me like she usually does on our operations.

I'm pretty used to having her around. We've been on at least at least, We've been on at least eight missions together, and have formed something of a bond, at least as far as we can in our line of work. Our personalities mesh well, which makes all of our work easier when we have someone to laugh about it with, even when we see things that would make most people very upset. It's nice to have a reliable partner who was always around, even if we get on each other's nerves.

I can always count on her to be nearby, watching my back, just like I watch hers. Are you nervous? she asks. No, why? You always chew gum when you're nervous. No, I don't. It's just my ritual before every mission, that's all. Yeah, a ritual you started to calm your nerves. It's just like I said, you only chew gum when you're nervous.

I completely disagree, but I'm not going to fight her on it. We can bicker as much as we want, but we still have a job to do. I pull out the file that we were given. and our ride in the van is the best chance to brief ourselves on what we should expect when we reach our destination. So here is where we are going, I say, and show where the picture of the home we're heading toward. The picture shows a one-floor ranch-style home, one that according to our records, was built in the 1960s. It looks like any other house of its kind, but, in our line of work, we know that things aren't always what they seem. The most innocent and unassuming things can turn out to be some of the most horrific.

There's been some disturbances there, strange things that no one has been able to explain. But hopefully we can, as always, Agent Durant says with a little smile. What kinds of disturbances? They don't say. Which tells me they will be fairly easy to spot once we get there. All we know is that we're dealing with something that may require some containment. Our orders say to not let the anomaly spread much further than it already has. They couldn't tell us the specifics of the anomaly?

I guess not. I share her frustration, but it won't do us any good. We just need to roll with the punches as they come. Again, that means it will probably be very apparent once we get there. I wish there was more to go off of. But I also understand how difficult some of the things we investigate can be to actually get any real information about it. Sometimes witnesses to those events lose their minds, or just write their experience off to an overactive imagination.

Sometimes, the things we search for leave no traces behind. It's a toss-up, but hopefully we will find something definitive, or at least something that will become a clue to something greater in the future. We arrive at our destination. It's a small suburban street in the middle of a small town in the rural south. south. Our driver pulls over and parks along the curb. We get out of the van. The home looks nothing like the one in the picture. There isn't a small ranch house ahead of us. There's a two-story home that looks like it belongs in the 1800s and not something that was built in the 1960s. Between

the different size, the front porch that isn't supposed to be there, and the dozens of other differences at first glance, there is obviously some kind of mistake. I think you brought us to the wrong address, Marcus. I tell the agent that drove us, feeling a small prick of annoyance on the back of my neck. This is not the house that we're supposed to be at. Not at all. Marcus glances at the map on his phone, shaking his head. Nope, this is the right place. I'm sure of it. I glance around at the neighborhood surrounding us. It's a small cul-de-sac that loops around from a dead end. There are only about ten houses total on the street. The strange thing is, every other house and that street looks more like the picture than the house in front of us.

They are all small, one-story homes like the one we're looking for. I hope that it was just a simple mistake, and we parked in the wrong spot, but none of those houses look quite like the picture in my hand. Some are close, but not only are the structures not right, but the layouts of the respective yards don't match either. I hold the picture up in front of the taller, older home to help compare it to what it should be. The yard looks very similar, more similar than the rest of them, but the house is completely different, built in an entirely different era. It is the correct address, though, according to the mailbox. Maybe this is the anomaly they were talking about, Agent Durrance suggests beside me.

I can't disagree with that theory. It's certainly obvious enough to change the whole house like this, some sort of temporal replacement? A previous home returning to the place it once stood? It is the first thought that springs to my mind, but we won't know anything definitive until we try to get a closer look at the place. I'm a little reluctant, though. From personal experience, any sort of reality alteration is not something that should be taken lightly. One wrong step could cause any sort of disastrous problem. We could end up turned to dust, transmuted into something else, or cease to have ever existed at all. We carefully approach the porch after instructing Marcus to stay back.

We can't risk sending everyone in together. At least one person should stay behind in case anything bad does happen to us. Hopefully, we'll be fine. Stepping onto the porch is a strange experience. Its old wood creaks under my shoe, but I'm more surprised that I can even see. stand on it. I glance at the photo of the Little Ranch home again, just to be sure that there isn't supposed to be a porch. It shouldn't exist at all, but it's standing there as if it's been

there for a very, very long time. I tap my knuckles against one of the posts on the corners of the porch, and it seems sturdy enough. We push open the door, and the whole house seems to groan when we walk in. The inside of the house looks just as convincing as the outside. It's a lot of the It's almost like stepping into a wormhole and arriving 200 years ago, or at the very least, like finding a place that has been replicated to look that way. It's almost flawless, except for a few things that are too modern to have existed back then. There is a stack of books on the coffee table, but they are all written by current authors, with their digitally designed covers and their modern-day prices labeled in the corners.

Those don't look like they belong with the rest of the house, but almost at that exact moment, those books suddenly change before my eyes. They twist and bend, and suddenly entirely different hard covers are laying in their place. They are leather-bound bindings with no images at all, just faded titles written along the spines and yellowing pages. The books now match the majority of the house. What's going on with this place? Agent Durrance asks. It's like in the middle of transforming into something much older. I would say it's more than in the middle of a transformation.

This house looks like it's in the final 15% bracket until everything in here is replaced by something from two centuries ago. We need to figure out how this started. We climbed the staircase to get to the top floor of the house, another place that isn't supposed to be there, and find the most interesting things so far in one of the bedrooms. An old woman lays dead on the floor beside the bed, clinging to an old doll beside her.

The whole room is an off-putting, faded pink color. A small table stands nearby with an old-fashioned, lacy cloth draped over it. The strangest part is the little tea set that's on the table along with the sweet treats that look just as old as the rest of the house does. It's alarming how innocent it all looks with a corpse nearby. But even more alarming are the treats that continue to keep manifesting on top of the plate, stacking on top of each other to the point that the whole pile keeps tumbling over itself.

Bien-to-a-r-r-r-a-rail. Embarked and profite. Embarked and celebrate. Rigolet. Publié. Savour. Admirate. And profite.

Vi-a-rail, the voice that we love. I shift my attention back to the body of the old woman and the toy beside her. The doll's porcelain skin is coated in a smear of grime and dirt, dimming the once rosy face that's painted onto it.

It's painted onto it. Its pigtails hang from the top of its head and fall down to the red cotton dress that it's wearing. It stares at us with its unblinking eyes. Something lifeless should not make you feel like you're being watched, but I can't shake the feeling that it's looking right at us. I try to ignore it, but the hairs won't stop rising on the back of my neck. I hate dolls, I say honestly.

I always have, ever since I was a kid, but I don't usually have to confirm. that fear in my line of work. Agent Durrance gives me a strange glance, so I elaborate. You don't think it's creepy? Why do they have to look like people? Stuffed animals do the same thing and aren't scary. I don't think that I've ever given it much thought, she says. I used to play with some back in the day, but they, well, they don't look like this one.

So what do we think? Just another item turned by whatever this anomaly here is? It could be. It's your life. looks old enough to belong to the rest of the house. Who is the woman? Agent Durantz asks. Being careful not to disturb the body,

we would never hear the end of it if we damaged anything important about the crime scene. The occupant of the home? Most likely. There isn't a clear sign of death on the first examination. That will be something

for some of our people in the lab to sort out, along with why the house is continuing to change into something much older. While we go about examining the woman, I can feel that doll's stare continuing to follow me, and every time I glance back, I hear the quietest little sound in my ear. I need to get out of that room. I turn my attention to the window and see a few neighbors outside in the yard speaking with Marcus.

I hope that he knows better than to tell any witnesses about anything unusual. But just to be sure, I decide it's the perfect excuse to get away from that doll. I'm going to go outside and check on Marcus. He seems like he has his hands full with the neighbors. I'll fend them off. Do you want to come? I'll stay here, Agent Durant says with a shrug. I'll be fine.

Fair enough. I'll be back in a few minutes. Just as I leave the room, I glance back and see Agent Durrance pick up that doll to examine it more closely. Better her than me. I wouldn't ever want to get that close to that thing, let alone touch it.

One of the neighbors, a frail old woman in a shawl, is outside. I approach her, offering a small greeting before I even begin to start bombarding her with questions. What happened to her house? The neighbor asks. I play coy. What do you mean? It didn't used to look like that. Is the little girl all right? I don't have to feign ignorance for that one. I have no idea who she is referring to since the only person that seemed to be in that house

was far too old to be described that way. What little girl? The one that lives there, of course. Quiet, little peach, always walking around with that doll in her arms. Doll? Yeah, doll. An old ratty thing.

I'm not sure what little girl would ever want to play with something like that, but she seemed inseparable from it. To each their own, but I always hoped she'd find a different toy to play with. Can you describe the doll? Oh. Her wrinkled face scrunches up in thought. Well, it was a very old doll.

Like something my grandmother would have had on her bed. Porcelain, I think. Dirty. Yes. Very dirty. Just to be clear, it wasn't a newer doll? Never? No, no.

It was always that way. She didn't seem to mind all of the filth and never seemed to clean it. She loves it through and through. My mind is racing. I just need to reaffirm that I'm hearing everything clearly. You're saying that it always looked like that? The doll has always looked old?

Yes, she asks with some puzzlement. Of course, it is old. I think back on the doll in the bedroom and the painted eyes looking right at me. If the doll wasn't transformed like everything else, if it always looked that way, then it must have been part of what was changing the rest of the house. transmuting everything to look more like itself, to better fit in maybe.

Thank you. I don't say anything else to the neighbor as I sprint past Marcus and back toward the front door. Even more of the belongings inside have changed in those few minutes that I was gone. The TV remote on the leather couch seems to disintegrate in front of my eyes and is replaced by old marbles that fall off the cushion and roll all around the floor. I don't pay it any mind. None of the things transforming around me are important. The doll has to be the epicenter of everything going wrong with that house.

It is the only thing that makes any sense. It was right next to the woman's body. The neighbor said that the doll has always been here, and it's always looked this way. It wasn't turned into this like everything else in there. It was already that old. It's the only answer that makes sense. I rushed through the house, ignoring the other anomalies around me for the most part.

I only catch a glimpse of the heating systems fading away into woodwork. I see a light bulb turn into a lit candle. I watch as a refrigerator becomes just a wooden cabinet. None of those matter. I need to get to the one item that is apparently never changed and never will. It's Agent Durantz. Maybe I'm too late. Something's wrong upstairs. I hurried to the bottom of the steps and call up to her. Agent Durantz! Nothing. I try again, shouting for her.

Agent Durantz! Agent Durantz! She doesn't respond. There's only silence at the top of those steps. My legs carry me up the stairs as quickly as they can. I'm still shouting for her, still hoping that she will give me some kind of answer. Agent Durantz! In my growing panic, I dropped the professionalism and call out for her by her first name. Catherine! Are you all right?

I rushed to the pink bedroom where we found the doll, and it's still waiting there. But it's not in Agent Durant's hands. like the last time I saw it. The doll lays on the floor, just like it had when we first arrived. The body of that old woman is gone, though, like it just vanished completely from the room, almost as if it was never there at all. Instead, a portrait frame is face down on the floor beside the doll. When I look around, though, I don't see any sign of Agent Durantz. I try again. Agent Durantz! Catherine, where are you? There's only silence. I checked the closet and I crouched to look under the bed, but she isn't there. She isn't anywhere. I get ready

to leave the room and search somewhere else. The overturned frame beside the doll catches my eye again as I stepped past it. I don't recall that frame being on the floor when we first looked around the room. I would have noticed it then, just like I'm noticing it now. When I approach the frame, the doll beside it seems like it's staring right at me. It's watching me come closer, practically daring me to turn over the frame and see what's on the other side. It's the doll's blank stare. It just makes me feel so uneasy. I try not to linger too long on the doll and put my fingers on the frame,

lifting it off of the door. I glance back at the doll still staring at me, still watching and waiting. I turn over the large frame and find an oil painting on the other side. It's old and carefully crafted, an image of a beautiful woman. sitting in a stuffy black dress, with her hair pulled up into a tight, rigid bun. I shake it off. It's not real. It can't be. I stare at the oil painting for a long moment, wondering what it used to be before it changed into something from the 1800s, like everything else in the house. Everything else that changes stays in the spot where it transforms. But that frame doesn't seem to correspond with anything besides perhaps the corpse or...

The face of the painted woman is familiar somehow. but I can't place it at first. But then it clicks, and I realize exactly how I know her. My fingers, grasping the painting, start to shake and I blink hard, trying to snap myself back to some kind of reality, but it's apparently too late. The woman in the painting is Agent Catherine Durant's. Her warm smile is nowhere to be found. The cheeky glint that is usually in her eyes doesn't shine.

The clothes she's wearing are like nothing she would ever wear, but her face is unmistakable. It's my partner. The painted eyes stare right back at mine, not unlike the doll's own drawn stare, but there's something much sadder. The eyes looking at me from that canvas are almost pleading. Between the old-fashioned dress that Agent Durantz would never wear

and the peculiar passiveness on her face, she looks so restrained, so trapped. I glance around at the house around me, the one that now looks like it belongs to a far different time. I look at the painting in my hand, the one that shouldn't exist. Finally, I look back at the doll on the floor, the epicenter of all the strangeness in that home. I take that painting and I run it out of the house,

trying to get it as far from the doll and its apparent power, hoping that leaving the grounds will restore Agent Durant's, but I'm only left with an old painting when I cross the street, with my partner frozen within the strokes of a paintbrush. We set about removing the doll from the location, Marcus carries it out and doesn't suffer the same ill effects as Agent Durrance did. That's at least one thing to be thankful for. We leave the house to complete its transformation,

using the foundation's well-established methods to convince the local neighbors that the house has always looked that way. We even flush and replace the public records to show that it is the oldest house in the community and always has been. When we bring the doll back to base, Its effects start to transform some of our own equipment until we put it in the hands of one of our test subjects, a young female. And once that's done, the doll's power seems to fade.

I look at the dolls faded, chipped, and withered painted eyes while it rests in the arms of that girl, and I see contentment. That was what it wanted. It just wanted to be held by a new girl to play with. Maybe if we can give it that, if we can make sure it always has a little girl hold. holding it in her arms. The doll will be as lifeless as it should be.

As for the changes that the doll made to our reality, they seem permanent. The home on the cul-de-sac still stands with its old architecture and miraculous second floor. The things inside could easily be put inside of a museum, all perfectly replicated. The things that we brought back with us remain unchanged, even the pile of sweets that manifested in the bedroom decay and expire like they should. Nothing goes back to normal, and everything that was once modern is forever reverted to a different era. Agent Durrance remains silent, frozen in time as the unwilling subject of the painting. She only stares in horror at whoever admires the painting.

For some time, I'm not sure what to do with her. I find a place for the painting, hanging it on my wall at work. Every morning, I raise my mug of coffee and wish the painted woman good morning. Just like I always did when she was flesh and bone. Every time I chew gum, I can almost hear her chastising me about my nerves. I wish that we could work together like we used to, but that's not possible anymore. The doll in the house made sure that its changes would last forever, just like the doll itself seemed to, stuck in time as an old thing in a far different world.

Now, things can't go back to the way they used to be anymore. I'll just have to settle for this. At the very least, it's nice to still have my partner in the office. SCP 2116 is a child's doll manufactured sometime in the mid-19th century. SCP 2116 is dressed in a simple red cotton dress with cloth shoes and garments, consistent with 19th century garb. The head is constructed of standard bisque porcelain and painted to resemble an adult female. SCP 2116 is otherwise unremarkable in appearance other than the accumulation of a substantial amount of dirt and grime on the surface.

If SCP 2116 is further than 10 meters from the current SCP 2116-1 for longer than five minutes, its anomalous property will manifest as an alteration to reality within a one-meter radius centered on SCP 2116 itself. The environment, decor, ambient temperature, and furnishings become altered to be more attractive to a prepubescent human female. Tables will be set with a pink tea set with a teapot filled with a sweet red liquid. Various sweet treats will manifest, and the table cover will become a lace tablecloth of a style popular during the mid-19th century. For every hour that SCP 2116 is not in the possession of SCP, 2116-1. The region of altered reality expands by one meter. Testing is shown that items removed from this region of altered reality

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