The SCP Experience - Sweet Sticky Death | SCP-4924

Episode Date: December 15, 2025

A simple noise complaint turns horrifying as an officer uncovers a hidden world under the streets, where the voices begging for rescue aren’t what they seem. Listen ad-free + bonus stories with a 7-day FREE trial of ⁠SCP Premium⁠. Cancel anytime. No commitment. This story is derived from ⁠The SCP Foundation Database⁠ 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 * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Two kids stared at me while I slammed the door to my police cruiser. As I slid my nightstick into its belt holster, I winked at them. They both sat on bikes across the narrow street. The younger one smiled, which earned him a glare from the older kid. Cops weren't a welcome sight in this neighborhood. And these kids were only emulating what they'd seen from adults. My partner, Rafferty, remained inside the car. Curious, I bent down and glanced through the window,

catching him snorting a line of coke off his hand. Jesus, man, I shook my head. Rafferty got out on his side, sniffing loudly and brushing his nostril with the finger. White powder clung to his mustache. I rounded the cruiser's front bumper and headed for a tightly packed house on the crowded street. Rafferty followed, catching sight of the two kids. Hell you little shit's looking at. Leave them alone, man.

I kept my voice low. They're just kids. I bet they're carrying. Rafferty glared past the cruiser with his bright blue eyes. His gray blonde mustache shifted as he chewed his gum. Carrying what? They're kids. You a fucking me.

Rafferty growled, staring across the street. The younger kid bolted on his bike, but the older one held his ground, glaring at Rafferty. Is this what's in store for me in 15 years? I thought. My patrol partner slid his nightstick free as he neared the remaining kid. Come on, man, I said, not bothering to keep my voice down. I wanted to run out and grab him.

But the last time I did that, I got a fist to the gut. Instead, I gestured for the kid to leave, mouthing, go, while pointing down the road, my eyes wide and serious. The kid jumped on his pedals and flea. slipped Rafferty the bird as he turned his bike. But my pot-bellied partner was faster than he looked. Snapping his nightstick, he caught the kid's shoulder hard with the tip before he got out of range. The kid yelped and wobbled on his bike, but picked up speed as he worked to stay upright.

Little fucking shit! Rafferty shouted after the kid. I'll see you again. His shoulder checked me as he passed, then started up the steps to a narrow two-story, green-painted house. swallowing my shame, I turned and followed him to the porch. Less than a minute after knocking, the door opened to reveal an elderly couple. Yeah, you had a noise complaint? Rafferty said, smacking his gum.

The old couple shared a look. Not exactly, the man said. You boys better come inside. It's better if you hear it for yourself. Thank you, I said, stepping in front of Rafferty before he could say anything else. I'm Officer Wise, and this is Officer Rafferty. I'm Walter Bernie, and this is my wife, Alicia. The man said, I shook both their hands as they showed us into the entryway.

Rafferty looked around, ignoring Mr. Bernie's proffered hand. Can you explain the situation to us from the beginning? I pulled my notebook out of my breast pocket, along with a small pencil. Walter, a slightly stooped man who I figured was pushing 80, waved us down the entryway hall. Follow me. Last I checked, it's still happening. I heard it this morning. His wife said as she played with a modest pearl, encased in silver on her necklace. I went down to get some preserves from the basement for our breakfast. We called right away, but I guess you boys were busy with more important things.

There was no edge or sarcasm in her voice. Still, Raffordy said, You goddamn right we were. Walter glanced over his shoulder at my partner, who met the older man's gaze with a scowl. Near the kitchen, which smelled of coffee, Walter stopped and opened the basement door. Come on. As the old man started down the steep wooden steps, I had a vision of Raffordy shoving him down the stairs,

likely killing the old guy. Although I wanted to believe my partner wouldn't do such a thing, I wasn't completely sure. So I slipped in front of him, putting myself between him and the old man, What's your goddamn hurry, wise. This was ridiculous. I didn't know how much longer I could stand being this man's partner.

The stress was giving me ulcers and nightmares. It was enough to drive a man to quit. The stairs creaked and whined as we headed down. Walter stopped at the foot of the stairs in the cramped basement, leaving enough room for us to get past. Only when I reached the bottom and looked up, did I notice Alicia at the top, still fiddling with her necklace.

She won't come down here anymore, Walter said. As soon as Raffordy stepped off the noisy wooden stairs, I heard it. The distant screams of someone crying for help. You hear it, don't you? Walter asked. I nodded. Where's it coming from? Walter pointed to the room's center where a drain sat in the concrete floor.

The grate was rusted and dirty. As I approached it, the sound grew louder. And as I got down on my hands and knees, I realized it wasn't just one voice. It was several. Women, and at least one man, all of them moaning or crying for help, or just wailing, like someone with a broken leg, stuck. What the hell? Rafferty said, crouching next to me. They in the sewers?

Maybe. But is it possible to hear them from here? Seems possible to me, because I can hear them with my own two goddamn ears. An insistent knock came from upstairs. I looked up at Walter. Are you expecting anyone? Just you, boys. Walter said.

Distantly, I could hear Alicia talking to someone up there. Hello? Rafferty yelled at the drain. Can you hear me? The whales continued unchanged. The basement stairs protested as quick footfalls rushed down them. Rafferty and I got to our feet to see two men in comfortable worn suits arrive in the room.

the basement. Who the hell are you? Rafferty sized up the two newcomers. The guy who'd come down first, a black man with a bald head and finely trimmed beard, eyed Rafferty critically and then looked at me. The man behind him, a short white guy with twitching fingers and severe eyes, stared at the drain like he expected something hideous to come out of it. I'm Special Agent Baptiste, the black guy said. And this is Special Agent Steed, and you are? Bullshit! Rafferty said, Special agent my ass. Show me some ID.

What the hell do you want with some people trapped in a sewer? Baptiste and Steed shared a look, but they didn't reveal any badges. Mr. Bernie, why don't you head upstairs? I said to Walter. Let us have a talk with these gentlemen. We'll let you know what decision we come to. Walter, sensing the tension, nodded and headed up the stairs. Steed moved into the vacated space next to his partner.

Now, about those badges? Rafferty said, and on his sidearm. It's not every day you run into real-life federal agents, I said. We wouldn't be doing our due diligence if we didn't ask. You've got one hell of a way of asking, Capiz said, looking at Rafferty as he reached for his inside jacket pocket. Slow! Raffordy said, yanking his pistol out and pointing it at the man.

Jesus, man, I'm going for my badge like you asked. I ain't never met one of you I can trust. Rafferty said. Now go slow as molasses if you don't want to get shot. One of who? A fed or a black man? Baptiste asked. Rafferty sneered.

Slow, boy. We are slow. I stood frozen, sick to my stomach. Once again in a horrible situation of my partner's making. The other guy, Steed, had his hands hanging by his sides. His fingers were no longer twitching, and he stared blankly at. Rafferty. Baptiste slowly brought his badge wallet out and extended it toward my partner. Rafferty yanked it away from him and looked at it. I moved a little closer, peering over his

shoulder. It looked legit. I'm going to have to check on this. Any jackhole can carry a fake badge. Give me a minute to radio it in and keep your hands where I can see them. Fine, but stop pointing that damn gun at me, Baptiste said. The fuck you say, boy, Rafferty whispered, apparently mindful of the old couple upstairs. He jabbed the gun toward the man's face and slipped his finger onto the trigger. Baptiste didn't flinch, but his eyes flicked over to me. Rafferty, come on, man, I said. Shut the fuck up, pussy boy.

These assholes are playing as federal agents. That's a serious crime. They got guns, too. I seen them under their jackets. I eased closer and turned. so my back was to Baptiste, trying to get between the two of them while looking Rafferty in the face. What if they are feds? Then they should have announced themselves as such before rushing down here like they did.

Rafferty, I eased a little closer. How much cook have you done today? Rafferty's eyes jumped to me. I shot my left hand out, grabbing his wrist and jerking his arm down. At the same time, I slammed my fist into the side of his face with every ounce of the pent-up anger I'd been repressing. His lights went out, and he fell to the floor. I crouched with him, still holding his right wrist. He hadn't fired the gun, which was a minor miracle given how keyed up he was. I took the gun out of his hand and stood up, shoving it into my waistband.

Been wanting to do that for a long time, I said, turning to see that both Baptiste and Steed had their weapons out, pointed at me. I held my empty hands out. Baptiste lowered his gun first. Steed followed soon after. What the hell was that all about? Stede asked in a southe accent. I shook my head, actually feeling good, despite my throbbing hand. He's a piece of work, high as a kite. That was a pretty good hit. Baptiste put his pistol away and offered his hand. Thanks. I'm wise. Now, what the hell is up with the voices from the sewer? Baptiste glanced at his partner and then returned his gaze to me. An apologetic look came over his face.

I really can't tell you, he said. We appreciate your help and all, but we'll take things from here. The voices from the drain had stopped. But as I opened my mouth to object, a new sound came from the small hole. It was the unmistakable sound of a crying girl. I turned and moved toward the hole, the noise so much like my young daughter that I thought for a second she was actually down there. Officer Wise, please, Baptiste said.

The soles of his shoes scuffed the floor as he came toward me. I could hear the clack of Steed's heels as well. I crouched over the drain, peering at the dark hole beneath the rusty metal grate. We've got this under control, Baptiste said. Just head upstairs, please. What the? I whispered under my breath, as small cracks in the concrete formed around the drain, jerking outward, like slow-motion lightning bolts.

Then they were no longer slow-moving, and they were no longer small. The floor vibrated and tilted under my feet, inch-wide crevasses, suddenly appearing where hairline fractures had been a heartbeat ago. I straightened, jerking away from the hole, even as the floor gave way beneath me. Baptiste yelled something I couldn't make out over my panic. Steve shouted. Concrete crumbled, and I fell as it disintegrated under me. I had just enough time to wonder how many bones I'd break on impact

before I landed in what I first mistook for water. The liquid enveloped me, and my head went under. But as I straightened out, I felt solid ground under my feet. Pushing against it, I stood up, my head breaking the surface of the liquid. Only then did I realize it wasn't water. I had to drag my fingers across my eyes to clear the liquid. It was sticky, dark, viscous, and sweet-smelling. Peering around, I saw that I wasn't alone in the pool of strange liquid.

Baptiste and Steed were each sputtering and wiping their eyes. What the fuck? I turned to see Rafferty with us and awake. We all stood chest deep in the pungent liquid. The brick-lined walls around us spoke to the age of this portion of the sewer system. A large pipe stretched into darkness in both directions from the service room we must have fallen into. Looking overhead, I examined the sizable hole we'd fallen through. The tunnel's ceiling was a good five feet above my head,

and the ragged hole in the Bernie's basement was probably eight feet above that. Between the tunnel ceiling and the basement floor, there was a thick stretch of earth, out of which a broken drain pipe poked. One wall was near enough for a possible escape route, but it was steep. While looking around, I licked my lips absently, surprised at what I tasted. Is this molasses? Yes, Steed said. And we need to get the hell out of it. You piece of shit!

Rafferty waited toward me with aggressive strides through the sticky brown liquid. His face distorted with rage. You hit me, you little fuck! Moving was difficult in the molasses, but I prepared myself for a fight, raising my arms as Rafferty came near. Then a chorus of voices erupted from the tunnel behind my approaching partner. It was much the same as we'd heard through the pipe in the basement, several people crying for help.

Rafferty paused, looking over his shoulder. We really need to move, Baptiste said. I glanced at him. He had his gun out, held out of the chest-deep fluid. Dark tendrils dripped off the weapon and his arms. What are you doing? I asked. Why do you have your gun out? It sounds like someone's in trouble. Baptiste shook his head. No, they aren't. It's a trap. It's trying to lure us in.

How the hell do you know that? Raffordy asked. He looked less angry and more scared now. Just chastess. Steed said. It's not safe. We need to get out of here. Rafferty grimaced. Why the hell is there molasses down here anyway? What is going on?

The voices drew closer, but I still couldn't see their source. I grabbed my mini flashlight from my utility belt. Pulling it up, I clicked it on and shined it down the tunnel. The light reflected off a pair of animal eyes in the distance, and the white and black pattern around them looked like a raccoons. Then another pair of reflective eyes opened, a few feet above the first. and another, and another. Soon, half a dozen pairs of eyes reflected light back at me.

The animals were growing nearer. Move! Baptiste shouted. This way! What is that? I whispered to myself, craning my neck, trying to get a better look. Rafferty pushed past me, following the other two men down the tunnel. The cries for help had stopped, since the eyes had appeared. But as the animals got closer, a low growling started.

It grew in pitch and ferocic. I took an involuntary step back, and my heel caught on a piece of fallen concrete. I stumbled, taking the light off the eyes. I ratted myself. I shone the flashlight down the tunnel again. The beam illuminated several pallid human faces staring back at me. Heart jolting, I took another step back. Their mouths opened as wide as their eyes, and they screamed. My mind struggled to catch up with my eyes.

A massive, fused-together amalgamation of humans and animals approached, through the molasses, pushing a small wave ahead of it. Human and animal limbs, which sprouted from the sides and top of the thing, propelled it along the tunnel by pushing on the walls. Driven by sickening fear, I turned and moved away as fast as I could, which wasn't very fast considering the liquid. I couldn't see the other three men anymore. They were gone, and they moved so fast.

I had no doubt that thing would overtake me soon, but I kept moving, muscle straining as I half ran, half swam, through the molasses. Needing my arms, I kept the flashlight in my left hand but no longer pointed ahead. The light barely penetrated the liquid as I used both arms to struggle forward. A wave of sticky liquid climbed up my back. The monstrosity was closing in. Arms reached out and snagged me, pulling me out of the molasses. At first, I was sure it was the creature, getting ready to absorb me or whatever it did to its victims.

But as I was pulled into a small dark tunnel, I realized it was Steed and Baptiste who'd grabbed me. They dragged me back first into the tiny space, just as the creature came to it. I shine my light at the thing as it reached toward me, sinewy hands and paws, stretching out. Fingers grasped my boot, but I yanked it away. As they continued to drag me, the creature pressed a portion of itself into the hole, still shrieking and growling from its many heads, its eyes rolling as it screamed. But the creature was much too large to fit inside. After a few long, loud moments, it gave up.

Going silent, it slid. I gathered away from the tunnel and headed back the way it had come. The two men released me, allowing me to turn and spot Rafferty, who was crouched in the tunnel behind them, looking like a scared and strung out child. His eyes darted to mine and then passed me at the tunnel mouth. Then he lowered his gaze. I'd always known he was a coward.

His true colors were finally showing. I got off my ass and into a kneeling position, facing the tunnel wall so I could look one way at the mouth and the other way at the three men. A slow-moving stream of molasses traveled away from us, but it was barely two inches deep. The walls slowly dripped dark syrup, as if they were producing this stuff.

I tried to make sense of the situation, but my brain felt slow and foggy. I was thankful for it, because I had a feeling that if I had time to process, I'd turn into a cowardly mess, like Rafferty. It's going to try to escape through that hole in the basement, Steed's voice snapped me out of my thoughts. Yeah.

Baptiste nodded, looking up along the ceiling. It won't fit. No, not unless it separates some of itself first. Which it will do. Baptiste nodded. We have a little time then. But now much. What the hell are you guys talking about?

I asked. You know what that thing is? They looked up at me from where they crouched in the tunnel. Baptiste turned back to Steed and said, Call for a task force. On it. Steed said, bringing a phone out of his pocket, a phone encased in a waterproof pouch. He moved down the tunnel to make his call in relative solitude, squeezing past Rafferty.

My partner was looking toward Baptiste and me, clearly eager to overhear our conversation. You ever heard of the Boston molasses disaster of 1919? Baptiste asked me. I thought for a second and then shook my head. What happened? A poorly made tank filled with Malasca. molasses ruptured, sending over 2 million gallons of the stuff out in a massive wave. It killed 21 people. I looked at him. Why the hell did they have a tank with 2 million gallons of molasses in the first place?

It can be fermented to produce ethanol. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how many uses ethanol has. I shook my head and thought for a moment. So you're saying all this here? Was the result of a disaster over 100 years ago? Yes. said, That's exactly what I'm saying.

I scoffed. So that monster has been down here in the sewers since 1919? Come on, that's insane. This is why we have to keep this shit secret from the public. Baptiste said sadly. People say seeing is believing, but half the time, they don't even believe their own eyes.

I stared at the man. Strings of molasses dripped off him, slowly joining the stream in the tunnel. But how? We don't know exactly how, he said. But our organization has been containing this thing as best we can since we learned about it. This part of the sewer is old and sealed off from the rest of the public work system. The only problem is that thing keeps trying to break out,

often by slowly eating through brick, stone, and earth with the molasses it generates. Why not just kill it? I ask, we've got guns, we can shoot it. guns won't kill it. We've tried everything short of vaporizing the damn sewers down here. But we can't really do that without drawing too much attention. It can't be killed by any traditional means. Steed joined us.

Walking hunched over until he reached Baptiste, at which point he crouched and leaned his back against the tunnel wall. Task force is on the way, but they won't be here for two hours. Baptiste grimaced. Shit. Why shit? I studied the two of them. It's likely that thing will separate itself into pieces in the next 20 minutes or so.

And if it does, it can crawl up that hole it created. Without the distracted. Steed said. Yeah. Distracted how? I asked. Steed looked at me. How do you think?

I fell ill. Shit. Exactly. Which means we're going to need your help too. Baptiste turned to look at Rafferty, but he paused, peering over his shoulder. I adjusted my flashlight and looked that way, seeing only empty tunnel. Rafferty was gone. Well, I wish the asshole luck, Steed said.

There's no way out of here from the inside, unless it's the way we came. Remembering that I'd taken Rafferty's gun, I reached to my back waistband and felt for it. It was gone, probably knocked loose on the fall. But I still had my own sidearm, secured in its holster. You said guns don't do anything? No, guns won't kill it. Baptiste smiled. But they'll sure piss it off.

A scared voice called out, as the three of us cautiously approached the tunnel mouth. Using what little clean clothing we could find between us, we had scrubbed the molasses off our pistols as best we could. Baptiste was near the small tunnel's entrance when the old man called out, his voice distant. Steed and I were stacked up behind him. We all paused, listening.

Hello? You boys okay down there? Without a word, Baptiste stuck his head out. Bone flashlight in one hand, pistol in the other. He checked both ways quickly, apparently seeing nothing. Hold on. He called. Don't come near the hole. We'll be right there. Okay, then.

It's gone? Steed asked. I don't see it. Maybe the guy has a rope he can toss down to get us out of here. Do you think it could have separated yet? Baptiste shrugged. I don't know, I doubt it. The file says anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour for full separation.

Okay, here's what we should do, Steed said. I'll go. You do cover me from here. No, I'll go. Baptiste said. Fuck off, Dad. Steed replied, pushing past his partner and jumping into the pool of molasses, keeping his own phone and pistol up above the liquid. Baptiste grumbled, watching Steed wade toward the hole in the ceiling. Dad?

I asked. What was that about? Baptiste shook his head. I have a new baby boy at home, my first. Oh, Steve doesn't have kids? Nope. I'm going to get in right here and hang out. That way you can have enough room to cover him too, okay?

Sure. Baptiste jumped into the molasses, and I eased forward to the tunnel mouth, peering left to where Steed near the hole in the ceiling. The man's flashlight picked out a dozen yards of empty tunnel in that direction. Steed stepped into the pale circle of light coming from above. Hey there, Mr. Bernie. You wouldn't happen to have a rope, do you?

Yes, I think so. If I can just get it around this hole, are you all okay down there? What is that stuff you're standing in? Doesn't smell like sewage, smell sweet. We're okay, Mr. Bernie, but we can really use that rope. Yes, here it is. Should be long enough.

Do you think the city will pay for you? will pay for my floor. We can discuss it when we're up there with you. As I listened to this back and forth, I studied the molasses pool beyond Steed. The dark liquid stirred lazily some ten yards beyond where the man stood. Behind you! I shouted.

Steed whipped that way, pointing the phone light and gun. I don't see anything. Are you sure about the 20-minute thing? I asked them. Couldn't part of it be swimming? We only know what we've read. Deptiste answered. There hasn't been a breach like this since we've been on the job.

Steed angled his phone, trying to peer down through the dim syrup. The end of a rope fell, plopping into the molasses. Steed turned to look at it, then called up. Is it secure? Yes, come on up. Steed stuck his phone between his teeth, then holstered his pistol, which meant getting molasses on it. Then he grasped the rope with both hands and started to haul himself up.

Just behind him, something shot up from the pool. Look out! I shouted, aiming for the sticky limb. It was so close to Steed, I was afraid to fire. Baptiste shouted something as the form attacked Steed, desperate limbs grabbing at his legs, as he worked desperately to pull himself up the rope. It was much smaller than the massive original form, clearly having separated after only ten minutes. Several heads, a couple of humans, a raccoon, and a dog, shrieked as the creature attacked.

Knowing I had to risk it, I fired. A split second later, Baptiste did too. We were too late. He grabbed hold of Steed's legs with teeth and arms, yanking him off the rope and under the murky surface. Baptiste was already moving that way, waiting in quick leaps to where Steed had disappeared. Just as I jumped down myself,

the slap of approaching footsteps pulled my attention. Raffordy sprinted down the narrow tunnel toward me. His face twisted in rage. I tried to whip the pistol toward him, but he was too close. He leaped, crashing into me. His shoulder hit my sternum, knocking the wind out of me. We fell into the molasses. The viscous material engulfed me, closing in just as Rafferty's hands found my throat and squeezed.

I panicked, thrashing wildly against him. Our weight, combined with the dense molasses, dropped us to the bottom. My back touched the hard floor, and Rafferty settled on me, his fingers digging into it. to my throat. I had lost my flashlight when Rafferty tackled me, but not my gun. But it was engulfed in molasses. Even in the grip of panic, I knew it was my only chance. What I didn't know was whether it would fire. I suspected it would shoot once, but not a second time. The molasses would likely gum up the works after the first shot. I hoped one was all I needed. Bringing the gun up through the heavy liquid felt like lifting a hundred pound dumbbell with one hand. My lungs,

Fasmed for air. I had to fight my body's instinct to inhale a lung full of sticky death. Finally, I jabbed the gun into Rafferty's chest and squeezed the trigger. The gun fired. I didn't so much hear it as I felt the pistol kick. Rafferty's hands lost their strength, and I pushed up from the floor, first with my hands and then with my legs. As my head broke the surface, I ripped my left hand across my mouth to clear it of molasses, before inhaling with a full body spasm. As oxygen made its way through me, my panic faded,

and I looked over to see Steed climbing up the rope again while Baptiste waited toward me. What the hell happened? He asked. As he moved, he held his gun above the molasses, trying to wipe it off with one sticky hand. Rafferty, my partner! I gasped.

How did you? I shot the creature and it swam off. Now let's get out of here. Where's your partner? Dad. He tried to. Did he kill me? Baptiste raised his eyebrows, but said nothing as he turned to walk back to the rope.

I followed along. None of us had our lights anymore, so the only illumination came from the hole in the ceiling. Steed was clearly bleeding from several wounds, but he was making his way up the rope, regardless. As I moved that way, I also tried to clean my gun, but the molasses had gotten into the chamber when the slide ejected the spent shell casing, which was still stuck in the ejection. port. I kept my head oscillating as I moved, sure that the creature would attack at any moment. By the time I reached the rope, I had gotten the jammed shell clear and a new round loaded. Go, I'll cover you. Battees said, no way, you go. You're the one with a newborn at home.

This is not a fucking discussion, he said, looking genuinely angry for the first time. I'm not leaving some beat cop down here alone. Now get your ass moving so I can come up after you. Taking my cue from Steed, I stuck my pistol in my mouth, holding it with my teeth at the grip. I could taste the sweet molasses on it. Then I started my way up the rope. Steed still hadn't reached the top, but he was close. Strings of viscous syrup dripped off him, prompting me to turn my head as I pulled myself up the rope, feet braced against the wall. The molasses made me much heavier, but the going got easier as more sloughed off.

Up above, Steed crawled onto the basement floor. Just as I reached the ragged hole in the tunnel's ceiling, Baptiste cried out behind me. I turned my head, and the creature was bearing down on him. It wasn't as large as when I'd first seen it, having divided itself, but this was clearly the main bulk. Baptiste aimed his pistol and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He worked the slide, ejecting the round and tried again. Nothing.

Gripping the rope with one hand, I pulled my pistol from my mouth, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Nothing. Baptiste messed with his gun again as the creature closed to within ten yards. I knew it could easily reach up and yank me from my spot at the ceiling. Go! The man below yelled, glancing up at me. I didn't move. He tried his pistol again.

This time it fired. The heads on the creature shrieked, but they kept coming. Baptiste fired again. I tried to put my pistol back in my mouth, but with adrenaline making me shaky, I fumbled. It fell and landed beside Baptiste, slowly disappearing into the molasses. Arms reached out for me as the creature neared.

Fear spurred me, and I pulled myself up the rope, into the hole. A rotting human hand grabbed my left ankle, yanking my foot from the wall. I nearly fell, but managed to hang on tight. Below me, Baptiste screamed as he emptied the rest of his magazine. Above me, Steed was shouting words I couldn't make out over the gunfire in mayhem. I kicked at the rotten hand as its nails pierced my uniform pants and sliced my skin open. Stomping on it, I finally broke a finger and yanked my leg away.

I climbed with all I had. Below me, Baptiste backed away, trying to load another magazine into his pistol as he did so. The creature reached out with hands and hooves and mouths and teeth. It gripped him with appendages and yanked him closer. A Doberman's head protruding from a human's chest snarled and sunk its teeth into Baptiste's shoulder, and he shrieked in pain. Gunfire erupted from above me, and I peered up to see Steed, firing his weapon down at the creature, the bullets passing within inches of me. I leaned out of the way and tried not to move as he emptied his magazine. The creature's heads roared as it moved away from the hole, taking a struggling and shouting Baptiste with it.

My arms were shaking when I started back up again. Come on, Steve prompted, reaching down with one hand as he crouched to help me. At first, I thought he was simply urging me on because he didn't want me to fall. Then I noticed his eyes were on something behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see a piece of the creature, scrambling up the wall beneath. It was made mostly of human and raccoon arms, which worked together to pull it swiftly up. A fused-together dog-human head glared up at me with its mismatched eyes. It had two mouths, with the dog snout, protruding from the left side of the deformed man's head,

where his cheekbone would have been. Shoot him! I shouted. With shaking arms and screaming hands, I made it to him. He grabbed me and hauled me up. Okay now, Steve said as he dragged me away from the hole. The old man, Mr. Bernie, stepped over to the hole with a flaming Molotov cocktail in one hand. He chucked it into the hole.

Glass shuddered. Flames, whooshed. The creature shrieked in two voices. one human and one dog. I got to my feet ready to flee. Steed shouted, lurching forward to grab Mr. Bernie. It's going back down, the old man said in a faraway voice. Must not like fire.

The three of us looked down the hole. The flaming creature jumped into the molasses, extinguishing the flames. It didn't resurface anywhere we could see. Should we try to go get him? I asked, staring down at the now quiet tunnel. He's gone. They got him. Steed paused.

Idiot saved my life. Mine too. With the gasoline for Mr. Bernie's lawnmower, we filled several more bottles and stuffed rags into them. I gave my spare magazine to Steed, who also had a 9mm pistol. We stood watch over that hole for an hour and a half, using the rest of the gasoline and all the bullets before backup arrived.

As the well-equipped men and women of the task force got to work, Mr. Bernie and I were escorted upstairs to sit with his wife in the kitchen, guarded by plainclothes people who wouldn't tell us who they worked for. That's where I'm sitting now, in the kitchen. The doctor has been looking us over. He says he needs to give us a shot just in case we got an infection from the creature. I'm not sure why he wants to give Mrs. Bernie a shot, too. She was never near the thing.

But I have a feeling they won't let me leave without the shot. And all I want is to shower this sticky mess off me. So I've agreed. Ready? The doctor asks, lifting my uniform sleeve. A nod. This will make everything all better. You won't remember a thing.

Wait, what? But it's too late. I see liquid floods my veins. SCP 4924 is an extensive network of tunnels located beneath the surface of Boston's North End district, composed of brick passages, sewer tunnels, cisterns, basements, disused subway tunnels, and water pipes. The entirety of SCP 4924's interior constantly secretes and absorbs molasses from its walls and ceiling, with levels of molasses varying at any given time.

Its primary anomalous property manifests in attempts to breach into other subterranean spaces, such as tunnels, pipes, sewers, and basements. This is a slow process, where sections of the tunnels appear to soften and liquefy under the molasses coating, sloughing off in layers until it is able to breach through to the other side. SCP 4924-A is believed to have formed at some point following Event 4924-1919, where a storage tank containing approximately 2 million gallons of molasses burst, causing significant damage to surrounding buildings, sweeping vehicles, people and animals with it, resulting in 21 deaths.

The entity is mobile, constantly roaming the tunnels in no discernible pattern. Should a breach occur, it will always attempt to exit through said breach. In all cases of animals or humans entering the tunnels, the entity has attempted to incapacitate them and in most cases incorporate them into its mass, typically by vocalizing distress calls from the orifices of the bodies comprising its mass in order to lure the individual toward it.