The SCP Experience - Lend an Old Lady a Hand | SCP-4173

Episode Date: August 26, 2022

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-4173: Lend an Old Lady a Hand This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-4173, 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. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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What the hell did you do, Hector? I yell, putting the car in park. Lightning blooms above, followed quickly by thunder. Rain pelts the roof of my restored 1980 Dodge Challenger. Hector is busy looking out the back windshield. The perpetual smirk on his face makes me want to punch him. But instead of hitting my brother, I look into the rearview mirror, waiting to see flashing red and blue lights coming up the dirt road behind us.

Let's go! Hector says, turning back around in his seat and reaching for the door handle. Go? Go where? I say, nearly yelling. We got to ditch the car. Hector says, his dark hair stuck to his forehead and wet tangles. You robbed that gas station, didn't you? Relax, little brother. Hector says, just follow my lead and you'll be fine. Mother Mary, I say to myself, I'm the damn getaway driver. You just messed my whole life up, you know that? You messed my whole life up. You mess my whole

fucking life up. Faintly, back through the trees behind us. I glimpse red and blue lights. My stomach turns into a fist. I suddenly have to pee badly. Shit! Hector calls, thrusting his door open and scrambling out of the car with his backpack clutched to his chest. I sit back in the seat and close my eyes. Running will do no good. Might as well wait for the police to get here. Hector pulls my door open and drags me out into the rain by my shirt. The lush green trees thrusting toward the night sky do little to keep us dry. My brother kicks the door closed and shoves me along toward the dark little cabin ahead. I don't put up a fight. It's no use.

I've never been able to make my brother do anything he doesn't want to do. Unfortunately, he's always been able to make me do whatever he wants. Sometimes through coercion and sometimes through force, he's much bigger than me. He shoves me past the cabin, and we start up a hill behind it. I glance back at my car, wondering if I'll ever see it again. Knowing my brother, we'll soon be surrounded by police, and he'll decide to go out in a hail of gunfire. I'll probably be caught in the crossfire.

It would be par for the course. I'm completely soaked by the time we get to a flat spot on the hill. I paused to catch my breath, looking around at the woods. There's nothing out here. I don't know if Hector has a plan or not. Neither would surprise me. He drags me along, and we continue up. With a particularly close flash of lightning,

I see a run-down cabin at the top of the ridge, some 20 yards above us. I'm guessing that's where we're going. Sure enough, Hector moves ahead of me as we come to the cabin. He tries the front door, but it's locked. So he kicks it in. We move into the dark interior. At least we're out of the rain. Hector pulls a flashlight out of his backpack and begins exploring the place.

The flashlight beam picks out old, dust-covered furniture in the modest living room. He grabs an upholstered chair and sticks it against the broken door to keep it shut. As he moves deeper into the cabin, I stick close to him. The persistent sound of rain battering the roof is interspersed with occasional thunder. We move into the narrow kitchen, where we locate some candles. Hector lights them with his lighter and then starts going through the cabinets. No food, he says, as if there were supposed to be food waiting for him. The place gives me the creeps.

It has the old person smell of mothballs and leathery skin, mixed with the stale odor of stagnant air and dust. But there's something not right about it, almost like there's still someone living here. What the hell are we doing here? I ask, leaning against a warped countertop. Lying low, Hector answers without looking at me. For how long?

If the police find my car, we'll have to walk back home. And even then, they'll be waiting for us. I hope whatever you got from the gas station was worth it. You'll probably do five years in prison. I'll do two to three. Just relax, Luther, he says. If it comes to that, I'll say I borrowed your car without permission. Or that I dropped you off somewhere before hitting the gas station.

I'll always look out for you, bro. I scoff at that. Yeah, right. Still looking around the place, Hector steps out of the kitchen to a nearby door. He opens it, revealing wooden stairs leading down to a dark basement. Ooh, he says. Spooky. Let's check it out.

Grumbling under my breath. I follow him down, carrying one of the candles in its little tray as I go. Hector has his flashlight. We reached the bottom of the stairs, stepping onto a door. a cool concrete floor. It's a narrow, unfinished basement with a workbench on the left. There are a few tools lying on the bench amid a dark stain that I assume is oil. Look at this, Hector says, pointing the flashlight at a small door in the wall beyond the workbench. It's such a small door. I can't imagine what purpose it's meant to serve. About a foot tall and

six inches wide. It's only large enough to fit a limb through. It's at chest height. And the door The door stands open, revealing a dark, rectangular hole in the wall. You think they locked one of their kids in the wall and fed them through this door? Hector says, smiling. I shake my head, stepping over to the workbench and inspecting its surface with my candlelight. Oh my God! I say, looking at the dark stain on the bench. Is this the house on Hadley Hill?

Hector Snickers. Maybe. What the hell? Why would you bring me here? You know the stories about this place game. me nightmares as a kid. Hector laughs at my unease. Relax, Luther. They're just stories. I shake my head, remembering the most prominent one about the old lady who supposedly lived in the house. According to the story, the road washed away during a bad storm, and she was unable to get down to town. She didn't have any loved ones to check

on her, and she didn't have a phone. So she began to starve to death. So when the hunger got bad enough, she ended up cutting off one of her hands to eat it. This is fucking blood, I say, pointing at the stain on the workbench. A hacksaw lies nearby, also stained with the dark liquid. Hector looks over and laughs again, but as he's laughing, I hear something else, a voice, coming from nearby. Apparently, Hector hears it too, because he stops laughing and looks around. What the hell was that?

I ask. Just the wind, Hector says. But his smirk is gone. He's truly scared. He definitely heard it too. We look around the dim basement, listening hard. After a few long moments, Hector breaks the silence. Let's go back upstairs, he says, starting toward the staircase.

What took you so long? A voice says, it's coming from the little doorway in the wall, and it's an elderly woman's voice, shaking. and fragile. I freeze, holding my breath, staring wide-eyed at the dark rectangular doorway. What? Hector says. His voice just as shaky as hers. I was wondering when you'd show up. I've been so hungry, she says. Pector and I look at each other. I managed to shake my head, swallowing hard as fear constricts my throat. Can I see your hand? The woman asks. It's been so long since I've had come.

I would just like to hold your hand. No, no, sorry, Hector says. We've got to get going. I can't see very well anymore. I'm kidding old, you know. So please, just put your hand in here so I can tell you're really there, won't you? Hmm? A look of determination comes over Hector's face.

I'm not putting my fucking hand in that hole lady. He shouts. Then he walks over toward me and the staircase beyond. I turn and step onto the stairs, ready to get the hell out of this place. Right about now, being arrested doesn't sound so bad. I make it halfway up the stairs before Hector's voice stops me in my tracks. Luthor, help! he says. I turn and look at him.

He has one hand on the wooden railing and one foot on the first stair. His eyes are wide staring up at me. What? I say. I can't move. He says. Don't mess with me, I say. I'm not meant...

Hector's voice cuts off and he is yanked back through the air as if pulled by a rope around his chest. He slams back first into the open doorway, dropping his flashlight to the ground. He screams, his heels kicking at the wall. As I run down the stairs, I can hear cracking. And it takes me a moment to realize that the sound is Hector's bones breaking. I drop the candle to the ground and grab his right hand, pulling with all my strength. Nothing happens. I watch in horror as the left side of his rib cage collapses back toward the wall.

Then his right does the same, and his body folds up as he slowly pulled through the hole. I keep tugging on his hand, but it's a losing battle. Suddenly, blood erupts from Hector's mouth and nose, as he's pulled back further into the hole. I lose my grip as the blood splatters into my face, and I fall back onto the concrete floor. As I watch in horror, Hector has pulled all the way through the hole amid a sickening chorus of breaking bones and gushing blood. Scambling up from the floor, I run up to the hole and gaze inside, seeing nothing but blackness. Reaching down, I grabbed the flashlight he dropped and shine it into the hole. The light disappears as soon as it reaches beyond the threshold. Still,

I see nothing. I turned to run, making it to the stairs before the woman's voice comes to my ears again. Put your hand in here so I can hold it, young man. The sound of rushing blood fills my ears as fear turns to nausea in my stomach. I turn back around to face the hole. If I don't put my hand in, will my fate be the same as Hector's? I think so. What if I don't want to put my hand in there, ma'am? I ask. Oh dear. Well, I'm afraid I'll have no choice but to pull you in here with me. What happens if I put my hand in there? I'd just like to see you. I'd like to see your hand. to hold it. Is that so much to ask?

I step up to the doorway in the wall, vibrating with terror. After a few deep breaths, I put my left hand up to the hole and stick it in. Oh, there you are. She says. It's been so long, and I see that you've brought me a gift. Isn't that sweet? Gift? I say, just before I'm pulled against the wall and a terrible piece.

erupts in my wrist. I scream as a ripping sound comes to my ears. I yank my arm out of the hole, but there is no hand there, only a bloody nub at the end of my wrist. Dropping the flashlight from my right hand, I instinctively grab my left wrist, trying to slow the blood flow. Don't worry, young man, the woman says, I'll give you mine. Don't you worry, I'll fill you right up. You're a polite young man. I'll fill you right up. I stumbled to the stairs. Still gripping my wrist, breath hitching in my throat. The pain isn't so bad, but I can't stop looking at the nub. I'm supposed to have a hand there.

I'm supposed to, but now I don't. Somehow, I made my way down the hill and back to my car. There's a cruiser nearby, and the police officers inside light me up with their spotlights. Help! I scream, feeling woozy from the blood loss. Help! I come to a hospital bed. My right arm is handcuffed to the railing.

and my left arm is swaddled in bandages. My thoughts are sluggish as I look around, trying to figure out where I am and what happened. It doesn't take me long to remember. Hector, I whisper. Dead. I raise my left arm to look at the lack of a hand there. Somehow, it's funny to me.

I start chuckling, then laughing. But in the middle of my laughter, a sudden and indescribable pain grips my mind. stomach. I cry out and convulse. Something is moving there and my abdomen. Something inside me. I pull up my hospital gown and look at my stomach. Something is pushing my skin up from the inside, causing immense pain that grows with every movement. What the fuck is happening? I scream. The machines around me go haywire, beeping like crazy. My insides feel like they're being ripped apart. And soon enough, I realize they are. Just as a couple of hot.

Hospital staff members run into the room. Something rips through the skin of my stomach. Blood spews as a greenish-red thing emerges through the hole. Then another one. The staff members look on, clearly unable to grasp what they're seeing. It's a hand. A clawing, rotting, old lady hand that emerges from my stomach. As terror and pain combined to hurl me into unconsciousness,

I recall the woman's last words to me. Don't worry, young man, she said. I'll give you mine. Don't you worry. I'll fill you right up. You're a polite young man. I'll fill you right up. SCP 4173 is a small access door in the cellar beneath an abandoned house near Mount Zion, Georgia, USA. The abandoned house is colloquially known as the house on Hadley Hill. named after the ridge on which the house is located, Hadley Ridge. Access to the house was limited significantly after heavy rains washed away the road leading to the structure,

forcing individuals to climb the steep incline if they wanted to access the home. When SCP 4173 is left open, persons nearby will hear a voice coming from within the wall. This voice will inquire who the individual is and why they took so long to come, and will then ask to see the subject's hand. If the subject puts their hand through the door, they will invariably experience a sharp jerking motion and, upon removal of their arm, will find their hand severed at the wrist,

as if by a sharp metal instrument. Afterward, the voice will thank the subject, and assume them not to worry about their severed hand, and that it will be replaced. Sometime later, a decaying elderly hand will appear somewhere on or in the subject's body. The hand will share no genetic similarities with the subject. While the hand is fully functional regardless of where it appears on the body,

it will continue to decay until it passes through petrescence and becomes bone. The hand will continue to function, though affected subjects report having no feeling in the hand past this point, except for an occasional warm, wet, lingering sensation. Subjects who refuse to put their hands into SCP 4173 after engaging with the voice will be violently pulled through SCP 4173 if they attempt to leave. How this happens is unknown, but is invariably fatal.