The SCP Experience - It's in the Eyes | SCP-1532

Episode Date: June 22, 2022

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-1532: It's in the Eyes This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1532, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drscp #scp #scpfoundation #doctorscp #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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I run up the concrete stairs from the basement, reaching for the doorknob as a hand wraps around my ankle and yanks. I hit the steps hard, but I don't go tumbling down them. With my other leg, I kick back, striking the big man in the face. His pale white skin is covered in cuts and abrasions, but he shows no signs of slowing. The muscles of his arms bulge as he grabs my ankle with both hands, keeping himself from falling down the stairs. His head is shaved to the scalp. The skin there only marred by the cuts and gashes where my blows have landed.

His eyes are lifeless as he looks at me. His mouth, a slim line under his bleeding nose. I kick him in the face again and again. His grip loosens for a moment, allowing me to yank my other foot away and scramble up through the basement door into the laundry room. A quick glance behind me shows my attacker getting to his feet and lurching through the open doorway.

Running into the kitchen, I grab a bread knife off the table. I hear Mother's voice from upstairs, calling out to see if I'm okay. I ignore her. Footsteps rumble toward me as the huge bald man stumbles through the kitchen, chasing me into the living room. I turn and face him once I'm on the other side of the coffee table. To my right, there's a stone fireplace. To my left, a blue faux leather couch.

The front windows of the house are behind me, providing a view of an idyllic suburban street through half-closed curtains. The man stops on the other side of the coffee table, his muscular chest heaving with each breath. His eyes are still lifeless, which sends a bolt of anger through my body. Come on! I yell at him.

What's that, honey? Mother says from upstairs. The man is big, but he's not at all that fast. He's not built for speed. So he reaches down to grab the side of the rectangular coffee table. I can see his play. He plans to flip the table up, knocking me down so he can beat me with his stony fists.

I'm moving left as he throws the table, which misses me by about two inches. I take two steps on the couch, repositioning as I go. I leap from the couch and launch myself at the guy. I shoulder check him while I'm still airborne, all my weight hitting him. He manages to keep to his feet for two steps

as he stumbles sideways, but then he falls, smacking the side of his bald head against the stone fireplace. The bread knife in my hand doesn't have a sharp point. It's not good for stabbing. But the serrated cutting edge is good for slicing. I waste no time, dropping onto the man

and dragging the blade across his neck, putting as much force into it as I can. The skin separates reluctantly at first. But once I'm through the tough outer layer, the going gets much easier. Blood sprays out of his neck, as his eyes dance violently behind closed eyelids. I'm guessing the hit to the head has done some serious damage, but I won't leave it to chance.

I keep working the blade back and forth in a sawing motion until most of his blood has left his body, and the pumping of his struggling heart yields nothing but tiny spurts. Breathing hard, I stand up, wet with the big man's blood. Wow, I say, that was close. Feeling warm wetness on my face, I stick my tongue out and lick blood from around my mouth. What was all that racket? mother says from behind me. I turn around and see that she's halfway down the stairs,

looking over the banister and into the living room. Nothing, mother, I say. Don't worry about it. I've got this. She bunches her hands in the fabric of her floral apron, looking at me. I avoid her eyes, looking instead at her chin. Are you sure? She says. You're a mess.

Would you like something to eat? I'm fine for now, mother. Thank you. She smiles distractedly. and nods, her curled, brownish red hair bobbing with the movement. I'll just be upstairs straightening up if you need me, she says, heading back up the stairs. Looking back down at the now-dead bald man, I mull over the best way to clean up the mess. The sound of a vehicle slowing outside catches my attention.

I move quickly over to the front window to look out. A blue van with white riding on the side pulls up in front of my house. After a moment, the back door slides open and outsteps a beautiful Hispanic woman. Her caramel skin looks rich in the sunlight, and her perfectly sculpted dark hair glints as she moves, closing the door behind her. She walks up to the house over my uniformly trimmed lawn. I watch her from the window, excitement growing in my belly. Before she can ring the doorbell or knock, I move over to the front door and open it,

reaching quickly out and grabbing her wrist. Come in, I say, pulling her inside. Hello, she says. I'm, I know you are, be quiet. They're watching. I close the door and move over to the window, seeing the blue van drive off. Who's watching? The woman says in a whisper. I turn from the window and look into her eyes.

What I see there, or the lack of what I see there, dampens the excitement I'm feeling. I try to shrug it off. Come on, I say, grabbing her wrist and pulling her deeper into the house. If she notices the bloody mess in the living room, she doesn't say anything. I sit her down at the table in the kitchen and tell her to stay put. Okay, she says. Don't be long, though.

I pull out my phone and dial a 15-digit number from memory. A feminine voice says, Thank you for calling Dr. Gales. Yeah, yeah, I say. I'm sure you know who this. is let me speak to your manager no problem mr. Truman the voice says hold one moment please jazz music plays in my ear for about a minute before another voice comes on the line this one also female hello thanks for calling do you know who

this is I ask wandering back toward the front of the house do you have my purchase history open yes mr. Truman how can I help you I'm not getting what I'm asking for I've been very disappointed with my last several purchases What exactly is the problem? The sound of revving engines and screeching tires comes to me from outside. I rest toward the front door and see half a dozen police vehicles in front of my house. Men are pouring out of them, running up to my front door. Uh, I'll call you back.

I say, ending the call. Mother! I shot up the stairs. Answer the door in exactly two minutes. Okay, dear. Mother says, I run back through the kitchen, passing the Hispanic woman, and ducking down the stairs into the basement. I stop in the middle of the wide underground room, looking around, wondering if it's worth bothering with.

I can hear banging and shouting from upstairs. They'll probably break the door down soon. My most recent kills are arranged on two rimmed metal tables. Their ribcage is torn open. One of them is a black woman, the other an Asian man. The man's brain is exposed because I'd removed the top of his skull two days ago. Even if there is a way I could hide these bodies, there's no way I could take care of the dead muscle man upstairs

before the police burst in. Realizing there's nothing I can do to get rid of the evidence, I embrace my only other option. I head back up the stairs, through a great cracking sound as they break the front door. Lay on the ground! Soon, police are surrounding me in the kitchen, yelling at me to get on the floor.

I do as I'm told, glancing up at the Hispanic woman. Although there's fear on her face as the police put her in hand, her eyes are still lifeless. Twelve hours later, I'm sitting in an interrogation room alone. After all their tricks and tactics, my story hasn't changed. And at first, they didn't believe it. How could they? But after some checking, it became clear that they were in over their heads. Now, I assume, they'll bring in some specialists, maybe the FBI or some other organization I've never heard of. Sure enough, two guys I've never seen before come into the room. They both wear rumpled suits, as if they've been sitting in a car or a plane for several hours.

One of them is middle-aged and balding, his horseshoe of black hair surrounding a smooth and reflective dome. I think of the Asian man with his brain exposed in my basement, wondering what the difference is between his brain and this man's. Although he's probably not in my basement anymore, he's probably in a morgue in this very basement. building. The other guy is younger. He's trim, black, and wearing rimless glasses. The older man has a file in his hand, which he sets down on the table before the two of them pull out their chairs and sit down. The guy in the living room, the balding man says. Let's start with him. What do you want to know? I say, who is he? Why'd you kill him? How did you know him? He's nobody. He's one of them. I didn't really know him.

You can't know one of them, not really. And I killed him because he was trying to kill me. What was his name? The black man says. He didn't have a name. I didn't give him one. What about the other two? The balding man says.

What were their names? I'm guessing you mean the two in my basement, I say. They didn't have names either. Why did you cut them open like that? What were you doing? Trying to find the difference. What difference? What are you talking about?

The balding man asks. The difference between real and not, between genuine and imitation. The two men look at each other. I smile. You've already talked to Mother and the Hispanic woman, haven't you? You already know that they aren't real people. I bought them. I had them made.

So why don't you just let me go now and we'll forget about this whole thing. They aren't real people. I can't be arrested for murder if no real person died. The two men are silent for a lot. long moment. The black man speaks next. What about the big guy? Did you have him made to? Of course, I say. Why would you buy one that was designed to kill you? I shrug because it's fun. And because I thought I might see some kind of life in his eyes while he was trying to kill me. But I didn't. They all look real. They're very convincing. But their eyes, you can tell they're not

real because their eyes are dull, lifeless. Again, The two men share a look. Then the balding one opens his file folder and pulls out a five-by-eight piece of cardstock. I immediately recognize it. This is how you order them? He asked, sliding the order form across the table toward me. That's right. Try it yourself, you'll see.

They're surprisingly affordable. You can choose build, skin color, personality traits, skeletal structure, musculature. Just fill out the form, add your payment information, and send it in. The Hispanic woman, I was going to have fun with her, pretending we were in a spy movie or something. But then you guys showed up. Lazzangue sur-gillet, puissance-molyness-pointed for 15 minutes. We're like to dojo. Vive the pleasure with Leo Jo.

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And what personality does she have? The balding man asks. Faithful companion, actually, I say. I don't see a murderous personality trait on here, the black man says, tapping the order form. No, that was a special request. It took some convincing. I had to speak to Dr. Gale, or herself, not sure which the good doctor is, can't tell from the voice anyway. But since I'm such a good customer, Dr. Gail eventually relented and made that one special. The men look at each other again. Their brows furrowed. Are you going to let me go or not? I ask. You've checked their fingerprints, right? They all have the same prints. Other than the eyes, that's how you can tell.

They all have the same prints, and there's no record of them existing, because they're not real. So please, give me out of here. There has been no crime. With deliberate slowness, the balding man pulls a sheet of paper from his file folder and slips it across the table. It's a copy of a fingerprint file. Ten prints, eight fingers and two thumbs.

A glance tells me that they're all the same swirl, all exactly identical. So? I say, what did I just tell you? Those are your fingerprints, the black man says, looking into my eyes. No, shit, I say. Why do you think I've been doing all these experiments? I look in the mirror every morning and see life in my eyes.

The same kind of life I see when I look into your eyes, or the eyes of any real, genuine human. So what? Am I a fluke? Was I a mistake? There must be more like me. There must be. I just haven't found one yet.

You're not real, the balding man says. All your paperwork is forged, falsified. There is no Gerald Vincent Truman. just like the one you call mother is not real, or the Hispanic woman, or all those bodies in your house and buried in your yard. But that's the thing, isn't it? I'm not like them. I'm different. I have life in my eyes. I see it every day.

The balding man stands up, shaking his head. After a moment, the black man stands up too. What's going to happen? I say, there's no crime. You can't keep me. I know that much. The foundation will decide what to do with you. The balding man says. But we sure is hell aren't letting you out. What?

I say, trying to stand up as they step to the door. My wrists are fastened together and fixed to a bolt in the floor, preventing me from standing. The balding man opens the door and steps out. The black man follows, but stops in the doorway. He turns back and looks at me for a long moment. I interviewed Mother and the woman, he says. I know what you mean, about their eyes being lifeless.

But the thing is, your eyes are exactly the same as theirs. There's no life there. None at all. SEP 1532 is an unknown facility that artificially creates and sells human beings. SEP 1532 will advertise itself by spontaneously generating catalogs in the mailboxes of residential addresses across the USA and Canada. These catalogs instruct the reader to create a human being by selecting from a large number of available. traits and writing them into the order form in the back of the catalog, then mailing it in, using the included prepaid envelope.

Purchases can be made for either by including cash with the order form or by writing in a credit card number on the form, in which case the appropriate amount of money will be removed from the bank account and transferred to an unknown destination. When an order form is properly filled out and placed in a mailbox, it spontaneously disappears within six hours of placement. Three to five weeks later, a human being, identical to the order placed, collectively referred to as SCP 1532-A,

is delivered to the address of the sender by a blue van with the words, Dr. Gale's Human Emporium, printed on the side. The van spontaneously appears 8 kilometers away from its destination, drops off an instance of SCP 1532-A, and then disappears after traveling another 8 kilometers. All attempts to follow or track the van have failed. Instances of SCP 1532-A appear physically indistinguishable from normal humans.

However, they all share certain properties that make them possible to identify. All instances of SCP 1532-A have an identical fingerprint pattern, which has been given to police forces across the continental US under the pretense of a missing person. They are also completely sterile and unable to sexually reproduce.