The SCP Experience - I Think the Furniture in My House is Talking to Me | SCP-2257

Episode Date: February 2, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-2257: I Think the Furniture in My House is Talking to Me  This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2257 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Cyrus Spears * * * 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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Publié. Savoy. Admirate. And profite. Villaray, the voice that we love that we love. Carl had not seen his ex-wife in almost three months. He had come to terms with a lot of things ever since they signed the divorce papers. Things were still difficult whenever she appeared in his mind.

He thought of her blonde hair and her sparkling brown eyes that turned green whenever they were hit by just the right beam of sunlight. He thought of her infectious smile and the sound of her laughter and the warm smattering of freckles that were smeared over the bridge of her nose. He was still in love with her. He could admit that. But every sweet memory of her was tainted with thoughts of that house. Only one year of marriage had been spent in that place,

but it had been enough to drive them apart. He noticed Amy's car pull up, but he did not actually see her until the bell rang over the diner's front door. She didn't look well at all. She was pale, and her blonde hair had turned yellow like straw. She looked up and her eyes caught his from across the room.

They were dull, lifeless. It was like she hadn't slept in weeks. She came to sit across from him and threw her purse down into the booth. She collapsed into her seat and slumped over to set her elbows on top of the table. Her lips were white and chapped. The circles under her eyes were dark like bruises, mixed with leftover eyeliner. Carl hoped that she could not read his thoughts on his face.

Amy had always been good about noticing how he felt. Hey, Amy. He greeted her as kindly as he could. It is good to see you again. That part wasn't a lie. She still treated it like one. She made a face and clenched her jaw as she dragged her hands back towards her chest. Her skin was dry to the point where the skin across her knuckles were splitting

like ripe fruit. I need to ask you something, she said without returning his greeting. Do you remember when we bought our house? Sure, he said. I remember us jumping on it right away. We could hardly resist, she said. Her voice was full of bitterness. They dropped the price so low.

Yeah, he studied her face. Can I get you anything? Coffee? A waffle? When was the last time you ate? I can't eat, she told him. The bitterness. as piled up as she spoke. You didn't fight me for the house when we split up.

Well, Amy, why would I? He shook his head. I didn't want to be there. And why is that? She snapped. He wasn't used to seeing her this way. His Amy was kind and sweet. This was a different woman altogether. She was hungry. She was tired. She was hunched over like an animal being pulled out of its den. Her eyes kept darting around the diner as if she was a friend. that someone or something would come out of the shadows and drag her away. Well, it's not home without you, he said. It seemed the safest answer, even if it was only halfway true. After all, his memories regarding the house were all muddled.

The day he left was the day where all his recollections started to get a little fuzzy. Frankly, he was fine with that. Oh, she snorted. Okay. She slumped against the back of her. against the back of her booth and tucked her hands into her armpits. I had just thought, well, I don't know. She dug her teeth into her bottom lip and looked out the window.

I want to sell it. Okay, he said. I'm not going to fight you on it. Carl, let me finish, she said. I want to sell it, but I can't. Why not? It didn't make any sense to him. Amy had always teased him for being too sentimental.

The last thing she would get attached to would be their starter house where they had barely spent a year before dissolving. She shot him a stern look. You wouldn't believe me if I told you. He paused for a minute and then shrugged. Try me, he said. He spread his hands. Have some coffee. Tell me what is going on.

She shook her head dismissively. But he ordered two coffees anyway. When the waitress walked away, he turned his attention back. to his ex-wife. I know you don't think I believe you, he said. You never believed me. Her words were short. It's the chair.

The chair. His words trailed off as they failed him. He tried to remember what chair she was talking about. Most of the house came fully furnished. They had joked with their realtor that something had to be horribly wrong. If they were getting the house and the furnishings for that sort of price. I don't understand. The blue armchair in the left.

living room. Do you remember? No, he said, although he could vaguely. Ugly blue suede and too short for his tall, lanky frame. He remembered it now. It had smelled like someone dragged it out of a dirty basement. Well, sure, I think so. It is the chair, the refrigerator, the couch, the bed, all of it. She leaned forward again, slamming her palms against the surface of the table between them for emphasis. Every piece of furniture in that goddamn house, Carl, I can't sleep, I can't eat. Her voice started to climb. She was getting panicked. Carl reached across the table to set his hands on top of hers.

He stroked her blistering knuckles in an attempt to soothe her. What do you mean? He asked, softening his voice and hopes that she would do the same. What do you mean? It's the furniture? Furniture is easier to replace than a house. I can't! She was close to screaming.

Carl looked around, embarrassed, trying to gauge whether she was on the verge of causing a scene or if he was just being self-conscious. Do you think I haven't tried that? Every time I touch it, Carl, it screams. It screams? He caught himself staring hard. Her bottom lip bled as it trembled.

You don't believe me, she whispered. Tears welled up in her eyes as blood trickled from her split bottom lip down to her chin. I just... shook his head. You have to understand that I just really don't know what you're talking about. The chair screams when you try to move it? He placed the back of his hand against her forehead. Have you been to a doctor? She smacked his hand away. I don't know why I came here, she said spitefully and stood up. Amy, he grabbed her arm. Sit down, please. Have some coffee at least. You're burning

up. The goddamn chair talks to me, Carl. Her voice kept climbing. Carl tugged on her arm. desperate for her to be quiet. Okay, okay, he tried to placate. I believe you, okay. The chair talks. What does it say? She sat back down. She paused while the waitress set her coffee down in front of her, and she stared at the mug, as if she did not trust it. Lots of things, Amy finally said.

It whispers all the time. It talks to the couch and the coffee table. I don't know. Pleasant conversations, I guess. But I am so sick of hearing it, and I tried to bring in some new things after you left. They rejected it immediately. I tried to order new furniture and have some guys carry the old stuff out. But the chair kept screaming, and I couldn't take it. So I sent everything back that I had bought. That is rough, Carl said.

And that's why you can't eat? Yeah, she admitted. Not only that, but the cutlery rearranges itself on the table if I turn my back. The plates rearrange themselves. themselves too. When I open the fridge, I can hear it droning on and on. I don't really know what it says, but the chair, she shivered. It says it is the god of chairs. The god of chairs? Karl placed a hand against his temple. Okay, and how does it talk to you? Do you just hear it? Amy burst her lips. I think you need to come hear it for yourself, she said. He struggled without thought for a minute. If this This was some sort of joke. He had no idea what she was gaining from it. And if it wasn't a joke, then she needed help. Really, truly, she needed a doctor. If she wanted to sell the house, that was fine. He would help her get in touch with a realtor. But if she was hearing voices, that was a different problem altogether. And maybe she wasn't crazy. It could be a carbon monoxide leak or something, but he wouldn't know unless he checked it all out for himself. Eventually, Carl shrugged and picked his checkup off the table.

Let me take care of this, he said. I'll drive you back, and we'll worry about your car later. I don't think you should be driving. Whatever. She tightened her arms around herself. Carl opened his mouth to say something else, but he just swallowed it and stood to walk over to the register. Lazzang sur-gillet,

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The devil wears Prada too. He's the movie event 20 years in the making. Honestly, came out with the secrets anymore, so I think we just, we should tell her. Will you two please spit it out already? This Friday, be the first to experience it only in theaters.

In light of the recent scandal, I'm here to restore your credibility. Oh, because we're a team now? That's a nice story. The Devil Wares Prada 2 in Theaters Friday. The house was just like he remembered. It was a single floor, one bed, two bath, and painted bright yellow. It had a cute little square lawn in the first. front and a white mailbox with her name painted on the side. Not much had changed since the split.

It made his heart hurt a little bit just to pull into the driveway. Amy looked like she didn't want to get out. She glared at the house, as if it was an animal with its teeth bared, ready to lunge. Carl unfastened his seatbelt and let it zip over his shoulder, taking a deep breath. He almost reached over to touch her leg, but then thought better of it. I can go in first, he said, if you would rather wait. I can come with you. She unbuckled her seatbelt and then opened the passenger door. Carl turned off the car but left his keys in the ignition,

since it wasn't like he needed them here. Amy handed him her own key. Her thin fingers trembled as she dropped the heavy ring into his palm. Carl wanted desperately to hug her, but he couldn't bring himself to make contact. It was an awkward walk up the front steps, although thankfully a short one. As soon as Carl stopped at the door, his heart dropped into his stomach like a stone. Nerves, he was sure.

Or maybe just an unpleasant wash of memories. None of that stopped him from opening the door and stepping over the threshold. Amy did not follow. When Carl glanced behind him, she was standing on the porch, still clenching her hands together so tightly in front of her, that all the blood had drained from her knuckles, leaving them white. I can't do it, Amy's voice quivered. I can't go in.

Okay, Carl said. That's okay. Just wait here. He left the key hanging in the door and stepped in a little deeper. The house was exactly like he remembered it in some ways. It still smelled the same. The lemon yellow kitchen walls looked exactly the same. But then there were boxes and trash,

on the floor from old takeout. He could only assume that it was from what Amy had been eating before she gave up. It was strange, because she had always been so tidy. He kept walking. There were juice glasses left out on the counter and sticky brown puddles forming around old mugs. Carl put his hands into his pockets and stepped into the living room. He tried to ignore the small, dark roaches that scattered from wherever his shoes landed and ran for the corners. She was going to have a hard time selling the place in that state.

Carl felt like he was beginning to understand the source of her distress. It wasn't anything to do with the furniture or voices. It was just that she had let everything get so bad, and she knew what a good professional cleaning job would cost. If the kitchen looked like that, he hated to see what the bedroom looked like. But he would have to, of course. He would have to see what was still functioning, and what might need extra care.

It broke his heart to see the house looking like that. It was like their marriage in a lot of ways, damaged beyond repair. The blue chair still sat by the window, caddy cornered to the couch and across from their 50-inch television. Carl walked over to it and smiled a bit. He rested his hand on the back, even though he still hated the texture, and patted it like an old friend.

Are you the cause of all the trouble here? He asked. Even as he spoke, he started to feel dizzy. It was unbelievably hot in the house. He abandoned the chair to walk over to the wall and checked the thermostat. A strange voice whispered something that was just a little too quiet for him to hear. Carl paused and turned around. He looked at the chair, but his head spun from the action.

It was too hot. and he placed his hand against his temple. He reached out with his other hand to touch the wall and keep himself steady. The muttering was getting louder. It did not sound sinister so much as conversational. It was strange, like he was standing outside a window and looking inside someone else's home. He took an unsteady step closer to the chair.

The words filled his head. They buzzed around the inside of his skull like flies. The voice amplified suddenly, and then more swarmed in from all directions. Somehow he could identify them clearly. He just knew they were coming from the chair, the sofa, and the television. They were all talking at once, a clamor of words that did not make any sense as they sounded both vaguely like English and like another language entirely. Only one voice rose above them all, deep and booming, like a shot going off next to his ear.

I am the God chair. Carl bolted from the front door. His foot landed on a squashed takeout box, and he slipped on a slimy pile of rotten noodles. Carl nearly ate shit, but he managed to keep his balance and not land on his face. He locked his sights on the door and screamed for aiming. He barely registered the sound as it tore out of his mouth. He saw her face one last time, arrowing brown eyes, gaunt cheekbones, and plaster pale skin. Then she slammed the door in his face, and he heard the dead balls shoot into place. Amy!

Carl screamed. He grabbed the door handle and twisted it in every direction as he tried to wrench it free. Amy! What the hell? Let me out! I'm sorry, Carl! She sounded like she was choking on her own tears. But it has to be one of us, and it can't be me. Not anymore. The voices continue to climb and scramble over one another in his head. I am the God Fridge!

I am the God! couch. I am the God chair. I am. I am. Amy, Amy, you can't leave me here. He tried to unlock the deadbolt, but the whole lock had been replaced. He vaguely remembered Amy saying something about changing the locks when he left, but now he realized that neither the deadbolt nor the handle had a latch on his side. It all locked from the outside. He was trapped. His voice was hoarse already. Carl tried to grab a kitchen chair to throw against the window, but it slipped out of his hands and screamed.

The sound pierced his temple and drove him to his knees as his head sank into his hands in agony. Over the din of the voices, he could hear his own car starting in the driveway. Carl glanced up and squinted, catching just the flash of the sun on his hood, as Amy tore into the street and vanished from his sight. RBC Training Ground has discovered potential in over 20,000 Canadian athletes and counting.

Your story could be next. If you've got the drive, they'll help you find your path to the Olympics. Let's see what you've got. Sign up for free at rbc trainingground.ca. SCP 2257 is a one-bedroom, two-bathroom home in a suburban development located in Wisconsin. The exterior presents no anomalous properties. The interior is normally furnished for a small-bedroomed. suburban home. Approximately 48 hours after entering SCP 2257 by any means, all objects and entities

become an instance of SCP 2257-1. SCP 2257-1 refers to anomalous items, most commonly furniture or household appliances, found within SCP 2257. SCP 2257 instances are sapient and capable of speech in English. Subjects converted into SCP 2257-1 instances do not physically change, but gain individualized personalities, voices, and consciousnesses separate from other instances, although interviews imply a telepathic communication between instances. All instances of SCP 2257-1 claim to be the sole deity of their respective physical representation. For example, SCP 2257-1 is a tan, suede armchair that claims to be the god of chairs. Other than these properties, instances of SCP 2257-1 have shown no other anomalous qualities.

At the time of writing, however, testing has consisted only of inanimate objects. It has been implied, however, by instances of SCP 2257-1 that a living entity could become another instance of SCP 2257-1. 1.