The SCP Experience - It Won't Stop Staring At Me | SCP-4548 [Part 2]

Episode Date: August 29, 2025

At a remote mountain camp, a group of inmates enrolled in a mysterious rehabilitation program soon discover that the greatest threat to their freedom—and their sanity—may be written in the stars above. This story was derived from ⁠⁠⁠https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-4548⁠ and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0.⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/⁠⁠⁠ Author: Matt Doggett * * * 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 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

What the hell am I doing? I whispered to myself, sitting hunched in my tiny bedroom over my laptop. At first, when I realized, Barner hadn't yet removed my access to the project system, I was elated. But now, after ensuring I can shut down the entire surveillance system for 10 minutes without leaving any digital crumbs that will lead back to me, I'm not sure if it's worth it. I'd be risking my career and probably my freedom by doing this. And for what? So I can help some 22-year-old convict who killed a cop that had supposedly molested his sister? Robosa's public defender could never prove the cop had ever touched the girl. But the kid had stuck to his story throughout the trial and after.

He never denied murdering the cop. He admitted to me that killing the man was a mistake. He said he should have done things the right way, gone through official channels, that he was so blinded by rage he'd made a mistake when he snuck into the cop's house in the dead of night and stabbed the man 37 times. That's one hell of a mistake. But I have a little sister of my own, although she's grown now. If someone had done something to her?

I look at the computer screen, at the blinking cursor next to the code I've spent the last hour writing. I could be kicked out of the system at any moment, but with a couple of keystrokes, I can shut it down temporarily. I can find Barbosa and tell him I won't. be here to have his back anymore. I can tell him to stay away from the others, no matter what. Doubt, double-knotting my stomach. I switch tabs, pulling up the security camera feeds to see what everyone is up to. What I see immediately makes me sick. Bray is sitting next to a fire pit with half the skin from his face missing. Maybe missing isn't the right word. The skin that he has

torn from his face is in the middle of the cold ashes in the pit. Using a sharp stick, He gouges holes in his facial skin and then uses his fingers to tear strips off. His mouth is moving as he does this, but I can't hear what he's saying. Not until I select the feed, which then fills the entire screen. Sound erupts from the small laptop speakers. He cries, pulling a new strip of skin off. It hates, it hates, it hates, it hates. I switch back, minimizing the feed and shaking my head.

Varner is letting this happen. My decision has been made for me. I locate Barbosa, seeing that he's walking along the edge of the perimeter fence. Ans deep in his pockets. Now that I know where he is, I navigate back to my code. With a few keystrokes, I execute it and then switch back to the feeds. A moment later, they all blink to black. Standing, I slam my laptop shut, toss it on the bed, and run out of the cabin.

By the time I reach Barbosa, I'm out of breath. People are shouting, guards are running around, trying to make sure the perimeter is secure, so none of the subjects escaped during this security blackout. Barbosa looks at me in shock as I run up to him next to the fence. His hands are still bunched into fists in his pockets. What's going on? I'm being sent home, I say huffing. You're going to be on your own.

I needed to warn you. The others are getting violent. You need to stay away from them at all times. And someone else will be conducting the one-on-ones now. There's still a chance you can get sent back to prison with a recommendation. I pause, still struggling to catch my breath as I hold up one hand and a wait-a-minute gesture. You did this? Barbosa asks, gesturing toward the nearest sounds of shouting.

Then his face changes, losing a little of that shell-shocked look. Wait, are the cameras off? I shake my head. It's not important. What's important is... Hey! A voice shouts from the trees nearby. Get away from the fence.

We both turn to see a guard rushing toward us, hand on his holstered sidearm. His name is Donley, and he frowns when he sees me. Donley slows as he approaches, but he doesn't take his hand off his pistol. You're not supposed to be interacting with the subjects, Fitch. What are you doing out here? The guard's attention is on me, and mine is on him,

which is why I only see a flash of movement from Barbosa. At first, it doesn't make any sense. My mind can't compute as one of Barbosa's hands flashes out toward the guard's neck. Donley's eyes go wide. He brings his free hand up and presses it to the side of his neck. Blood appears from behind and beneath his fingers. Lots of blood. He stumbles back, unclipping his holster with his other hand.

But Barbosa is fast. What he lacks in strength, he more than makes up for in speed. I can see that now. I can also see the piece of sharp rock he has in his hand. Before Donley can get the pistol out, Barbosa uses the rock to slice open the skin directly over the guard's eyes, dragging the jagged edge from one side to the other, up and over the bridge of his nose. Blood pours into Donley's eyes, blinding him. He's taken his other hand away from his neck to defend himself, which allows me to see the gaping wound there.

He's already lost a lot of blood. He won't last much longer. As he finally gets his pistol out, Barbosa grabs it and slices Donnell's wrist over. just before yanking the gun out of the man's loosening grip. The whole thing takes about ten seconds, and I'm frozen in place for all of them. Donley collapses to the ground. Barbosa drops the rock and turns to me, situating the gun in his hand. His face!

It's no longer the face of a kid in over his head. Now it's as hard and sharp as the rock that just opened Donley's arteries. His eyes are slits, and his crooked, hate-filled smile sets his jaw at a savage angle. As he lifts the gun toward me, I turn to run, dodging behind the first tree I see. He fires the gun. The bullet tears through the air next to my right ear. I dodge left and right as he fires again. He fires a third time, and something punches into my upper back with so much force I lose my footing, tripping over a root and smashing face-first into a tree trunk.

There's an explosion of blinding blackness in my head before the world is obliterated. Reality comes back to me slowly, riding on waves of experience. excruciating pain that makes me yearn for the nothingness of obliteration. But as the pain evens out, allowing me moments of clear memory, I find myself gasping, trying to push myself off the ground. I'm at the base of the same tree I smashed into. My face is covered in dried blood. My nose is broken and several teeth are loose behind split lips. But it's the back of my right shoulder that's causing the most intense pain. Realizing I've been in the same, shot, I get to my knees and feel for an exit wound on the front of my shoulder or chest.

Nothing. That means the bullet is still in there. As I get to my feet, I clench my teeth so hard the loose ones shift on their sockets, causing me even more pain. I look around, realizing it's eerily quiet. Holding my right arm against my body with my left hand, I drudge uneasily through the woods, back toward the buildings. Coming across the line of fire, and I'm notherly fire pits, I see Bray lying on the ground. I'm not sure whether he's dead because of his self-inflicted injuries until I get closer and see the bullet hole in his chest. He still clutches the bloody sharpened stick he used to rip half his own face off. Thinking it's better than nothing, I pry the stick from his cooling hand before resuming my journey. As I bring the

buildings into view, I see why it's so quiet. Dead bodies litter the ground here and there. I see a few subjects, along with Dr. Varner and Summers. As far as I can tell, they've all been shot. Several other bodies belong to guards, and all their guns are gone. Taken by Barbosa, no doubt. But I don't understand how he killed all these people. Foundation guards are highly trained. They should have been able to handle this, even without the security cameras running. Then it hits me, my part in all this. I suddenly want to collapse and never move again. I let happen. It's my fault. These people are dead. But I can't give up now. I've done enough damage. I need to see if there are any survivors. Leaning against a tree, I look around for signs of life.

Nothing. Then I hear something from the mess hall, a noise like muffled laughter. I move that way, breathing heavily against the pain. Staying low, I approach one of the windows and peer through the corner. In the middle of the mess hall, sitting on the floor are Gamboa, Jiang, and two other members of the research team named Moy and Flanagan. Their arms and ankles are all secured with flex cuffs. The four foundation employees are being held at gunpoint by Barbosa. Moy and Flanagan, both women, are kissing without passion. Barbosa laughs and urges them to keep doing it, always pointing the gun at them. Mid-laugh, Barbose, Barbosa, So, whips his head up toward me.

I ducked down, but I'm not sure I've been fast enough. Shit! Then the sound of an engine comes to my ears. The bus. It's coming from the back of the property, where there's a large carport, under which the bus was parked when we first arrived. I have a moment to rejoice,

thinking there's someone else here, coming to the rescue. But then reality dawns on me. They wouldn't be giving themselves away by driving the noisy bus, unless they were going to flee without trying to save anyone else. trying to save anyone else. Then there's the other option, the more likely one. Barbosa isn't working alone. I run toward the back corner as the bus approaches from the opposite side of the building.

I throw myself around the corner, my thighs burning from staying low, so as not to be seen from inside, if I haven't already been spotted by Barbosa. I listen hard as the bus comes to a stop next to the main entrance. The driver kills the engine, and then there's the unmistakable hydraulic hiss of the, door opening. Taking a risk, I glance around the corner to see Rouse, stepping off the bus, and then going up the steps into the mess hall. Rouse? I think about the last time I saw him.

He was hitting the lake with a stick because he didn't like his reflection. Has he been faking? Have he and Barbosa been working together the whole time? It doesn't matter. What matters are the hostages they're about to leave with. Without thinking too much about it, I run to the bus and climb aboard. I go to the back and duck down on the floor in a footwell. Then I lean out and peer down the aisle, wondering if I should get closer to the front. I still have the sharpened stick. Maybe if Barbosa gets on first, I can stab him and take his gun. But what if he doesn't get on first? What if Rouse has a gun also? Although I didn't see one in his hands, that doesn't mean he doesn't have one. All these thoughts evaporate as I notice the trail of blood I've left down the aisle.

Heart galloping, I scramble out and start wiping the little drops up with my hand, then swiping them off on my jeans. Realizing I'll only leave more, I tucked the back of my shirt into my pants. The blood was dripping off the hem of my shirt, so it should solve the problem for now. I get all the way to the front of the bus before the door to the mess hall opens. Rouse steps out and holds the door for the hostages, who are forced to hop because their ankles are bound together. I glanced down at the drop of blood on one of the bus steps, but there's nothing I can do about it now. I'll be seen if I try to wipe that one up. I just have to hope it gets smeared, or neither captor notices it.

Doubled over, I moved back down to my hiding spot in wait. My right arm is essentially useless, so I gripped the sharp stick in my left hand, crouching in the footwell, ready to jam it into a throat if I see Rouse or Barbosa. But the first person I see is Gamboa, who hops into view. as he makes his way to the back of the bus. Our eyes meet, and he lets out a startled grunt. I shake my head and press my lips together. Not in the back!

Barbosa shouts from the front of the bus. Up here, where I can see you all easily! Gamboa drags his eyes for me and hops along the aisle toward the front. I stay crouched, white-knuckling the stick, ready. But no one else appears. The door closes, the engine starts, and the bus moves. I relax a little. putting my knees down on the floor to give my thighs a break.

As I think about what to do, I hear Rouse shout. Fuck you! This exclamation is followed by a faintly metallic bang, like someone punching the wall of the bus. Chill the fuck out, Rouse, Barbosa says. Keep it together. I can't look at myself right now, man. Makes me sick.

Fine, so don't. Just keep the mirror up like that. I realize two things at once. One is that the bang was Rouse, knocking the big mirror over the driver's seat. up, which means he won't have eyes on the back of the bus while he drives. The other is that he wasn't faking it. He's been affected by the anomaly. He's just not showing the more severe symptoms, at least not yet. I don't dare peek down the aisle. For all I know, Barbosa is sitting backwards

up front, watching his hostages. Or maybe he's standing in the aisle and facing the back to do the same thing. I can't risk it. But what I can do is crawl. I bend down and look underneath the row of seats on the left side of the bus. I can see all the way to the driver between the driver's seat and the left side seat in the first row. Two pairs of fastened-together feet are visible. If I can crawl up there,

I can get closer to Barbosa. Close enough to get the drop on him, maybe. As I'm flattening myself out by extending my legs under the seat behind me, I hear rouse grumbling to himself from the front. I can't make out most of what he's saying, but one word is unmistakable. Hate.

Chill out! Barbosa snaps. I can hear it in your voice, Rouse says. And I can feel you looking at me. I can feel you all looking at me. Just like that fucking thing in the sky. Do I need to drive? There's a moment of silence.

The question gets unanswered. Soon enough, Rouse's grumbling starts up again. He's getting worse. Lightning bolts of pain shoot through my shoulder as I try to use my right arm to crawl under the seats. I suck in her breath, realizing it's going to be impossible. I can't get it. use the arm. Instead, I try crawling without it, holding it behind my back so it doesn't get jostled

much. By the time I make it two seats from where I started, I'm drenched in cold sweat and nearly out of breath. It's not going to work. I can't crawl all the way up there. No way, not without my right arm. I think briefly about trying to slide myself forward on my back, but that's a non-starter with a bullet hole there. There's no way around it. I have to use the aisle. As I awkwardly pull myself up into the footwell two seats ahead of where I started, I can tell we're way past the gates, but still on the bumpy dirt road. Rouse keeps the speed fairly low out of necessity, but we've been driving for long enough that we should be coming to a paved road soon.

He'll drive much faster on a smoother road. I need to do this soon, because what I'm planning might make us crash, and I would rather not do so at high speeds. I stay crouched in the footwell, and I wait. Listening hard to rouse is grumbling. Sweat drips down my face, mixing with the dried blood there. The bullet wound throbs sickeningly.

The fingers of my left hand are going numb because I'm gripping the sharp stick too hard. I try to ease up to slow my racing heart. Then it happens. Rouse screams. Stop staring at me! I lurch up for my hiding spot on legs that barely want to work. As I start toward the front of the bus,

I see Barbosa standing in the aisle between the first two seats. both of which are unoccupied. The four hostages sit in the next two rows on either side. Although Barbosa is facing the back of the bus, his head is currently turned toward Rouse in the driver's seat. He gets two and a half words out, all of which are tinged with barely contained impatience. Nobody is staked.

Then he notices movement and whips his head back around. But by then, I'm only six feet away, racing down the aisle as fast as I can go. Barbosa lifts the pistol in his right hand as I close the distance. But he doesn't get it all the way up. He fires the gun a moment before I throw myself at him, stabbing the stick at his neck. I feel the bullet punch into my left thigh

just a moment before the stick punctures his throat. He may be quick, but I caught him off guard, and there's nowhere to go. I slam into him a moment later, and he crashes back first into the windshield. The glass spider webs under our combined weight. Barbosa cries out as the door-opening mechanism digs into his spine.

Rouse screams and slams on the wall. the brakes, and as the bus comes to a stop, Barbosa and I fall down into the stairwell, ending up in a pile against the door. Somewhere along the way, I lost my grip on the stick, and it's no longer in his throat. In an ironic parody of what Donnelly did earlier after Barbosa slit his throat, he presses one hand against the spurting wound while going for his gun. But he's no longer holding it. I look around frantically for the weapon. But I quickly see it doesn't matter. Rouse is now standing over the stairs with a gun of his own. pointing the weapon down at me.

As his finger tightens on the trigger, I grasp its straws and say, Rouse, it's staring at you. Can't you feel it? He wenses, and his eyes flick up to the ceiling for a moment before moving back down to me. You're looking at me! He shouts.

Stop it! I can see what you don't want me to see. I can read your thoughts. I know you hate me. I know you think I'm pathetic. You can't hide it. Next to me, Barbosa says something that sounds like, Shoot him!

But could be anything. He's gurgling blood now. I must have stabbed him deep. Rouse shifts the gun to him. You too! I can see your hate. I can see it. Don't look in the mirror, Rouse, I say.

My eyes jumping to the mirror he knocked out of the way earlier. Don't look. Don't look in the mirror. Don't look. Don't do it. Rouse turns his head slightly toward the mirror but doesn't look at it. The gun wavers. Then I'm surprised to hear the voices of my colleagues.

Don't look in the mirror, Rouse. Don't look. It starts off as one. voice, but the others quickly join, and pretty soon we're all chanting, everyone but Rouse and Barbosa. Don't look in the mirror! Don't look! Don't look! Don't look! Rouse doesn't know where to point the gun. He shifts it from me to the hostages and back again, then starts the whole cycle over. His eyes bulge as he shakes his head, trying to resist. Finally, he's unable to resist. He whips toward the mirror and looks at his face. His features twist into a sneer of hatred.

He screams. No, God no! He brings the pistol up, jams the barrel into his right eye, and pulls the trigger. The back of his skull comes off. Blood splatters the first several rows of seats as Rouse falls down dead.

I look to my right and see Barbosa staring at me, but his eyes are devoid of life. I inspect my left leg and see that the bullet wound there is bleeding badly. My shoulder wound screams. My face is a kaleidoscope of pain. There's no way I'm getting out of this, dare well without help. Even then, I'm not sure I'll make it. Gamboa hops into view and peers down at me.

I stare at him, trying to find the words to apologize. They don't come. I wonder if there's a toolkit on here, Gamboa says finally. We got to get these zip ties off. You just stay here, Fitch. We'll get you some help soon enough. I nod and try to say. Did I ever say thank you? Gamboa asks, as the ambulance drivers are loading me into the vehicle on a gurney. I shake my head. No need. With some painkillers in me, I think I can finally muster the words for an apology. It won't be enough, not nearly enough, but it's a start. Before I can begin asking for forgiveness, Gambaa speaks again. You have any idea how Barbosa got into the security system? I know you were trying to help him. Did he force you to crash the system on your computer or something? My mouth drops open as I look

into Gamboa's face. There's something in his gaze that tells me he knows exactly what happened. He's giving me an out, or is that just wishful thinking? I clear my throat. Even as I start to speak, I don't know if I'm going to apologize or tell him a lie to save my ass. S. CP 4548 is an anomalous, memetic, cosmological phenomenon with adverse effects on human cognition. It presents as a green star that appears in the night sky to persons who have recently experienced loss or hardship, are predisposed to severe anxiety or suffering from certain schizotipal disorders. The primary anomalous effect of the entity is experienced by individuals who directly view the star with the naked eye, as opposed to seeing a recording or picture of it.

These subjects experience a variety of symptoms that gradually increase in severity over time, including anxiety, paranoia, obsession with the anomaly, and bodily discomfort. Subjects who view the anomaly will lose their ability to discern between various human emotions and malice. Over time, this condition will worsen, and subjects will experience perceived aggression from animals, plants, inanimate objects, concepts, ideas, and their own bodies. The final stages of the affliction typically result in subjects experiencing a total dissociation with their own identity. which they also feel hostility from. As a result, they often try to take their own lives

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