The SCP Experience - Needle and Thread (Part 1) | SCP-1034

Episode Date: November 11, 2024

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-1034 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1034 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience Author: Andrew E. * * * 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 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Lazang sur-gillet, Puisance-Moyerned 15 minutes. Oh, you'd say that's the hour Dojo? Prere to enjoy? Vive the pleasure

with the Ojo, the casino in-line that proposes the most recent machine to sue and the games to on Big Bas, Bonanza. Without exigance of

misgents and with the payments instantane. Hey, I've gained! Woohoo! Sentire the pleasure. Playo Joe.

18 and plus, 1,1, depots only depots only depots only depose on Ontario. 50 tour minimum of 10 dollars. Veillage me in a way responsible.

The conditions apply. The world is a horrible place. If I've learned anything in my 20 years as a homicide detective, it's that. Most people ignore it. But murders, rapes, and stomach-turning acts of violence happen every day. It helps a little, knowing you're doing good, helping people. But it's just a Band-Aid. It's not enough to make up for all the awful things you have to see.

I've seen so many mothers. cry over their children. I can't even remember them all. I've witnessed men, totally normal seeming guys, you might walk past on any street in America, promised to, quote, gut me just like they did that bitch. Maybe I'm weak, maybe I'm too sensitive, but I was losing it. I'd started coming home later and later, not wanting to face my wife, Elena, and lie to her, saying that everything was fine. And where did I spend all this time when I was supposed to be at home, at a bar, of course. It's a cliched and humiliating story, but that's what happened. It took a DUI charge, a psych eval, and that disappointed look in my wife's eyes when she

came to bail me out of jail to finally snap me out of my fugue. My job was killing me. I quit that day. I worked on getting sober and being more honest with Elena. Still, I couldn't leave that world entirely. Our kids may have moved on to bigger and better things, but we still had a mortgage to pay and retirement to save for. Investigative work was just about the only skill I had.

So, I got a private detective's license, breezing through the requirements on the back of my police training. And yeah, you still saw some of the dregs of human society as a PI, bail skippers, parents who basically kidnapped their kids, kids by breaking custody agreements and cheating spouses. It wasn't fun, but it was a heck of a lot better than the cloud of gore and misery that followed homicide detectives around like a curse. Another advantage was being able to set my own hours, meaning I had time to help Elena out by doing the occasional grocery run. I was standing in front of 50 different brands of bread,

trying to remember which one my wife had asked me to get when my phone rang. It was the woman herself. I answered. Hey, hon, I said. Did you want whole wheat or honey oat bread? Here for you. I'd never had anyone drop by my house. I mostly did video and phone calls to get the necessary details from clients, and I'd usually mail them my results.

Sure, my website had my address on it, but that was strictly for clients to mail me things they couldn't email. I didn't like that my wife was alone at home with a stranger. I'm on my way, I said, just picking up. up the closest loaf of bread and rushing through checkout. I forced myself to keep my driving safe, but my palms were sweating a bit, and my foot twitched occasionally, wanting to press down on the accelerator. I had a bad feeling about this.

Elena, I'm home. I called as I walked through our front door, carrying our groceries. Elena wandered over from the direction of the sitting room, a tight, worried expression on her face. She kissed my cheek and took the groceries from me. She's in there, she said, gesturing toward the room she'd just left. I nodded and gave her shoulder a squeeze. With one last uncertain look, Elena took the groceries into the kitchen while I made my way to our sitting room. Sitting on our sofa was a middle-aged woman, a little younger than me, maybe, with dark hair and a care-worn face,

already gazing intently at me as I crossed the threshold. Her blue eyes were a little watery, but her expression was firm and clear. As I walked over to her and extended my hand, I noticed that she had a small, white box on her lap. It was white enough to fit printer paper inside and maybe a foot tall. She moved the box to her side and stood to shake my hand. Her grip was solid, something I always noted when I've always noted when I've been. met someone new. People with strong handshakes have strong personalities I've found.

Hello, Miss, I asked. Um, Albright, she said. Cora Albright. It's nice to meet you, Miss Albright. I must say, I don't usually meet clients face to face at my home. Yes, she said. I'm sorry. When I decided I wanted to hire you, I just started driving. I didn't even realize what I was doing until I pulled up in front of house. I didn't even make an appointment. I sat down in the chair I'd bought before getting married. Elena had since re-apulstered it with a more feminine floral print. Whatever, it felt the same to sit down in. So, what do you want to hire me for? I figured it was something to do with a cheating husband. No, she wasn't angry enough for that. I'm a writer, she said.

Uh-oh? I said. A little taken aback by a little. the sudden shift in topic. She nodded. True crime mostly. Articles, a book or two. Nothing revolutionary. I read an article about you. Really? I'd given a few interviews here and there, and occasionally I got clients through them. Yes, I was actually thinking of writing my first mystery novel at the time. I was doing research and came across a profile about your career as an investigator and why you decided to become a private detective. I thought you might be a good person to base a character around. First time I'd heard that. Uh, thank you. Her eyes flicked to mine. She pinned me to the back of my chair with her stare

before she sighed and picked up the little box she'd brought with her. Miss Albright seemed to consider something before delicately lifting the lid and placing it next to her. I want you to find out who killed my daughter. The oxygen immediately got sucked out of the room. My tie felt tight around my neck, and the casual, tastefully decorated sitting room suddenly seemed hideous and wrong, like it was a false front.

Miss Albright shuffled through the papers in the box and passed me one. It was a photocopy of a newspaper article. The title read, Stitcher strikes again in big, bold black lettering. There was what I assumed to be a school picture of Miss Albright's daughter, embedded in the text. She had the same dark hair and light eyes. I'm sorry I have to ask, but who's this stitcher? Miss Albright cocked her head,

clearly not ready for the question. I'm sorry for my husband, a voice called from behind me. It was Elena, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs of coffee on it. She handed one to me, than to Miss Albright. Ever since retiring, he tries to avoid crime stories if he can help it. I see. The Stitcher, Elena continued, is a serial killer who targets young women. He uses a needle and thread to stitch his victim's faces together. Mouth, eyes, nose, everything.

He's been on the news everywhere lately. Miss Albright went pale and held a hand over her mouth, but she held firm and said nothing. Elena gave Miss Albright an empathetic smile and left the room, leaving me alone with her once again. I understand why you'd want to come to see me, I started. You want to do everything you can for your daughter. I'm a father, I get that feeling. But I'm not sure what I can add to a full-blown police investigation.

They have resources and manpower. The police aren't investigating my daughter's murder. Excuse me? She's no longer considered a victim. of the Stitcher. Miss Albright looked into the box and began digging through it, this time producing a different article. She sliddered across our coffee table over to me.

Alleged stitcher victim ruled accidental death after investigation, it read. I raised an eyebrow. Knowing the serial killer's murder method, how in the world had something so violent and torturous been ruled an accident? I can tell that you have the same question. I do, Miss Albright said. I read the article in full and discovered the reason for the ruling. For a start, Maggie had a pretty solid security system protecting her house. It offered a full 360-degree view of her property, and no one had been seen even approaching

her house, let alone entering it at the time of her death. Additionally, the system hadn't detected any break-ins. Inside the house, there were no signs of struggle anywhere. Aside from the stitching wounds themselves, Maggie bore no defensive marks. In fact, based on the blood spatter at the scene, she hadn't even gotten up from her chair during the ordeal, despite a lack of restraints. Furthermore, the forensics team found no trace of an intruder, not a fiber, a skin cell, a hair, a fingerprint, or a footprint. A toxicology report revealed that, unlike the Stitcher's other victims, Maggie hadn't been

sedated either. It was presumed that if she were conscious and being attacked, she would have fought back. A fair presumption. Left with no possible way someone could have murdered Maggie, the coroner's office had been forced to rule the death as a very bizarre sequence of unfortunate events. A sudden, psychotic break caused Maggie, influenced by the recent reporting on the Stitcher to mutilate herself, which led to her death. Though the wounds themselves weren't fatal, Maggie's heart had stopped sometime after the sewing was complete. The cause was uncertain, perhaps shock.

I put the article down and leaned back in my chair, hands laced together behind my head. Miss Albright simply sipped at her coffee, letting me make. come to my conclusion in my own time. As I saw it, there were three broad possibilities. The first was that an intruder somehow made it past Maggie's security team undetected, overpowered her, killed her, and then left, leaving no trace of themselves, unlikely, bordering on impossible. The second was that, as tragic as it was, Maggie Albright had essentially committed suicide. There was no evidence to suggest she had been forced to do what she did. And though it was surprising and strange, surprising and strange things

happen every day. This was just one of them. This would be strange for two reasons. One, it was really hard to imagine someone choosing such a torturous method to harm themselves. Maggie sewed her whole face up. The pain must have been excruciating, and though not always the case, I'd often found instances of self-harm to be impulsive, not planned and carried out over an extended period of time, like this had been. Second, her heart just stopped. I'd seen people take far more threatening injuries and carry on joking with paramedics like it was no big deal. Every person is different, but I'd love to read a full autopsy report if I had the chance. The cause of death was a bit of a question mark for me. Finally, there was a

the possibility that someone had influenced or coerced Maggie into doing what she did. Perhaps someone had threatened her somehow, or drugged her with something undetectable that made her suggestible, or severely compromised her decision-making capacity. I wasn't even sure how this could be possible. It would certainly take some kind of arcane setup and probably couldn't have been precisely directed. Molling over each possibility, I had to agree with the investigators that the accidental death explanation was the most likely cause of Maggie's death. I couldn't even really fathom how someone would have pulled off the other two. Still, something in my gut told me there was more to this story than met the eye.

But was it even my place to investigate it? Though I'd gone through a lot in my head, not much time had passed in reality, perhaps a minute or two. I unlaced my hands and leaned forward in my seat, making eye contact with Miss Albright. Sensing I'd made my decision, Miss Albright set her coffee cup down on our table. I wanted to say no. Doing this would cause me and my family nothing but pain. I'd quit police work for a reason. Then I thought about my kids and how I'd feel if one of them had died this way.

I sighed. God damn it. This isn't something I can do alongside other things. It'll have to take up my full attention. Miss Albright held my gaze, but didn't say anything. I'd have to be blunter. This will be expensive, I mean. She nodded and said,

That's fine. I may not find anything. I've made my peace with that. I may end up agreeing with the official report. In fact, I believe it's the likeliest explanation based off what I know now. Miss Albright hesitated, then sighed. It may have sounded a little cruel, but I had to be sure she was ready for this, for whatever result I found. I'd investigate, but I wasn't going to lie about Maggie's death to appease her.

That's... I won't say it's okay, but I will respect your conclusion if that's what you end up thinking. But I will never believe my daughter did that to herself. Okay, I said. Now, I need everything you have on her. Access to accounts, messages, mail, info on her social circle and personality, physical and mental health records that works. It's all in there, Miss Albright said, gesturing to the box. I've also left my business card so you can call me for progress reports or if you need anything else. Maggie's house key is in there too.

I haven't been able to. No one's been in there since the investigation finished. I can't go in there, but I can't seem to bring myself to sell it either. I can't imagine other people walking through her house, living the life she was supposed to. I understand. I'll be respectful. With that, we discussed mundane details like payment and what to expect, but it wasn't long before I escorted Miss Albright to her car.

Elena was waiting for me when I walked back inside. She bore an expression I recognized from back in my police officer days. It was her, I want to disapprove of your decision, but also support you face. I'd made her make it all the time when I was investigating grisly murders every other week. It was the first time since I'd retired that I'd seen it. I'm sorry, I said. I looked into her eyes, thought about our kids, and I couldn't bring myself to refuse. I know, Helena said.

That's why you shouldn't do it. You're too kind for this, just like you were too kind to be a homicide detective. It's an argument she'd made many times. I didn't have a good answer, so I just kissed her temple and held her close. First thing the next morning, I drove out to Maggie's place. I wanted to see where and how she lived, and, though it was unlikely I'd find anything, poke around for clues investigators might have missed. It was just a little under two hours away, which was a hassle, but at least I didn't have to take a flight.

Honestly, if he or she was operating so close to my home, it surprised me I hadn't heard of this Stitcher before. The cursory research I'd done told me that this was a national news story. Maybe I'd been a little too thorough in my efforts to distance myself from crime reporting. I shouldn't do it to the point where I missed out on national events. Anyway, Maggie's house was a charming suburban home, painted light blue with white accents. The kind of place you'd never imagine a horrific crime occurring. Someone had been mowing the yard, but the shrubs were unkempt and looking a little wilted.

Her mailbox was full to bursting, so I grabbed a stack of letters and ads and let myself in using the key Miss Albright had given me. The first thing I noticed was the smell. The house stanked to high heaven. Of course, crime cleanup crews had already come through and cleaned the scene after forensics had finished. But when Miss Albright said no one else had been inside the house since Maggie's death, she meant it. Food was rotting in the fridge and the cabinets. Every step toward the kitchen was like pushing through another solid wall of stench. I opened all the windows and tossed out everything rotting. By the time I was done, the smell had either receded or I'd gotten used to it.

My head clear, I sat down with the mail at the kitchen table, where Maggie had been found slumped over. It was mostly advertisements, bills, and menus for nearby takeout places. But here was one personal letter. It was from someone named Matthew Thomas. What a generic name. Perhaps too generic. It would be difficult to find someone by that name,

just because so many other people were called that too. Even though Miss Albright had given me permission to go through any and all of Maggie's things, I still felt a pang of guilt opening the letter. I wouldn't want some stranger rummaging through my personal effects after I died. The contents were totally normal. It was responding to a conversation they'd been having about Western films they liked and restaurants they'd recently eaten at. It was a pretty archaic form of communication.

these days, especially for a young woman like Maggie, but the subject matter itself wasn't strange, except for the postscript. Yes, did you like your present? I bet you looked sharp. Sharp. That word unnerved me. A coincidence or... While there wasn't much of a romantic undertone to the letter, I still wondered if Maggie might have kept some previous letters. I walked up the stairs to her bedroom to look for them. It was littered with dead plants, ivy, flowers, a fern, all dead.

The cacti were still hanging tough, though. Once again feeling that inkling of guilt, I opened drawers, rifling through the life Maggie Albright had lived. I tried to leave her wardrobe for last, hoping I'd find something useful before then, but no such luck. I had to search her sock and underwear drawer before I found anything. My hand hit something, not fabric, but paper. Bingo.

It was a stack of envelopes. Not many, just three or so. Still, stashing envelopes in your underwear drawer? If the relationship wasn't romantic, I'd wager Maggie had wanted it to be. The old letters were similar to the first, but there was no mention of a present. The police had almost certainly found these letters, but with it being seemingly impossible for anyone to enter the house without being spotted, they probably hadn't looked into them.

Most investigations had to be careful about where they allocated their resources. All right, no more putting it off. I had to get in touch with one of my old buddies on the force. I'd wanted to delete the number, but I'd never had the heart to. I punched in his name and pressed call. It rang once, twice, a third time. Maybe he was away or just didn't want to speak to me. I'm surprised to hear from you, Derek.

Brian, my old partner, said when the call finally connected. Hey, Brian. What is it you said to me the last time we spoke? I was saying to keep in touch. And you said something like, I'm sorry, but I have to make a clean break. Isn't that right? My stomach sank. It was the right choice.

at the time. But it had still hurt to cut out all my friends and colleagues. I had to step away from that world fully for my own sanity, but cutting ties hadn't been fun. I'm sorry, is all I could say. He sigh, a bitter, angry sigh. Still, he stayed on the line. What do you want? I'm working on a case. That's right. You went private. Well, I'm not on the cheating husband's beat, sorry. It's not a cheating husband. I'm looking into the death of Maggie Albright. A silence on the other end of the line. Who the fuck are you working for?

Brian asked. Now, the kid accidentally offed herself, Derek. There's nothing else that makes sense. I agree with you. Okay, I didn't totally agree with him. But he didn't have to know that. I just want to convince Miss Albright of that. Another silence, longer this time.

It stretched on for ten seconds at least. A huge gap were a conversation to pause. Talk, Brian spat out. Did you find the letters? Yeah, we found the letters asshole. Without you, we looked into them a bit. We didn't find the sender.

But when we determined that no one could have entered the crime scene unseen, we dropped it. Just as I thought. There was another letter from the guy in Maggie's mailbox. He mentions a present. Did you guys find any rapping or something brand new that could have been a present? Something that she was wearing, perhaps? I don't have the evidence list in front of me, but...

Something told me if I asked him to go get it. He'd just hang up. So I moved on. There's always something. At a crime scene, there's always something that just doesn't quite fit the narrative, right? Something that doesn't align with our interpretation of the facts. If there wasn't, defense attorneys would be out of jobs. What was it this time? Brian sighed again. I wish you'd have stayed with us, man. I know. I wish I could have. I think in that moment, he forgave me for leaving

and not staying in contact because he passed on some details I'm sure he wasn't supposed to. We've kept out of the bread preserving the body. Each corpse is riddled with desiccating chemicals. But not only was the kid's body like that as well, odd if it was really an accidental death. But there was also no evidence of any chemicals in her body

that could have caused it. The texts are still puzzled by that one. Interesting. So, the state of her body pointed to her being a victim of the serial killer, because only the police knew that the bodies were dried out. But the apparent absence of a cause, which was present in the other bodies, threw that into question. And the other, I asked, what? Stitched yourself up, then it should have been right there on the table or dropped on the floor or something, but it wasn't. No needle, huh? What was it the letter had said? I bet you looked sharp. Yeah, the world's really a horrible place, isn't it?