The SCP Experience - Skin and Bones | SCP-5091

Episode Date: January 31, 2022

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-5901: Skin and Bones  Author: Lucas Click Check out more of Lucas's work here: newpulptales.com This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-5901, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ 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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to be responsible. The conditions I stare at the anomaly through the monitor. Preston Markov, someone I have worked with for over 10 years, looks up at the camera and smiles. That alone would have been enough to raise my suspicions. Markov has faced off against the deadliest threats in the foundation's history. Each time he has come back to tell the tale,

Markov follows Foundation's security protocols almost religiously. He performed his work with stoic professional. and without any emotion. Markov had handpicked the team himself before they went hunting for the suspected anomaly. Markov's team had cornered the suspect in a room while other security forces waited outside as backup. The outside security forces had reported the sounds of gunfire and screams.

A minute later, Markov came down the stairs alone and reported the suspect had gotten away. The SCP Foundation is a unique organization. unique organization. Our records are filled with documented accounts of humans being possessed by unknown entities. As such, clearance code phrases are standard operating procedure when one agent is separated from the team. Markov had failed to identify himself with the proper passcodes. Security took him into

custody and went upstairs to investigate. Inside, they found three bloodied skeletons. I scanned through the folders and observed the DNA results. All three of the skeletons were a perfect match for our missing agents. Whatever is sitting in the interrogation room isn't Preston Markov. Dr. Anders? Agent Harrison clears his throat. I must caution you against interviewing the suspect without any security personnel. I look up from the file and look around at my observation team. Foundation protocols insist that all three of our departments are present. I respect Rick, so I don't immediately dismiss his concerns. He's been the chief of security for our research facility,

even before I started. Harrison is an unimposing man to look at, like a kindly grandfather, but he takes his responsibility seriously, perhaps too seriously. The loss of personnel always hits him hard, and I know it's guilt over Markov and the other agents that prompts his concern. I appreciate it, Rick, but we've taken all the precautions necessary. I turned toward one of my technicians monitoring the computers in the room. Are the countermeasures tested in running? He nods. We have 100,000 volts rigged up to the suspect's chair, awaiting your command. The emotions wrestle across Rick's face. As head of security, he has the authority to counter any orders I give that may pose a risk to the facility or

its personnel. Rick might not be a scientist, but he knows that my text can flick a switch faster than his security forces can pull a gun. Finally, he nods his assent. I organize the contents in my file, then make my way into the interrogation room. I open the door into the room. Pale fluorescent light reflects off the plain walls. The table at the center is stainless steel and bolted down to the floor, the same as the chair behind it. Handcuffs have been wielded to the table, confining the suspect. He looks up at me and smiles as if oblivious to the handcuffs.

Ah, why? Hello there, good sir. I suppose that you are the man in charge then, yes? The voice makes me falter for just a moment. Agent Markoff might have an old world surname, but his family had immigrated and settled into the Deep South generations ago. The few times that Markov did talk, it was with an accent thick as molasses.

This man's accent is bright and cheerful and vaguely British. It's far from the strangest thing I've seen in my time with the foundation, so I quickly recover from the slight shock and slide in the chair across from him. I double check to make sure that his hands are not within reaching distance before answering his question. My name is Dr. Douglas Anders, and yes, I'm in charge of this facility. Ah, a man of science. Charmed, I'm sure. I would shake your hand, but, well... The suspect gestures down to its restraints and winks at me. Whatever the entity's origins,

he seems to fancy himself something of a gentleman, so I try to use that to my advantage. Isn't it customary to exchange names after being introduced? He chuckles and shakes his head, or rather, Markov's head. Oh. What's a good? in a name. Names are like suits. I've never found one that was quite the perfect fit, so I've adorned and shed hundreds over the years. I take out a pen and scribble a note into the file. Is that what happened to Agent Markov? Markov? Is that who I'm wearing? Horrible design, I must say. Too tight across the shoulders, and the feet are awkward and clumsy. Markov. I find that name to be as itchy as the skin.

This close to him, I noticed the differences that I missed on camera. It certainly looks like Markov, but there's something off about his features. His cheekbones seem higher and sharper, as if ready to burst through the skin. There's a slight bulge to his eyes, and one appears to be hanging lower than the other. The skin across his knuckles is bulging. It looks as if the man's skeleton had a sudden growth spurt that the rest of his body had failed to compensate for. The subject so far has been forthcoming, but vague.

So I decide to switch tactics. I opened the folder and lay down several photos across the table. They're morbid before and after shots of two completely different people, a young woman in her early 20s smiling at the camera, and a stern-looking man in his late 50s. Next to their photos are the ones from the crime scene, two skeletons in pools of blood, staring up at the camera with their lifeless smiles and empty eyes. Can you tell me about doctors Amelia Wong and Wilford Connors?

The suspect frowns at the names. But the familiar face lights up after looking at the pictures. Ah, you mean my first two suits in this world? Yes, you see, the last I remembered. I had drifted off to sleep on my voyage here from the Neverment. When I awoke, I was in the dark and confined inside a box. So naturally, I started pounding on the doors and calling for assistance. The door was opened, and much screaming ensued,

until I quickly ascertained the reason for their alarm. During my slumber, my previous suit had disintegrated. Well, Doctor, I assumed your society wouldn't approve of someone prancing about naked. So I tried on the first suit. But I find the fairer of your sex never quite fits well. Too many curves and in all the wrong places. So I have veiled myself to the other suit on offer. I make another note about the neverment. Perhaps there's information about it in the archives. First, I present the other photos to the nameless anomaly. They cover the entire table before I set the pictures of Agent Markov and our other three dead agents on top of them.

And your other victims? I, yes! He raises a hand to his mouth an embarrassment. I suppose it does look rather excessive when looking at them all at once. Can you blame me though? So many suits available to try on. All in different shapes, sizes and colors. I believe I suffered from...

Oh, what do you call it on your television programs? Ah, yes, a fashion montage. He frowns and coxes at me. Oh dear, I feel another one coming on. He leans back in his chair and chaffs against the cuffs, huffing in annoyance. He grunts and yanks his arm back. And there's a tearing sound and then a spray of blood. Terror rises in my throat and freezes me in place at the sight before me.

Markov's hands remained handcuffed to the table. but one lay lifeless in a pool of blood. The suspect has a hand free, but it's nothing but bones and blood. It latches its hand over my wrist. The tips of its fingers are sharp and wet as they pierce my skin. But then a numbness spreads through my fingers as it tugs at my flesh. The skin on my hand stretches like a worn rubber band back to the entity's chest.

Then a ripping sound fills the air and pain races up my arm. I scream and bring the skeletal remains of my body. hand to my chest. The monster ignores me and slides my hand over his exposed bones. My darker flesh clashes against the pale skin of Markov's arm. It bends the fingers. My fingers, one by one, and smiles. My, my, I don't believe it. A perfect fit. Kill it! The agony snaps me into one clear course of action. Kill it now! The air fills with the hum of electricity. It buzzes in the air and grinds my teeth together. The thing convulses in the chair

as the hundred thousand vaults ripple through the chair and into its body. The lights flicker and plunge the room into darkness for a brief moment before Markov's clothes catch on fire. I watch as skin melts and drips from his face.

I sit in the dark, cradling my injury and weeping, but I refuse to look away from the thing that maimed me. The stench of burning hair and meat is suffocating until the flesh burns away. The smoke detection system kicks on,

dousing us in freezing water, which does nothing to soothe the inferno of pain that used to be my hand. The fire dies with an angry hiss, and the room goes dark again. The backup generators come to life as the water cuts off, and the lights flicker to life once more. All that remains of the suspect

is a charred black skeleton, lounging weightlessly in the chair. rafting smoke into the air. I rise from my chair, and my arm falls to my side like a dead weight. My head feels light. The rational part of my mind that still clings to consciousness tells me it is because of blood loss. I limped toward the door. Harrison opens it before I get there, with medics and other security guards in his wake. I sway on my feet as Harrison's eyes fill with horror, and he reaches for his gun. Warm claws wrap around my neck,

and a familiar voice whispers into my ear. Dear me, I do so hate having to wear an incomplete suit. Biggers can't be choosers. My body goes numb, and I hear a long, loud lip. SEP 5091 is a sapient human skeleton, approximately 1.8 meters tall, and weighing 2.5 kilograms. when not encompassed by skin and flesh.

It moves in a consistent manner to that of a human muscular system, despite the lack of any muscles or flesh. SCP 5091 speaks a form of Old English that seems to be consistent with the language used in the early 1800s. Most notable is its anomalous ability to grab hold of any humanoid's flesh and stretch it past its original elasticity, breaking the bonds that normally attach it to the bone. SCP 5091 will peel the flesh from the human until it has entirely removed the flesh from the skeleton.

In all instances recorded of this occurring, both the skeleton and the flesh were completely removed and fully intact. The skeletal remains consist of only bone and cartilage, with no other tissue, organs, or even the nervous system. The rest of the body slumps down into a mass of skin and organs. SCP 5091 will only do this when in its skeletal form. Immediately after it removes the flesh from the skeleton, SCP 5091 will proceed to stretch and pull the mass of flesh over top of itself like dawning a jumper.