The SCP Experience - Something Sinister Lurks Inside My Town’s Farmhouse | SCP-1983

Episode Date: February 5, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-1983: Something Sinister Lurks Inside My Town’s Farmhouse  This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1983 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett * * * 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

Hank Williams sang a lonesome tune on my radio as I turned off the highway. My truck's headlights brushing across, uncut Wyoming grass. The Teton Mountains loomed somewhere in the dark behind me. Their presence at once unseen and indelible in the dark. As I drove down the dirt road with Hank Williams singing his ghostly tune, I wondered what his last moments on this earth had been like. To die at 29 years old seemed like such a year old. cruelty, especially for one with so much to give the world. But in my current state, I couldn't

decide if getting old was a blessing or not. At nearly two and a half times older than Williams was when he died, each day seemed like it was getting longer and more painful. And I had long ago come to terms with the fact that I had very little to give the world. Arresting drunks and playing politics wasn't anyone's idea of a fruitful life. Now, as the rich folks seemed to spread out from Jackson Hole, invading small towns like mine, I was increasingly expected to serve as their own personal security force. It was like these people thought I was their own personal customer service representative. They wasted my time with the most mundane problems anyone could imagine. A minor dispute at the grocery store, called the sheriff. A 10-year-old car driving

through their neighborhood, it was probably someone up to no good, called the sheriff. A landowner refusing to sell their place so some rich couple could expand their property, called the sheriff. I was getting sick of it. And the idea of a dead man on the Culver Farm wasn't a welcome change of pace. My headlights shined on the closed Culver Farm gate. I put the truck into park and got out. My legs and back were screaming from only 30 minutes in the damn truck. As I walked stiffly toward the gate, I adjusted the Colt Python in my holster. As always, touching my sidearm made me think of the special 357 cartridge in the revolver. The bullet was pure silver, and I kept it in a position that meant it would be the last to fire if I had to use my weapon.

But in all my years as sheriff, I hadn't fired my gun once, so I wasn't worried about using it before the time came. No, the silver bullet would only be used when I was ready to leave this world, and I felt that time was coming ever closer. I thought about Hank Williams as I opened the gate and drove through. His song was over, so I shut off the radio before getting back out to shut the gate. I pictured him in the back of that Cadillac, headed for a concert in Ohio. I wondered how fast it happened, how long he had to realize he was dying.

I wondered how much pain he'd been in when his heart betrayed him. Maybe none. Maybe he was so doped up on morphine, he didn't feel a thing. Maybe the shots the doctor had given him for his back pain had already worn off. by that point. Maybe he'd just gone to sleep and drifted away. If so, he was lucky. Most of us don't get to go that way. As I pulled up to the farmhouse, I spotted Deputy Ambrose leaning against his patrol car, chatting with old man Culver in a spill of light from the front porch. Ambrose and Culver were opposites in most ways that mattered. Culver was an old, barrel-chested man with a chip on his

shoulder so big, it casted a shadow over his large head. Ambrose, on the other hand, was about as thick as a sheaf of notebook paper, with sticks for arms and shovel handles for legs. He was an agreeable young man whose demeanor would have made him a piss poor cop, anywhere but small town Wyoming, where respect was generally valued over force. I parked and got out of my truck, adjusted my holster again. God damn idiot. Why don't you? Why don't and died on my property, Culver said to me before spitting tobacco juice onto the ground. Good to see you too, Mr. Culver, I said. I heartily regret any inconvenience this dead man has caused you. If it were up to me, I'd never let anyone die within ten miles of your farm.

Ambrose choked back a giggle, while Culver scowled at me from his fleshy face. Just get him out of here, will you? he asked. Soon as we can, I said. Then I turned to Ambrose. Lead the way, Deputy. Ambrose had a maglite in hand, which he turned on as he started out toward a large equipment shed 50 yards from the house.

We passed the shed and continued on through trimmed grass until the flashlight beam picked out a body on the ground. It was a man, maybe mid-30s. He lay on his stomach with his head toward us. His arms were arrayed over his head, as if he'd thrown them up

to cushion his fall, but it died before he hit the ground. He was fully dressed, with no obvious wounds I could see from where we stood, 10 yards away. Ambrose gave me the flashlight when I stuck my hand out for it. Stay here, I said, walking forward, cowboy boots swishing in the grass. The man wore a corduroy jacket over a plaid button up. He had jeans on and well-used shoes that still had a couple of years left in them. His head was cocked to the side, letting me see his face. I didn't recognize him.

Nor did I see any obvious signs of trauma. Using a glove I retrieved from my jacket pocket, I carefully lifted the man's hands, looking at the palms. There was blood on the right palm from a small puncture wound. Crouching next to the dead man, I turned the flashlight and my gaze out into the night, back the way it appeared the man had come. I knew that there was a barbed wire fence in that direction, denoting one side of the Culver Farm.

I also knew what stood on the adjacent property, about a mile away from the fence line. What is it? Ambrose said. You see something out there? You call Henning, I asked, still looking out at the tunnel of light, penetrating the darkness. Yes, sir. How far out? Said he'd be here around nine. Henning was the one crime scene tech we had. I'd already contacted the county coroner,

but it would be more than an hour until his arrival. I stood up and said, Follow me. We walked out, stopping toward the barbed wire fence. I pointed the light along the barbs, not really expecting to see any blood, but checking anyway. What are you looking for? Ambrose asked. He had a small wound on his hand, I said.

the kind you get from grabbing a barbed wire fence. I turned my attention to what lay beyond the fence, but I couldn't see the abandoned farmhouse through the dark. The sour taste of irrational fear crawled up my throat. What's over there? Ambrose asked. But before I could answer, he said, Is that the old abandoned Aldrich farmhouse? The one that supposedly haunted?

I turned and shined the light in Ambrose's face. Who says it's haunted? I asked. You haven't been out there, have you? No, sheriff, Ambrose said. No way. Everyone knows not to go out there. Apparently not everyone, I said, turning back to look through the gloom. Lazzangue surgellied,

Puisance Molyne, for 15 minutes. We're like to dojo. Preet. Vive the pleasure with Leo Jo. The casino in line who proposes the most recent machine-asson-sou and the games of casino in direct. Profite 50 tours gratuys on Big Bas Bonanza without exigance of mise

and with depemines. Hey, I've gained. Woohoo! Sontier the pleasure, Play, Ojo! 188 and more, 1, 1,000, 10% per centred on the machine

to sue Big Bas, Bonanza. Depos minimum of $10. Veiletkae. Beye to play a fashion responsible. The conditions apply. There's something else here now. Something new. From,

exclusively on Paramount Plus, it's the series Stephen King calls scary as 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. The county coroner said over the phone. Say that again, I said, sitting at my desk and using the landline. His heart is gone. Damnedest thing I've ever seen. No wounds to explain it.

The only trauma I saw was to the veins and arteries. And of course, the torn remnants of the outer layer of the paracardium. The torn remnants of what? The paracardium. It's what keeps your heart in place. And that was damaged? I asked. Well, most of it was gone, he said. Like someone had ripped the man's heart out.

But there was no way that could have happened, you say? No other trauma? That's right. Unless someone has figured out a way to... to sew someone back together without leaving a trace. What if the heart exploded? Would this account for it? No, hearts don't just explode.

Because if they did, I would have found parts of it during the autopsy. But I didn't. It was just gone. Jesus. You can say that again. Any professional wisdom? I asked. I need a place to start.

The coroner. scoffed. Hell if I know, but I'll tell you one thing. I'm going to submit this to a journal. I'll probably get laughed at, but I'm going to try. This is remarkable. I hung up the phone and sat back at my desk. God damn it, I said to myself. I really didn't want to go out there, but it looked like I had no choice. It was my goddamn job after all. As I stood up for my desk chair, I tweaked my back, grunting as a familiar pain thrashed my lower back. With some effort and pain, I stood up straight, shifting my holster, thinking about the silver bullet again. I walked stiffly out of my office, thinking about how old Hank had it right. A shot of morphine would have done me good.

Tilly sat at the front desk with a headset on, doubling as receptionist and dispatcher. I'm headed to the old Aldridge Farmhouse, I said. Her eyes went wide with disbelief. Can you contact Ambrose and tell him to meet me there? It took her a moment to recover. But when she did, she said, Uh, yes, Sheriff, no problem. Thank you, Tilly, I said, walking painfully out of the station,

feeling every day of my age. Sheriff Whitmore called me to his house, shortly after he decided not to run for re-election, and endorsed me as his successor. I was running unopposed back then. It seemed like a lifetime ago as I thought about it, on my way to the Aldrich Farmhouse. Whitmore was old, and I was what he considered a young man,

even though I was nearly 40 at the time. It was a foregone conclusion that I would become the new sheriff, and I am proud to say that Whitmore and I were friends. Some people you work with are just coworkers, But Whitmore and I got along well. We understood each other and enjoyed one another's company. So when I pulled up to his house all those years ago, I knew it was important.

He'd summoned me without so much as a hint behind it. And he was a straightforward man. He always spoke his mind about a subject. So it was rare to be summoned without a reason. It was the end of summer, and Whitmore was in front of his old log cabin, sitting in one of two rocking chairs. There was a small maroon box on the table next to him, along with a couple of beers.

I took a seat in the rocking chair opposite the table, and we looked out at the mountain range. Despite the heat, there was still snow clinging to the shadowy cracks of the craggy mountains. Then again, I knew it wasn't hot up there, not like it was at Whitmore's house. Strange, how things can be the same, but completely different when you get right down to it. The grizzled old man, who seemed about as old as those mountains to me at the time, handed me one of the beers. I took it gratefully, mostly for its cool feel in my hand and down my gullet. When we had been sitting for a good fifteen minutes, Whitmore finally spoke. That there are boxes for you, he said.

Take it when you leave. I looked down at the item. It was about the size of a jewelry box. What's in it? Something you may need one day, he said. Can I open it now? No. When?

You'll know when. I stared at him. The beer forgotten in my hand. He stared at the mountains. I can't explain it to you, he said finally. Eyes still on the craggy horizon. You just think I was nuts. a crazy old man, but you'll know. You'll know when to open the box, and you'll know when to use what's inside.

He turned and grasped my wrist in one gnarled but still strong hand, looking into my eyes. You keep it in your cult. Keep it in there, so it'll be there if you need it. And if you ever do need to use it, you pray when you do. Pray with all your heart. Pray like you never prayed before. I could do nothing but not. And even doing that, felt like it took maximum effort. Whitmore let go of me

and resumed his observation of the landscape. When I finished my beer, I asked if Whitmore wanted to go get a stake in town. He said no, and that I best be going. I took the marooned. box with me. The next time I saw Whitmore, I was sheriff and he was dead. He'd blown his brains out with his revolver, and he'd used a silver bullet. Later that night, I opened the maroon box

and found a silver bullet of my own inside. There was an SUV parked outside the Aldrich farmhouse when I pulled onto the property. I'd already seen that the lock I'd long ago put on the gate had been cut, so it wasn't a big surprise to see the vehicle. But when I saw the dead man on the ground near the front door of the house, I was a bit surprised. I left my engine running, staring out the windshield at the simple one-story farmhouse. Weather had rubbed most of the paint off the wooden siding, leaving the structure varying shades of gray. I'd expected the place to be a bit more run down, but I knew better. knew that something was seriously wrong with the old Aldrich place.

The tales of the cult rituals from years ago still made the circuit. But that wasn't what kept people away. It was the odd feeling you got when you came to this place. Like someone was watching you. But not watching you from the house. It was as if they were always right behind you. Like your shadow came alive and turned malevolent. How could you protect yourself from your own shadow?

That sour taste of fear invaded my mouth, and I glanced repeatedly into the rearview mirror as I waited for Ambrose to arrive. I kept expecting to see someone or something sitting in the backseat of my truck, but I never did. The fear didn't go away. Finally, Ambrose pulled up. I got out of my truck, my sunglasses helping with the bright sunlight. He got out of his cruiser and peered around with the scared look on his face. I knew he could feel it too. When he saw me draw my weapon, he did the same.

We approached the dead body. He was similar in age to the dead man we'd found on the Culver Farm, probably missing his heart too. What are we doing? Ambrose asked. We going in? I guess we are, I said. Don't see that we have much of a choice. We moved up and stood on either side of the farmhouse door.

Stay here while I make a round. I'll see what I can through the windows. And by God, don't do anything until I get back. Ambrose nodded. I peered through the window to my left, seeing nothing but a grimy window pane. I figured there was something blocking the inside of the window, because I couldn't see inside.

I went around the side of the house and stopped at the next window I came to. I could see through the grime into a small bedroom. Empty of furniture. No bodies and no suspects either. At the back of the house, I still hadn't seen anything noteworthy through the windows. Just an old broke down and abandoned farmhouse built sometime in the early 20th century. I skirted a pile of old wood and was coming around the other side when I heard Ambrose call out. You hear that, sheriff? Hear what? I called out, but heard no answer. I hurried up toward the front of the house, rounding the corner to see that the front door was open. Ambrose stood in front of it, staring into the darkness. No, it wasn't just darkness beyond the threshold of the open door.

It was blackness, a blackness so complete and depthless that it hurt to look into. I ran toward my young deputy, going as fast as my old fossilized bones could take me. But it wasn't fast enough. A humanoid shadow made out of that inky black stepped out into the sunlight, looking like a man-shaped hole in the world. Ambrose backed off a step, raising his gun, his mouth dropping open in disbelief. The black shadow reached out for him.

I raised my colt and fired at the shadow. The bullet passed right through it, kicking up a plume of dust in the outer yard. Although it didn't have any eyes, I could tell when the thing looked toward me. Ambrose took another step back and fired his weapon at the creature. It didn't do any good. The shadow turned its attention back to him and lunged forward,

shooting its coal-black arm into Ambrose's chest. The deputy convulsed and led out a tortured gasp. The thing brought its arm back out, holding Ambrose's still beating heart in its hand. You son of a bitch! I screamed as Ambrose fell to the ground. I fired my weapon at the monster twice more. The thing turned toward me and rushed forward on legs that seemed to blur with their speed. I backpedaled, firing twice more, using all but my last round to no effect.

As I put pressure on the trigger to fire the last round in my revolver, I saw a glint of silver as the chamber shifted to align the last cartridge with the hammer. And that was when it came back to me. My meeting with Sheriff Whitmore just before he took his own life. All these years, I'd thought that he'd given me the baller. thought that he'd given me the bullet so I could one day use it on myself. But now I knew, with the surety of old age, that he'd given it to me for a very different reason. For this reason. His words echoed in my mind as the black creature rushed toward me.

It's freehand reaching out, getting ready to pull my heart out of my chest. And if you ever do need to use it, you pray when you do. He said, pray with all your heart. Pray like you never prayed before. So I did what he said. As I pressed on the trigger, applying enough pressure to finish the process of firing the last bullet I had, I prayed like I had never prayed before. The gun kicked as the bullet fired.

The black creature disappeared in a puff of shadow. Ambrose's heart thudded to the ground and beat once more before it stilled. I looked back up at the house, watching as the door closed on its own. I didn't know why that was, or how it had happened. but I wasn't going to think too hard about it. My own heart seemed to be working overtime in my chest. For a moment, I thought it was about to give out, like Hank Williams' heart had done while he lay in the back of a Cadillac

on his way to play a concert. I rushed over and knelt next to Ambrose. He was dead. His body was still warm. I grabbed his young hand with my old one and knelt there next to him. And I prayed like I'd never prayed before. When I finally stood up for my deputy's body, my heart had settled. I was still alive.

For better or worse, I was still alive. I went to the truck bed, opening up the toolbox installed in the back. I got out a hammer and some nails, and went over to the stack of old wood I'd passed on my circuit of the house. I chose a few good boards and proceeded to nail them over the front door of the house. It wasn't much, but it was something. SCP 1983-1 is a one-story farmhouse in Wyoming. It was abandoned in 1968 after a series of ritual murders, allegedly performed by a satanic cult.

The front door of the farmhouse, when opened, appears to contain a spatial anomaly. Neither matter nor light has been observed to exit the doorway, save for instances of SCP 1983-2. SCP-1983-2 are bipedal creatures approximately 5 feet 9 inches tall. They are vaguely humanoid and entirely black in color. They are highly aggressive and will engage any human on site. When an instance of SCP 1983-2 comes into contact with a human, they extend an upper limb into the human's chest cavity,

without any apparent damage to skin or tissues. Through unknown means, they then extract the heart, killing the human. Silver munitions fired while offering prayer is the only known method of killing these anomalies. The precise form of the prayer or religion of the supplicant does not appear to matter, so long as the prayer is sincere. Once killed, the bodies of SCP 1983-2 appear to disintegrate. leaving a small layer of sulfur.