The SCP Experience - If He Speaks to You, Don’t Fall Asleep | SCP-8188

Episode Date: June 1, 2026

When Agent Marshall encounters a strange man named Mouse in the town of Bellamy, a routine SCP investigation turns into something far more personal. Because once SCP-8188 speaks to you, the real danger begins the next time you fall asleep. Listen ad-free + bonus stories with a 7-day FREE trial of ⁠SCP Premium⁠. Cancel anytime. No commitment. This story is derived from ⁠The SCP Foundation Database⁠ and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0.⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ ⁠⁠⁠ Author:  Jake Bible * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Are you one of those media strategy people clicking through slides, scrolling spreadsheets? Yes? Good. This is for you. Because on Spotify, there's an audience that's different. Locked in. Loyal, invested. They're called fans. Fans don't just listen to music. They feel seen by it, like it belongs to them. So when your brand shows up on Spotify, that's who you're talking to. And you're right next to artists like me, Lizzo. So, are you ready to talk to fans? Spotify Advertising. You're among fans. Tapping his ear, Agent Marshall leans around the corner of the building, trying to get eyes on agents Blanchard and Gordon.

Sound off. Agent Marshall calls overcoms. Give me your positions. Stop. Just stop. Agent Blanchard calls back. Man, you were letting this whole mission lead thing go to your head. Agent Gordon adds. Come on, guys.

We've got to make the best of this, right? Agent Marshall says, You both know that this is a shit assignment. It got dumped in our laps because some senior agents didn't feel. feel like driving 16 hours to investigate some homeless guy harassing folks here and where are we again Bellamy. Blanchardricks. Belamie? Great place. So far, I've seen two dogs humping and a pack of teens walking down the sidewalk, all of them staring down at their phones. Yep, a real live wire of an assignment. Did you read the brief, Marshall? Gordon asks. Yes, I read the brief. Marshall responds.

Most of it, at least. Jesus Christ, Marshall. How did you? How did you? get mission lead again? Blanchard asks, laughing. Couldn't have anything to do with you being Dr. Marshall's kid, could it? Hey, I'm calling BS right there. Marshall snaps. My mother had nothing to do with this. I earned mission lead.

Yeah, sure. You guys suck. Marshall sighs. Okay, I didn't read the whole brief. You stopped when it mentioned dreams, didn't you? Blanchard asks. What's that mean? Gordon asks.

Marshall has a thing with dreams. freaks him out. They do not, Marshall exclaims. Dude. Okay, a little bit. Dreams freak you out, Gordon asks. Why?

Uh, my mother, the eminent scientist, like to conduct little experiments on me as an adolescent. Jesus, Gordon clears his throat. Sorry, man. It's cool, but it just shows that I'm no nepo agent. I sure as hell didn't ask for this assignment. The other two agents stay silent. I didn't.

Christ, guys. Still silent. Then they start laughing. Whatever, you guys suck. Marshall looks up and down the street. Seriously, where are you two? Four shops down, leading in the doorway of the music shop, Blanchard says. Marshall squints against the sun.

Even with his sunglasses on, the light is glaring and harsh. About to give up, he sees the tips of Blanchard's shoes sticking out from a small alcove in front of Percy's music and trade. Gotcha, Blanchard. Gordon? I'm on the same side as you. Sitting on the bus stop bench, reading the local newspaper, Gordon says. Marshall leans out further, but doesn't see a bus stop bench. Other way, dumbass, Gordon says.

Blanchard, chuckles over comms. Greeting his teeth, Marshall turns the other direction and sees Gordon instantly. All right, got you too, Marshall says. Any sign of the anomaly? Instance, Gordon says. The whole town is the anomaly, Marshal. I know that, Gordon. Hmm, thanks for the heads up.

Well, you are referring to SCP-8188A as the anomaly when it's only an instance. Maybe the town is the anomaly, maybe. That's why we're here. The brass wants us to sort it out once and for all to see if Bellamy itself is the issue, or if this instance is actually the entire anomaly. You two done bitching at each other like middle school girls? Blanchard asks with a laugh. And to answer your initial question, Marshal, no.

We haven't seen the anomaly or instance or whatever. it is. If SCP 8188A were here, we'd report. Hey, I'm just trying to keep us all alert and awake, Marshall yawns. I freaking hate stakeouts. Same. Agreed. The comms go silent as the three agents wait at their posts, watching the street, hunting for the instance, while trying to look like they are definitely not foundation agents on a stakeout. Blinking to keep the late afternoon drowsiness at bay, Marshall leans a shoulder against the brick building that makes up one half of the alleyway he's staked out in. The brick is old and rough, and he can feel it through the old sweatshirt he's wearing. At least the assignment allows them to dress down

instead of having to don the black suits that foundation agents typically wear out in the field. Marshall knows why he and the other two were assigned the mission. It wasn't hard to figure out. He didn't even need to run it by his doctor mother. They are the three youngest-looking agents on site. Marshall can barely grow a beard. Blanchard could easily go on undercover at a high school and not even get noticed as the new kid. And Marshall can't count how many times Gordon still gets asked to show his ID when they go out for drinks. As for the whole NEPO agent accusation, Marshall got mission lead, only because he happened to be getting coffee at the same time as the assistant director. He didn't ask for it, doesn't really want it,

but it wasn't like he could say no to the person who was second in command of the entire site. That's what he told himself at the time. Of course, a conversation with his mother revealed most of the truth. A truth, he won't share with the others. Only three, Gordon announces, pulling Marshall from his thoughts. Rattie-looking hoodie. Could be our guy. Marshall leans out just enough to get a view of the man walking toward the bus stop bench. Stay sharp.

He calls overcoms. Don't spook him. He's not the one to worry about getting spooked, Blanchard says. Don't piss yourself, Gordon. Hardy freaking har-har-har-ha-hasshole. Gordon says before he stiffens. then relaxes as the guy in the hoodie approaches the bus stop bench, looks about for a moment, then sits down.

Just say the word, Gordon, Marshall says. Gordon doesn't respond, but Marshall catches just the hint of a head nod from him. The guy in the hoodie shifts about on the bench for a moment. Then he reaches up and pulls his hoodie down so he can ruffle his hair, his bright red hair. Not our guy, Marshall calls. Wrong hair color. Damn it. Lanchard says. Sit tight, Gordon.

Marshall orders. Maybe 8188A will show up because of this kid. He doesn't look more than 17. Yeah, we'll see, Gordon says, causing the redhead to turn and frown at him. Sorry, on a business call. The redhead nods, smiles, shrugs, then scoots as far down the bench as he can get without going off the edge. Making friends like usual, eh, Gordon?

Blanchard laughs. A bus pulls up and the redhead gets on. Gordon waves the driver off and the bus drives a driver off, and the bus drives away. Marshall yawns. Screw this. I need a latte. He says, stretching his arms over his head. You guys want anything?

Nope, I'm good. Moving out of the alley, Marshall looks up and down the quiet street. Then Jay walks over to a coffee shop set between a yarn store and a store with a sign in the window that says shoe repair, even though the place looks completely deserted. The bell above the coffee shop door dings. A young woman behind the counter smiles at Marshall.

What can I get you? A large latte. Whole milk, no syrup. You bet. That's 658. 6.58? That's a very specific number. I'm sorry?

You knew the price right away. Didn't even have to ring it up. The young woman frowns at Marshall. Um, I know what a large latte plus tax costs. Pretty easy to memorize. Marshall laughs. Yeah. Sorry.

Of course you do. Looking about the coffee shop, Marshall takes in all the stacked bags of coffee beans, the pyramid of boutique herbal tea boxes, and the countless shelves of beverage-related items like mugs and coasters and tea infusers. The hiss of the espresso machine behind him makes him turn and watch as the young woman steams his milk. Hey, do you mind if I ask you a question? Marshall asks, walking back up to the counter. I assumed you would. What does that mean? The young woman lets out a breath, finishes steaming the milk, then pours it into a to-go cup over the

espresso. She hands Marshall the latte. 6.58. I'm sorry. Did I offend you? The young woman laughs. Nope. Just not a fan of narcs. Marshall cocks his head. Narc? What narque? Hugh. The young woman looks him up and down. You're trying too hard. The jacket, the sweatshirt, the jeans, the converse.

Not buying it. She nods her chin at Marshall's wrist as he taps his credit card against the tablet. That watch? That's a narc watch. Marshall looks down at his wrist and chuckles. The watch was a present from his mother for his birthday last year. He didn't even think of taking it off. Well, I'm not a narc if that helps. Marshall takes the latte.

But I would like to ask you a couple of questions. No, thanks. Seriously, I'm not a narque. I am an investigator, though. He reaches back and pulls his phone out of his back pocket. He flicks a few times with his thumb, then turns the phone to face the young woman. Do you recognize this guy?

The young woman barely glances at the phone. Nope. You sure? He's been seen around here. Pretty sure he spoke to a woman just outside this coffee shop. Good for him. He's not dangerous that we know of. The young woman's shoulders tense.

She glances at the phone again. Um, maybe I've seen him. He's just some homeless dude. Just some homeless dude? Interesting description for a guy who you maybe have seen. Enjoy your latte officer. The young woman says, then turns and starts cleaning.

up after Marshall's drink order. Marshall laughs, then nods and walks off, tucking his phone back into his jeans pocket. That sounded like it went well, Blanchard says overcomes. Eat shit, Marshall says. What did you say to me? The young woman barks. Get the hell out. No, no, I was talking to one of my partners. Marshall looks back at the young woman. Okay, then get the hell out, Narc. Not a, never mind. Marshall hurries out of the coffee shop, then slams right into someone passing by, nearly crushing his latte between them. Crap! Sorry about that! Marshall says, moving to ease past the man.

Luke? The man asks. Marshall freezes. Holy shit, that's our guy! Blanchard says. We have eyes on him. Gordon says. Just play it cool, Marshall. Marshall so wants to snap back that cool is the only way he plays it.

Instead, he smiles at the guy in the hoodie. Um, yeah. Hey man, how you been? Marshall asks. Oh, you know, just getting by. Been better, been worse. How are you, man? It's been a while, right?

The man still has his hood up, but Marshall can see some features, a nice smile, hooked nose, dark eyes, a long scar on his face, maybe a bandage on his neck, but it's hard to see. Marshall squints and tries to get a better look, but it's like the bandage is there, then not there, then there again. How long has it been? Marshall asks. I don't know, man.

A while. It was senior year, right? At Hollings? The man takes a step of. back. You remember? Yeah, of course, man. You sort of disappeared on us. What happened? The man takes another step back. Where you going, Marcus? We should catch up. Marshal turns to the coffee shop. Buy you a latte or something? Damn, Marshal. Maybe you did do your homework, Gordon says. Marcus, right, that's me. The man nods, then smiles. Um, yeah, sure. But you got to call me mouse.

Mouse! I forgot that's what we called you. Marshall says with a laugh. Stupid me. Not all of his homework, it appears, Blanchard says. Marshall almost responds again. He hears his two partners chuckle. Mouse glances at the coffee shop. Um, I'm going to pass on the latte. He cocks his head.

I thought you hated coffee? What? Me? Nah, love the stuff now. Keeps me awake for finals, you know? Marshall sips his latte. What are you up to? Where are you going to school?

Mouse looks down at the sidewalk, shovels his feet, then rolls his neck on his shoulders. That nocrow, is he presenting aggression? Gordon asks. Marshall lowers his left hand to the side of his leg and gives the sign to hold. He doesn't want Gordon or Blancher jumping the gun and spooking 8188A. Do you remember how we became friends? Mouse asks. Yeah, man, of course.

Marshall has to dig deep. Yes, he read the case file. Yes, he studied the interviews with Marcus Carver's friends. But there was a lot of information, and each friend had a different origin story. What did the guy call him, Luke? With his mind racing, Marshall realizes that the interviews with Lucas Adams never stated how the two met. Shit, shit, shit, shit. He was going to have to wing it.

Yeah, man, of course. At school, at Hollings. Mouse stares at Marshall for several very uncomfortable seconds. Then he nods, reaches out, and pats Marshall's shoulder. It was good to see you, Luke. I miss you. I miss everyone. Don't forget me, okay?

Then he turns on his heels and walks away. Hey, Mouse, what happened to you, man? Senior year. Marshall shouts. Mouse doesn't turn around. Only raises a hand goodbye in response. We're moving now, Blanchard says. I'll try to get ahead of him. I'll hang back and circle around if I need to, Gordon says.

We might be able to box him in. Do not lose sight of him. Marshall whispers. He tosses his latte into a trash can and follows Mouse, keeping a good 10-yard distance between them. He's moving toward an alley, Blanchard. I see it. Getting in position now.

Marshall glances across the street and sees Blanchard hustling to get directly opposite the alley. Gordon, if he turns into the alley, you'll need to run your ass off and get to the other end, got it? Already starting to do that. Good. Mouse turns into the alley. Marshall sprints down the sidewalk. You got him, Blanchard? I see him. He's walking toward a dumpster. Gordon? I'm running, man. Don't lose him. I won't. He's going behind the dumpster!

Blanchard shouts as he runs across the street. Marshall watches as a car screeches. to a halt, its horn blaring at Blanchard. Blanchard ignores the car and gets to the sidewalk, just as Marshall reaches the mouth of the alley. The two agents skid to a halt. Shit! Blanchard shouts.

Where is he? Marshall runs down the alley and stops at the dumpster. He checks one side, checks the other. No, SCP-81-88A. Damn it! Marshall yells. How'd he slip us? It's what this instance does.

Blanchard replies. Dematerializes as soon as he stops being observed. Gordon appeared. at the far end of the alley. He stops and puts his hands on his thighs as he bends over, breathing heavily. He didn't come out this way, Gordon calls. Yeah, we watched him disappear behind this dumpster, Marshall reports. He turns in a circle, looking up at the buildings, boxing them in. How the hell are there no surveillance cameras? The foundation can't keep them active, Blanchard says. They either get vandalized or removed.

By 818A? Blanchard shrugs. What now? Gordon asks. Blanchard grins at Marshall. You spoke with him, so it looks like it's an early to bed night for you, mission lead. Nah, one of you can do the dream stuff, Marshall says. Nice, dry. Gordon huffs from the end of the alley.

Crap. Marshall says. Well, good thing I didn't finish that latte. Blanchard laughs as Gordon jogs up to them, still breathing heavily. Sun down in two hours. He says, wiping sweat. from his forehead. Let's grab dinner and get set up. Marshall and Blanchard nod. They all take a look at the space by the dumpster, the space where 8188A disappeared into thin air. After a quick dinner of

fried chicken and potato wedges from a local supermarket, the three agents head to Marshall's hotel room, rolling three large plastic cases behind them that they'd grabbed from their black SUV. Once inside the hotel room, Blanchard closes the drapes as tightly as possible, then you uses two pinch clamps to hold their ends in place. Gordon immediately sets the cases on one of the hotel room twin beds. Good thing they didn't have another queen room. Gordon opens a case and pulls out audio and video recording equipment. Makes setting up easier.

Are you going to take a sleep aide? Blanchard asks Marshall. No. Marshall replies shaking his head. It could skew the results. Blanchard and Gordon share a look. What? Marshall asks.

Say it. Sleep aides might make the dream last longer, Gordon says. If you get to dream, Blanchard adds. It could also make it harder to wake up, and we don't know what that might mean, Marshall says. It could garner us more intel than the interviewees gave us. Blanchard counters. Maybe staying asleep longer is the answer. Marshall opens his mouth to argue, but stops himself.

Blanchard is right. They are here to get some real answers about 8188A. Staying asleep longer might get them those answers. It could also mean getting stuck in a dream he doesn't want to be stuck in. Marshall growls and then throws up his hands. Fine. Worth a shot. Marshall says. But you two watch me like a hawk.

If things get weird, wake my ass up. You're going to have to define weird. Blanchard says, but with a smile. We're SCP, man. Gordon adds, smiling also. All our shit is weird. You know what I mean. Marshall goes to his suitcase.

He pops it open and pulls out a small, normal-looking toiletry bag. Except with this toiletry bag, he has to press a thumb against it for a zipper to unlock. Marshall snags a vial and an injector from the bag. I hate these things, so one of you will need to administer the sedative. Marshall says as he pops the vial into the injector, then holds it out. I'll do it. Blanchard walks over and accepts the vial.

Marshall nods and takes off his jacket, then his sweatshirt. Gordon continues removing equipment from the cases. Gonna sting, Blanchard says, pressing the injector against Marshall's left bice. Ready? Not waiting for an answer, he depresses the injector's trigger. Marshall winces, then grunts. Damn, that shit hurts. He takes the injector from Blanchard and returns it to the toiletry case.

He then drops his trousers, pulls a pair of sweats from his suitcase, and pulls them on. Gonna get ready, Marshall says, walking to the bathroom. This shit will kick in fast, so have everything set when I get out. No problem. Gordon gives him a thumbs up while Blanchard adds. We're on it. Well, it's Kelly Clarkson with Wayfair. Ever order furniture online and wonder what if?

Like, what if it doesn't hold up? That sofa was four days old. You should have ordered from Wayfair. With Wayfair, there's no what if. Just style you love and quality you can trust. Visit Wayfair.ca. Wayfair, every style, every home. Marshall enters the bathroom, closes and locks the door,

then rests his hands on the sink as he takes several deep breaths. Yes, he's the son of one of the foundation's most prominent research doctors. Most of his colleagues see that as making him lucky. For Marshall, it's a nightmare. He looks in the mirror, recalling the phone conversation he and his mother had, just before he headed to Bellamy with his team. You need to get over your childhood fears, Grant. His mother had said, you need to put those dreams behind you and move on. They weren't dreams, they were nightmares.

Marshall snapped, and I barely slept for most of my teen years. I am well aware. My sleep was disturbed almost as much as yours. Not even close, mother. Oh, grow up, Grant. You are a foundation field agent. If you can't handle what lurks in your own mind, how can you handle all the nightmares that lurk out there in the field?

They will eat you alive. Some literally. I can handle myself fine, mother. Like you said, I'm a foundation field agent, which means I'm trained for this. You only think you are trained for this. I have seen veteran agents come back from assignments and proceed to lose their minds over what they had witnessed.

You don't have a fraction of their strength. Thanks. You know what I mean. So why'd you force this assignment on me? Why have the assistant director make me mission lead? Who says I did any of that, Grant? I know you. You made this happen.

It's why I called. You called because you are scared, and you needed to speak to your mother. This mission might involve dream work. That terrifies you. A knock at the bathroom door brings Marshall out of his thoughts. You good in there, mission lead? Blanchard asks through the door. Gordon's got it all set up.

Ready when you are. Marshall splashes water on his face, takes a deep breath, and unlocks the door. Let's do this. He brushes past Blanchard, squeezes by all of the audio and video equipment set up around his bed, and yanks back the covers. I'm already feeling sleepy. You better be. Blanchard laughs. That shot packs a punch.

Marshall yawns and crawls under the covers. He has a snarky response at the ready, but it slips away just as his head hits the pillow. Then he's gone. out like a drifting falling light. There's a creaking noise, followed by a loud bang and shouting. Marshall's eyes shoot open. Blanchard? Gordon? What's the situation? He asks as he sits up in bed.

Except it's not the same bed that he had fallen asleep in. It's not even the same room. Hello? Marshall calls out. He studies the room he's found himself in. It's a modified hospital room from the looks of it, but one he wouldn't want to stay in. The smell of mildews.

tells him that the stains running down the walls are from some sort of leak. The tile on the floor is cracked or just missing, revealing ancient strips of mortar and glue. There's a door on the far wall, presumably to a bathroom, but it's hanging by one hinge, and whatever space is beyond that is pitch dark. There's a creek, than a bang. Marshall jumps and tries to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He can barely even twitch them. He tries again with the same result. His legs are covered by a soil, blanket, dark brown splotches, stain the less than white material. Marshall reaches out to move the blanket away from his legs, but he can't even accomplish that. His wrists are secured to the bed rails by

thick leather straps. Each strap is buckled tight, and there is a small lock on each buckle, making it impossible for Marshall to remove them. Hello! He shouts, creak and a bang, creak and a bang. No one's coming. A voice whispers from the far corner of the room. They forgot me. What the hell? Marshall yells. Hey, who are you? Get me out of this bed. A shadowed figure takes a step forward, then shakes its head and steps back. The forward movement may have stopped, but the shaking doesn't. The figure almost vibrates as it wedges itself tighter into the corner. Creek, bang. Hey, you, get over here and help me undo these straps, will you? Marshall shouts. Creek, bang, creak, bang.

Hurry, something out there is coming this way. How did we meet? The shaking, shouted figure asks. What? I don't know who you are. You don't remember me? Listen, pal, I don't know what's going on. I don't know where I am. But I do know I need to get out of here. Help me get free of this bed and I'll take you with me. The figure, still shaking, still vibrating, leans forward, just enough for Marshall to make out his features. Marcus? Carver. Mouse, the figure says. I remember. You forgot. No, no, I didn't forget. I just said your name. You forgot. Or you wouldn't be here.

Creek. Bang! Marshal almost wets himself from the shock of the noise. It is coming from directly outside the room's door. Knock, knock! A woman calls from the hallway. Who's there? What the hell? Marshall mutters, confused by the woman answering her own joke.

Mama! Creek! Bang! Mama who? Marcus, I mean, a mouse! Hey, get over here and help me! Mouse cocks his head, and that's when Marshall sees the wound in the man's neck. It's deep and dark, and there's a border of crusty blood around it.

I can't. Mouse eases back into the shadows. No one can. Marshall thrashes against his restraints. It does zero good except to tire him out. The door bursts open, and a woman dressed in bloody scrubs, pushing an instrument cart with only three wheels when there should be four comes hurrying in. Mama gonna knock you out!

The woman shrieks at Marshall. She grabs a rusty bone saw off the instrument card and waves it at Marshall. Mama gonna cut it out! Where there should be eyes, the woman has empty socket. A whitish liquid oozes from the bottom of the orbless holes, dripping down the woman's cheeks to her jawline, where it patters onto her nasty scrubs. Marshall is about to scream, but the cry catches in his throat when he sees the necklace the necklace the necklace he gave his own mother just last year for her birthday. Mom?

Marshall asks. Oh no, ain't no mom here! The woman shrieks and pushes the cart over to Marshall's bed with one hand while still wielding the rusty bone saw with the other. Only mama! Marshall gasps. He knows for certain that it isn't rust on that bone saw. Same color. Wrong substance. Mom? What are you doing? What's wrong with you? The thing before him, which he knows isn't his mother, but can't help but think of it only as his mother,

cocks its head much like mouse had. Nothing wrong with me, son. What's wrong with you? Well, to start, I'm strapped to a hospital bed. Second, none of this can be real. Marshall tries to think of why it can't be real. He can't quite put his finger on it. There's a reason he's sure of it. Would you like me to cut you free? The thing Marshall calls mom asks. Yes, please. Oh no. Mouse whispers from the corner. I'm sorry. So sorry. You, quiet. The mom thing yells. Then it grabs Marshall's right arm just above the wrist. My poor baby is trapped. I will help. I will help. The teeth of the saw cut into Marshall's arm before he can even track what is happening. The pain is pure surprise. So his scream is just a

a half second behind the excruciating agony. Then it all sinks up, and he's screaming, thrashing, shouting for his mother to stop, thrashing more, bleeding, so much bleeding, and finally, falling back against the flat, damp pillows behind him. More mildew stink erupts into the room, now mixed with the copper tang of fresh blood. The sawing stops, but Marshall continues screaming. The mom thing says something, but he can't hear what it is because someone is screaming. Pain erupts in Marshall's head as the flat of the bone saw connects with his temple. Hush! The Mom Thing shouts.

Mouse winds from his corner and slides down onto his ass. Marshall continues to scream. Or is that someone else? He's not sure. One done. Three more to go. The Mom Thing yells. All Marshall feels as warm blood seeping onto the bed,

wetting the blankets and sheets and mattress and... It doesn't feel so bad anymore. Feels kind of nice. So why is he still screaming, he wonders? Why is he still screaming? Blanchard grips Marshall's shoulders, pinning him to the hotel room bed while Gordon loads the injector. This could kill him, Gordon says, placing the injector into Marshall's bicep. Mixing that sedative with his stimulant might stop his heart.

Just do it! Blanchard yells. Marshall's screams break apart as his vocal cords shred. Do it now! Gordon does it. Marshall's eyes shoot open, and he lurches upright despite Blanchard still trying to hold him in place. His screaming doesn't stop. His eyes take everything in.

Then they look down at the bed. Blanchard follows his gaze. Gordon does as well. The two men move back away quietly as Marshall holds up two bloody stumps where his hands used to be. Mama! Marshall screeches. The words coming out garbled and broken. Stub!

Blanchard's attention is drawn to the foot of the bed, where the end of the blanket is slowly darkening with blood. Right where Marshall's feet should have been, the blanket deflates. Gordon has his phone to his ear and is making the call. Control? This is Agent Gordon. We need to reclassify SCP 8188 immediately. He waits and nods, then lets out a small, frightened laugh.

Yeah, I think we're way past just to caution classification. Way past. Blanchard stares at Marshall, who is now slamming his bloody stumps against his head over and over. Don't forget me! A voice whispers in Blanchard's ear. He spins, sees no one, then shakes his head and moves to the hotel room door. Yeah, I'll be outside. He says and leaves.

Right behind you, Gordon says. The team will be here in 30. We should meet them outside. For sure. They glanced at Marshall. Should we secure him? Gordon asks. He's not going anywhere. Blanchard replies as they both walk out the door. He really should have read the whole brief. The door closes, leaving Marshall to bludgeon himself over and over with his bloody stumps.

Through his shredded vocal cords, he cries, Do you remember me, Mama? Do you remember me? Mama, do you remember me? SCP 8188 is a strange recurring phenomenon in the town of Bellamy, involving random individuals who are approached in public by a mysterious man calling himself mouse or Marcus. Witnesses describe him as a pale six-foot-tall male with brown hair, a facial scar, casual dark clothing, and blue sneakers. He appears suddenly outdoors, mistakes victims for someone he once knew,

and addresses them by one of several names tied to their appearance. During the encounter, he asks unsettling personal questions, such as how they became friends before ending with the words, I miss you. He then resumes ordinary behavior until out of sight when he vanishes completely. Afterward, the victim experiences a vivid dream the next time they sleep in a dark and closed space, with each dream reflecting the identity he assigned them.

Once the dream ends, the phenomenon never returns to that person. Thanks for listening. Be sure to click that follow button with all notifications on to get notified every time a new episode is released.