The SCP Experience - Needle and Thread (Part 2) | SCP-1034

Episode Date: November 15, 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

It'd been a few weeks since I'd stood in Maggie's apartment and learned that her death might not have been an accident after all. Since then, I'd almost exclusively focused on locating this Matthew Thomas, who had been sending her letters. I poured over them, looking for any clue that might lead me to him, a job, a street address, anything. I didn't find anything like that, but I did notice one thing. There was no indication that Maggie had ever written him back. Sure, Matthew spoke conversationally, but I noted that when you read his letters in chronological order, none of them mentioned anything specific, Maggie had said. No stories about her life, her personal interests, her family, nothing like that.

The guy was basically talking to himself. Perhaps he was a stalker. And Maggie had been saving the letters as evidence. If so, she hadn't told her mother. Miss Albright surely would have mentioned it to me if she'd known. I had already been getting a grimy, uneasy feeling about this guy, and this realization only confirmed that hunch. This was further reinforced when he proved incredibly difficult to track down.

As I expected, there were dozens of Matthew Thomas's spread around the city and outlying suburbs, and the name was certainly an alias. Still, just because a name was a name. names an alias doesn't mean you can't track down the person behind it. A trail under a false name is still a trail after all. Most people who use an alias do so with a particular goal in mind, usually to hide their real name for whatever reason. For criminals, the reason is obvious, it makes it harder to trace their illegal activity.

The point isn't to build a whole new identity, it's just to provide a bit of smoke screen in front of their actual one. In terms of public records, you can spot an alias from a mile away, once you know what to look for. They'll seem to appear out of nowhere one day, with nothing registered in their name for decades, only to suddenly pop up to buy a home, a car, a storage locker, and more, all within the span of a year. They'll almost never have any social media, and you'll never find more than one or two photos of the supposed person, if any at all. So that's what I've been doing over the past three weeks. I was going over the historical record, as it were, of the Matthew Thomas' who lived in our

area. Anyone with a long, credible history of existence was ruled out. People who answered the phone as Matthew Thomas when I pretended to be their cable provider, ruled out, and so on, until I had just one name left to cross off my list. The only evidence of this Matthews' existence I could find was an apart-time. registered under his name. He was a total ghost beyond that. If this wasn't the guy who had been writing Maggie those letters, it'd be back to the drawing board. That's how I ended up in front of a decaying apartment complex, all cracked gray concrete and stained windows, trying to gather

my courage to knock on the last Mr. Thomas's door. I was an idiot, of course. I was looking for a serial killer who had killed five women, including Maggie, in absolutely horrific fashion. It would be foolish to just walt into his den without a plan. I called Brian. Hey, I need a favor. I expected him to give me a hard time, but something in my tone must have convinced him not to. I've narrowed down the possible letter senders to just one. I'm standing outside his apartment building now. By yourself? Brian said. I heard the scrape of a chair as he should up, probably at his desk. Yeah.

I recognized the name. It was good to know Williams was still with the force. Just wait there for us. By yourself, okay? I thought you said there was no way Maggie's death was anything but an accident. I've been looking over the letter you sent me. Find the needle in the dried out state of the body. Too much doesn't fit.

Maybe you're on to something. Maybe it was more than an accident. Brian had always been a good detective. I'd hoped he'd reached the same conclusion I had if I sent him the final Matthew Thomas letter. Good to know. Here's where I'm at, I said, reciting the address to him. There was some mumbles from Williams. I'll explain in a minute. Yes. We'll be there in 40 minutes. Wait for us, okay? Don't you dare walk into a serial killer's layer alone, all right? Sure. He hung up, leaving me alone facing the building. I started walking toward the entrance.

I hadn't called Brian so we could investigate together, or say. Instead, I knew I might have to employ some legally dubious tactics to gain entry to the apartment. Cops don't do that kind of thing. Well, the good ones don't anyway. I wanted them to show up later and be my backup just in case something went wrong. Not to mention, sharing evidence with Miss Albright would be difficult if the police got hold of it first. The only reason Brian had helped me by passing on evidence was because he thought Maggie's death was unrelated to the serial murders.

That wouldn't be the case this time. It was a balance of probabilities, but it was the best I had. The entryway was lit by those long, fluorescent bulbs that always reminded me of a high school classroom. There was a small mailroom attached to the lobby and a bulletin board for residents and management to post notices. Apparently, they were having the pipes redone next month, and Mrs. Jefferson's cat had gone missing again. I glanced over it briefly, but there was nothing that might have been from Matthew Thomas.

Though I knew which apartment number was his, I didn't immediately take the elevator to his place on the seventh floor. Instead, I looked for the office. It was tucked away at the back of the building, through a narrow corridor I presumed was mostly used by maintenance staff. Luckily, there was a man seated at the desk. He was tall and thinly built with a thick mustache, browsing through a magazine with a woman in sort of bondage setup. I didn't even know they still printed magazines like that. Wasn't everything you could ever want on the internet these days?

I cleared my throat and knocked on the doorframe. The man jolted, opened a desk drawer, and shoved the magazine inside. His face turned bright red with embarrassment. Well, what did he expect? Looking at pornography at work. Ah, yes, hello. How can I help you? The man stuttered.

I'm Detective Sanderson. I flashed the sleeve holding my badge and ID, both now out of date, and quickly stuffed it back into my pocket, hoping he wouldn't ask questions. I'm here to interview someone regarding a serious crime. Can you point me to the right place? The man was too flustered to question me, so he simply ummed and awed his way to agreeing to show me the apartment.

He dug through some file folders and produced a set of keys to Matthew Thomas' apartment. Perfect, just as I'd hoped. As we waited in awkward silence for the elevator, the man, who I presumed to be the building manager, asked, So, what did he do? Hmm? The guy in 703. What did he do? Oh, nothing.

We just want to talk to him as a potential witness. The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. We stepped in, and the conversation died as the elevator slowly lifted us, eventually stopping on floor seven. In front of Matthew Thomas' apartment, I knocked on the door. No answer. He's not usually home during the day, I don't think. Can you open the door?

The man hesitated. Well, do you have a warrant? Damn. Had I pushed my luck too far? I was already skating on thin ice. It doesn't matter if you're an ex-cop. Impersonating a peace officer is a felony. If the manager pushed back too much, I'd be in trouble.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Sure, that's fair. I'll go get a warrant. Maybe I'll get one for the whole building and bring a squad of guys. to search through every nook and cranny looking for anything to bust anyone on. Would that be to your preference? Okay, okay, geez, the manager said, taking out the key ring and unlocking the door for me. I stepped past the threshold into a completely empty apartment. Not just no one was there, but the

apartment, at least the front room, was completely empty. You said someone was living here? I asked, turning to the manager. Well, I mean, yeah, I thought so, he said. Someone's been paying the rent, and I've seen a guy going in and out of the apartment, so... Hmm, had he caught wind of my investigation and left? I couldn't think of how he would have. It's not like Elena or Brian would have leaked information. Perhaps the killer felt that the police were closing in on him, so he'd packed up.

After all, there were other murders being investigated. The police may have made a breakthrough on their end. What did the guy look like? Him? Sandy blonde hair, tanned skin, about as tall as me. He had those smile things. What are they called? Dimples?

Yeah, that's it. I poked through the other rooms, but the only thing in them was a thin layer of dust. What to do, what to do. I should probably call Brian and tell him to abandon the search. No need for the cavalry to arrive when there was not. nothing to find. Damn, I thought I'd been on the right track. What was I going to tell Miss Albright? I took out my phone and began dialing Brian's number. Who are you calling? The manager asked from behind me.

A colleague at the precinct, I said, remembering to keep up my false identity. I was afraid of that. I turned to ask what he meant, but in a split second, all I saw was a blur of motion followed by a sharp pain in my forehead. I vaguely felt my knees giving out. But after that, everything faded to darkness. There's something else here now. Something new. From exclusively on Paramount Plus, it's the series Stephen King calls Scarious Hell. Everything here is impossible, but it's also real. Sci-fi vision calls it the best show streaming right now.

We're running out of time and we still don't know the rules. Don't miss what the movie blog calls something you need to watch. Saving those children is how we all go home. From Binge All Episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. Something was hitting my cheek, rousing me from unconsciousness. Rise and shine, detective. A voice with a menacing edge sang to me. My eyelids fluttered open, only for my head to be slammed with rolling waves of pain.

Each heartbeat felt like it was echoing through my skull. I tried to raise my hands to feel the burning pain from the side of my head, but something around my wrists stopped me. I blinked blearily at them. Handcuffs. Why was I wearing handcuffs? Water splashed into my face, and I sputtered and coughed as my senses returned.

I shook some of the water out of my face and got my first good look at the person who'd spoken earlier. It was the building manager, or the person I had assumed was the building manager. You're Matthew Thomas, I said. that my voice was hoarse and weak. Yes, good, he said. I was worried I'd hit you too hard and you'd forget.

That wouldn't have been any fun. What's your real name? I asked. Oh, come on, Mr. Private Detective. I'm not going to tell you that. You can call me Stitch, I suppose. So, he really was the Stitcher. I'd already guessed that, but the confirmation sent a chill down my spine.

I was sitting in a musty basement, but Stitch had clearly added his own personal touches, like a surveillance system of the entire building and some furnishings. I could see an oil drum and surgical tools. Shit. The chair I was handcuffed to was metal, but I tried with all my might to stand up and break free. That was when I realized both of my legs were cuffed to the chair as well. I toppled over in a heap. Stitch laughed and said,

Now, if I help you up, do you promise not to try that again? I molded over and said, Yes, through gritted teeth. The bastard was toying with me. He chuckled and hefted me off the ground and back into a sitting position. I thought about trying to bite his arm, but what would that accomplish? There was a buzz from the table in which all of the security monitors were sitting. This Brian guy is sure worried about you," Stitch said, glancing at the text.

He started reading my messages in a mocking tone. We're here. Where are you? Text me back. If you don't tell me where you are right now, I'm going to call your wife and tell her you're missing. Ooh, here's one from your wife, I think. Brian's worried about you, and so am I. Call me as soon as you see this. On the monitors, I saw two people rush through the lobby and head straight from. the elevators, probably Brian and Williams. Stitch was reading the messages as if they had only just come in. Brian hadn't been far behind me, so if that was him on the monitors, I hadn't been

out for long. We're still in the apartment building, I said. Stitch turned to me with a raised eyebrow and grin. Not bad detective. Yes, we're still in the building. Scream if you like. They won't hear you. I've had the opportunity for extensive testing of the soundproofing. They'll find this room, you know. In time, maybe. I'll be long gone by then, Stitch said, shrugging before his smile widened so much that I thought his jaw was going to unhinge.

So will you. Not good. I had to stall him, get him talking. How did you kill Maggie Albright? Oh, Maggie. He said, almost wistful. I wish I could have been there. The second I saw her,

I knew that she'd look magnificent as one of my dolls. I was saving her for a special occasion, but I guess it was a mistake to send her the letters. That's how you found me, right? I said nothing and simply glared at him, flexing at my restraints when I thought he wasn't looking, searching for any sign of given them. As far as how, it's a bit of a mystery to me as well.

Stitch reached into his pocket and withdrew a small metal tin, no larger than a wallet. Inside was a needle, set in a little velvet lining. In a similar depression was a spool of thread. The object had clearly been custom made, and Stitch held it with a sort of sickening reverence. He stroked the needle with his pinky. The things this needle can do, I'm very grateful to whoever gave it to me, and returned it after Maggie. But that's enough. Tell, I think.

It's time for show. The wheels were churning in my head, and I was struggling to process the new information. Stitch was implying he had remotely killed Maggie, but that someone else had recovered the needle and given it back to him? Did Stitch have an accomplice? As much as I tried to stay rational and calm,

I couldn't focus on those questions, not when Stitch was staring at me with those ravenous eyes. You'll be my first man, detective. Not usually my style, but I should reward you for coming all this way. If you hurt me, you'll live to regret it. You're brave to threaten me in your position.

Most people beg for their lives, but not to worry, detective, I'm not going to hurt you. You're going to hurt you. Before I could ask what he meant, Stitch pulled the needle out of the tin, as well as the spool of thread. With careful reverence, he unspooled some and threaded it through the eye of the needle. Shit, he's going to do it. He's going to stitch me up like he did his other victims.

Well, I'm not going to make it easy for him. I resolved to bite and squirm and throw myself to the floor and do anything it took to resist him. Open your hand, detective. My eyes narrowed, and I tightened my fists. He wouldn't be getting an ounce of cooperation for me. Oh, really now. What's the point of this? Stitch said.

I already said I wasn't going to harm you. I'm simply going to place this needle into your hand. What you do after that is your decision. Pick the cuffs, try to stab me. I truly don't care. At the very least, you'll have taken possession of my tool. I'd hardly kill you without it, would I? We serial killers are very particular like that.

Stitch sure didn't mind a monologue. Maggie had stitched herself. If I touched the needle, would I do the same? Although I didn't have any solid evidence, my working theory was that Stitch had somehow drugged her and used psychological conditioning to compel her to use the needle on herself. Despite the throbbing pain of my head wound, I felt clear, sharp.

I hadn't been drunk. drugged, and Stitch hadn't had time to condition me. I opened my right hand. Stitch's face disfigured into a horrific smile as he dropped the needle onto my palm. The second it did, my hand involuntarily closed and started to tug at the handcuffs. My other hand tried to get free as well,

than my legs. I couldn't control my limbs. What? What did you do? I yelled as my right hand started trying to yank itself through the handcuffs. Stitch only smiled wider, watching with open fascination. Through the pain,

I felt something warm and wet on my hands. Blood. I'd pulled so hard I'd drawn blood. Trying a new tactic, my fist lined itself up against the cuffs and... No, no, no, no! Pulled, hard. I heard something snap,

my thumbbone, probably. And I let out a scream. Lubricated by the blood, and the new flexibility of my broken thumb, my hand slid out from the handcuffs. I tried to reach out and punch stitch or free myself. But no matter how I commanded my body, it was no use. Instead, my hand drew the needle closer and closer to my mouth.

I tried to at least struggle, move my head out of the way, but it seemed like only my voice remained my own. The needle lined itself up with the corner of my mouth and wasted no time piercing the skin there. It was much worse than a typical doctor's injection, not just because the needle was a hell of a lot thicker than a syringe, but also because it had to go through my skin, and it didn't stop with just one prick. Not waiting for me to catch my breath, my hand moved with a precision I didn't think I had, slicing downward, gashing through my lips. Each time I cried out, it only worsened the pain, pulling at the thread running through my face. Blood started to fill my mouth, but I couldn't even lean forward to let it drain out.

Instead, I had to cough it out, sending waves of pain across my face. I thought it would never end. Each piercing of the needle was an escalating torture, and with my mouth sewn shut, I couldn't even scream. It was a sick kind of relief when my mouth was finally fully stitched. At least it was over. No. Oh, God, no. In the rush, pain, and terror, I was. I'd forgotten that the Stitcher doesn't just stitch your mouth.

The needle hadn't paused. My hand was guiding it up and up toward my right eye. I tried to scream, but all that came out was a pained moan. I renewed my efforts to resist, but it still had no effect. This is my favorite part, Stitch said. I glared at him, trying to look defiant and proud. But with blood pouring down my face and tear tracks under my eyes, I doubted it landed.

The needle pierced through the skin of my eye socket and into the soft tissue of my eye. I screamed and screamed, praying for the torture to end. By the time it was finished, my face was covered in blood, sweat, and tears, and both of my eyes were sewn shut. I was crying, sitting there in the darkness, my whole body shaking and shivering. That was great, Stitch said, though his voice sounded far away, like it was coming through a a closed window. Try as I might, I couldn't focus on it. You actually stayed conscious the whole time. Maybe I should do more men. I heard him walk over to me and retrieve the needle, which was hanging off the side of my face, still attached to the thread sewn through my left eye. He then

stroked the side of my face and kissed my forehead. I have to go. I'll check on you after it's all over, my beautiful doll. He got up and walked somewhere. I heard a door creak open, then shut. That echoing slam was the last thing I ever heard. SCP-1034 consists of a rusted, semi-circular suture needle 5 centimeters in cord length, and a spool consisting of twine, approximately one millimeter thick. If the thread is removed from the needle, a second spool appears with the end of the twine threaded through the eye of SCP 1034. This only occurs when the needle is not under direct or recorded observation. When the skin or blood of a human, hereby referred to as the subject, makes contact with

SCP 1034, the subject loses control of all voluntary bodily functions except facial muscles, lungs, and vocal cords. The subject then begins suturing all facial orifices, beginning with the mouth and progressing to the eyes, ears, and nose. The sutures are loose enough for the subject to breathe through his or her mouth and remain conscious during the entire process. After the process is completed, the subject returns SCP 1034 to the location where contact was first made, and remains in a sitting or standing position corresponding to the original position of the subject. The subject then begins to perspire until all moisture has been. been exuded from the body. If death has not already occurred, the subject dies of dehydration

during this period. When handled with gloves or some other barrier between the skin and the needle, the effects of SCP 1034 do not manifest. If the needle has penetrated the epidermal layer of the skin, the effects of SCP 1034 remain active until all blood has been removed from the needle. We'd say that's their dojo. Prere to play a pleasure with Leo Jo. The casino in-line that proposes the most recent machine-ass-sou and the games of casino in direct. Profite of 50 tours gratu,

on Big Bas Bonanza, without the exigance of mise and with the payment instantane. Hey, I've got it! Woohoo! Sonture the pleasure, play, Ojo! 18 and plus, 1,1,000 depots only depots only depots in Ontario. 50 tours,

on the machine-a-soubizabeth Bonanza. Depos minimum of $10. Beye to pay responsible. The conditions apply.