The SCP Experience - The Black God | SCP-6198 [Part 2]

Episode Date: September 19, 2025

This story was derived from ⁠⁠⁠https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-6198⁠ 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 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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I only know this now that the black liquid, the life tea, as they call it, has wiped the memory-blocking substance from my brain. I now know that I have no sisters and no nephews back in the world. These false memories were implanted in me, while the amnestics blocked me from accessing my real memories. My siblings are here in this village. My parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles are all here. and for the last three months

they've been nursing me back to health while teaching me their language. It turns out, I'm a fast learner of this particular language, probably because I was brought up speaking it and English. Of course, they don't know that. They think it's only because I'm one of them that I've picked up the language so fast. Once it was clear I could understand them,

they told me the story of my kidnapping again and again. When the bloodline needs to be refreshed to prevent birth defects from inbreeding. Men from my village go out into the world and procure women who are used for breeding. They glazed over their selection process while telling me this story, but I know what involves finding women

who are of pure Slavic descent. During one pilgrimage, 26 years ago, they came back with three women to be used as breeders and then sacrificed to Chernobog when their prime breeding years were over. But one of these women managed to get loose, During her escape, she stole me from my nursery and made off into the woods. I wasn't seen again until now.

This is why drinking the life tea didn't kill me, they've eagerly explained. Only those who have been blessed by the black god can drink the tea and live. Chernobog blesses every child born in this village. In the last three months, I've heard some version of this story dozens of times. But I don't tell them the story of how a man, who I now know was, my great-uncle, hesitated when he had the chance to kill me with a boulder to the head. I don't tell them how I used his fatal hesitation to shoot him dead. He must have recognized something in my face. I admit, my features are strikingly similar to those of everyone else in this village.

Even without these similarities, I know what they say is true. This village is my home. Although I was taken as a baby and therefore have no memory of it, I was never allowed to forget where I can. came from. At least not until the time came for them to inject me with amnestics. Then it was vital that I forget. My mother, a thin and bow-legged woman with gray eyes, has spent the most time tending to me. She speaks to me about bringing more glory to her house. I had an older brother, who died in the skirmish with the foundation agents when I was captured. Although she grows misty-eyed when she speaks of him, it's also impossible to overlook the pride in her voice. To die defending Chernobog is a great honor.

She tells me she's blessed to have another son suddenly, a son who can go out and procure human sacrifices for Chernobog, which is something he demands once every month. I also have a younger sister who has done her part by having her first child at 15. Since then, she has born a total of six children. She's 22 years old. My father, who is stoic, bearded, and quiet, has given me no reason to feel unwelcome.

But there's a coldness in his eyes whenever we're in the same room. I understand the feeling. These people are strangers to me, and I, to them. Not that it matters anyway, because I've finally healed enough to do what I've come here to do. The mass grave is in a cave not far from the village. Although I have an idea of how many people they have killed, at least to a month for centuries, nothing prepares me for actually stepping foot inside the cavern. Even before I light the lantern I've brought, the stench bombards me.

The putrescent reek is like a physical thing, tentacles invading me more with each inhale. My mouth starts watering in preparation for vomiting. Cold sweat breaks out on my skin. I breathe through my mouth, but it's not much better. Better. Still, I move a few feet deeper into the cave mouth, crouching because the ceiling is so low. When I'm sure the illumination from my lantern won't be seen from outside, I light it with a match. As the tunnel continues, it gradually opens up, soon allowing me to stand. Insects buzz all around me in increasing numbers as I move forward. I realize

there flies. As I step out of the tunnel and into the cathedral-like cavern that contains the bodies of the sacrificed, the buzz of thousands of flies resonates in my chest. The cavern stretches out before me, too big for my light to reach the far wall. The floor is covered in piles of corpses, all those who weren't forced to drink the black liquid as part of the ritual. They're in various states of decay, with the most recent victims nearest. I've been here for what I assume is five months, but I've only experienced four rituals in person, the first of which I was an unwilling participant. During the last three, I've been an onlooker, stepping up with the others to drink the life tea when it's my turn. So as I stare at the nearest

corpses, I recognize them all. Beyond them are all the foundation members who were either killed in the skirmish or sacrificed on what the villagers call the black throne. They're too decomposed for the flies to mess with, which is a small mercy. The stench is so over overpowering here and the visuals so disturbing, I can't control myself any longer. I whip to the side and puk the contents of my stomach out, only realizing I'm vomiting on a dead body when it's too late. When I'm done and my nostrils are clogged with snot and bits of half-digested food, the stench isn't as overpowering. Lantern in hand, I step from the rocky ground to the carpet of corpses. Beneath the most recent ones, I can see the remains.

of past sacrifices. Skin, leathery, and eyeballs shriveled. Grinning mutilated skulls peer up at me here and there from beneath the top layer. It's hard going, as the bones and what remains of the flesh shift under my feet. I try not to step on those who still have faces. It seems better to step on skulls and bones

instead of those with flesh that's still decomposing. When I reach a dead man in a foundation uniform, I crouch next to him. Although his face has been collapsed, what's left of his skin has gone moistureless and leathery. It has retracted, revealing his still intact teeth. I take off his vest and then pull his shirt up, revealing a shrunken abdomen with skin stretched across, like a poorly made primitive drum. I have no weapon, and the man's knife sheath is empty.

So I search around for a moment before selecting a leg bone that has been broken to a sharp point. I use the bone to pierce the stretched skin over his stomach. Then, I stick my hand inside and root around for something hard and metal. It takes me a few long moments, but I find it and pull it out. The capped pipe is still intact. I put it in a pocket of my simple trousers, and then turn to the next foundation agent and start the whole process over again. Several hours later, I've gathered all the small pipes I can find.

It has to be enough. They clink against each other in my pockets as I trudge back over the bodies, sharp bones still in one hand, lantern in the other. I'm covered in putrid decomposition juices and blood. The stench clings to me like a parasite, determined to suck my life force out, but I'm one step closer. Stopping at the same place I lit it, I now blow the lantern out. Then I move out of the cave, emerging from the tunnel into the woods.

I pause at my stash of supplies nearby. hidden under a large rock and proceed to change out of my soiled clothes. Once again, I transfer the capped pipes into my clean trousers. Tomorrow we'll have another ritual, which means I need to do this now, tonight. I won't have another chance, not until next month. And I can't wait that long. I can't watch any more innocent people die. I creep through the dark woods until I have the throne and tub in view.

pausing behind a thick bush, I peer around, looking for Chernobog or any guards. I know there's at least one sentinel who patrols the village at night, so I wait, staying low, until I see one pass by and out of sight. Staying where I am, I wait for the guard to come back around again, so I can get an idea of the time I'll have to do what I need to do. When he's gone again, I ready myself. I don't know where Chernobyl goes when he's not hanging around for a ritual. Maybe the priest does, but I don't, and neither do my parents.

I'll just have to take the chance. Leaving the unlit lantern behind the bush, but taking the sharpened bone, I emerge from my hiding place. My heart crashes against my ribs as I sneak up to the tub, moving gingerly to keep the rattling noise to a minimum. When I reach the tub, I kneel, put the sharp bone down between my knees, and pull one container out. Getting the cap off isn't as easy as unscrewing it. If that were the case, the villagers surely would have figured out what they were. Gripping either cap in my fingers, I pushed them together, turning them in opposite directions until I feel one of them click.

That's the one that's supposed to unscrew. I keep at it until it clicks twice more, at which point I stop and then reverse the direction until the cap clicks once. Now I unscrew the top like a normal cap, and then dump the powder contents into the tub. I repeat this for several minutes, counting the seconds in my head the whole time. I've emptied about three quarters of the containers

when the clock in my head tells me it's nearing the time for the guard to come back around. I grabbed the sharp bone, head back out to my bush, and lie low until I see him pass again. When he's out of sight, I sneak back to the tub and resume the process of dumping the powder into the tub. It's the color and texture of ash, and it disappears as soon as it hits the liquid,

dissolving swiftly. As I work, I wonder whether the other members of my platoon knew that they had these little items implanted in their abdomens, or whether they had been made to forget with amnestics like me. Ziegler, a foundation Bigwig, and my surrogate father, assured me that this was plan B. If the ambush works, we won't have to resort to such barbaric measures. But if it fails, then you will be the only hope of stopping this madness. Do they know that they have those containers in them? I asked. We were sitting next to each other in his office, lounging in the two guest chairs in front of his desk.

Ziegler pinched his chin between his thumb and the side of his curled index finger, his salt and pepper stubble, crackling under the digits. It was something he did when I asked him a hard question, for one he didn't want to answer. Fixing me with pale green eyes, he said, do they know that if they die in the course of duty, their deaths won't be in vain? Of course they know that. It's part of the oath we all take to the foundation. Now, let's go over it again from the start. When they force you to drink, what if they put me on the throne instead of in the tub?

I interrupted. You've been blessed by Chernobog, Ziegler assured me. No amount of time away from the village will change that. If they put you on the throne, the black god's blessing will protect you from harm. Either the killing tools won't fail, or when they do, they won't hit you. That's the way it works.

You're asking me to take this on faith. Ziegler smiled at me. Do you think I would let you go in there if I wasn't sure? Have I ever knowingly put you in harm's way before? In all these years? I shrugged. It was true. He had kept me on missions that held relatively little risk,

even when I asked him not to. But I had always known this mission was coming. I had literally been born for it. You'll be fine, Ziegler said. If they do put you on the throne, which is possible, They will see that Chernobog's black look doesn't affect you. Then they will surely make you drink the life tea, at which point the amnestics will be wiped away,

and you will remember this conversation and all the training we've done. It all leads back to the life tea. That's what they do. Trust me, I've been studying them for years. Why do I have to be amnesticized in the first place? I ask. Can't I just... Come on, you know why, Bennett? Ziegler frowned and huffed through his nostrils.

We can't risk them interrogating you and figuring out the plan. If you don't know the plan, you can't tell them. I shook my head slightly and moved on, knowing he was right. I don't understand why we can't just bomb them or something. Wouldn't that be easier? Less risky? Ziegler's good humor soured. He leaned toward me from his chair and gripped my shoulder. It has to be one of them.

It has to be you. Believe me, I've tried every other way. Chernobog's black luck protects that village like a forest. fucking force field. We try bombing. The bombs malfunction and don't go off. Or, in one horrific case, the bombs explode in the aircraft, killing all aboard. Do you know how many fail-safes are in place so that doesn't happen? Tried it all over the years. Nothing works, because it's all being done by outsiders. The only way to do this, to stop all the disappearances, the kidnappings, the killings, is for you to do it. It has to be one of their own. That's why you're here. That's why I got you

out of there. It was a bit of a miracle that we got you in the first place. I had to do something very risky with another skip just to make sure we could get you out to counter Chernobog's black luck with some white luck of our own. I ended up killing that skip in the process. It was a whole thing. I was reprimanded and placed on leave, but that was okay because I had you. He smiled briefly at the memory and then paused, unblinking eyes boring into mine. But I'll tell you once again, Benet. You do not have to do this. It's your choice. You want to stop? To put this off? Just say the word. I seriously considered saying the word. But then I thought of all the people Ziegler told me about who had been abducted for sacrifice or breeding. I knew their names, the names of their family members and friends, what they had done for a living, what their hobbies were.

There were so many of them. And it wouldn't stop unless we did something, unless I did something. I want to do it. I just want to make sure we do it right. That's my boy, Ziegler said, grinning as he got up from his chair and pulled me into a hug. You're going to be all right. You'll come back to me. You will. Now, as I empty the last container into the black liquid, I hope he was right.

I hope this works, and that I can go back to him, to my father. I'm putting the last empty container in my pocket, thinking about where I'll stash them. When a familiar voice says, What are you doing? I tense, looking over my shoulder from where I'm crouched next to the tub. I see my birth father standing a few yards behind me, eyes narrowed in distrust. He's shirtless, only wearing trousers, as if he just got out of bed.

Sliding the empty container into my pocket while hoping he can't see it, I say. Praying to Chernobok, he couldn't sleep. My father eases closer. I saw you put something in the life tea. What was it? What did you just put in your pocket? I start to stand up, but my father says. Don't move. Stay there.

I look down at the sharp bone lying on the ground between my knees. What were you doing? He asks, his tone plainly hostile. I look over my shoulder again, watching him. Father, listen, don't call me that. I didn't raise you. I'm not your father. He takes a step closer.

He's a big man, bigger than me. Now show me what's in your pockets. Okay, I say. heart careening around in my chest as I reach for my right pocket. At the last moment, I dart my hand down, grab the bone and lurch to my feet. The months of rest and recuperation have done me good. I'm almost back to my old self, aside from a slight limp in my left leg. I think drinking the life tea has given me some of Chernobyl's strength.

Some of the same strength that allowed that old man, my great uncle, to lift a boulder over his head. The same strength that seems to invigorate everyone from the infants to the elderly. But this also means that my father is fast. Faster than he should be for his age. He backpedals, but the tip of the bone sticks into the side of his abdomen. My stabbing motion plunges the bone deeper into his body, even as he continues backpedaling. The end result is gruesome. The bone tears a gash in his stomach about 10 inches wide.

The internal pressure shifts, causing bloody ropes of intestine to protrude from the gash. My father takes several more backward steps before falling onto his belly. backside. He looks at the guts trying to spill out from his stomach, and then opens his mouth to yell. He gets the start of a savage bellow out, but I cut it off abruptly by jamming the bone deep into his neck. Still, that stifled bellow seems to echo in my ears. I imagine eyes snapping open in the surrounding houses, people getting out of bed to investigate. Leaving the piece of bone embedded in his throat, I grab my father under the arms and drag him out to the bush I've been using as a hiding place. A moment later, the sentinel comes running into view, drawn by the noise.

Several men come out of the nearby homes. They look around and converse with the guard. My eyes are fixed on the drag marks my father's heels made on the ground, and the bits of blood left behind from his injuries. There's nothing I can do but hope as I sit crouched next to my dying father, one hand over his mouth just in case. He convulses as I pull the bone out of his neck, blood jets from the wound. Soon enough, he's dead. And I watch as the men, having found nothing, go back to what they were doing. I breathe in relief. After taking a few minutes to calm down, I resume the rest of my night's tasks. RBC Training Ground has discovered potential in over 20,000 Canadian athletes and counting. Your story could be next. If you've got the drive,

they'll help you find your path to the Olympics. Let's see what you've got. Sign up for free at Trainingground.ca. The ritual commences despite concerns over my father's whereabouts. I plead ignorance, saying the last time I saw him was just before I went to bed. I can feel suspicious glances cast my way as the crowd gathers for the ritual, but no one says anything to me. I try not to look at Chernobog, whose pupilous eyes seem to be fixed on me, or maybe it's my imagination.

I feel that if I look at him, you'll know. Instead, I focus on breathing deeply to keep myself calm as the crowd thickens. I hear such platitudes as, The Black God will ensure his return, as people speak to my distraught mother. Alongside my sister, I comfort my mother, telling her it will be okay. But it's the Black God's hunger that allows the ritual to commence as usual. Now that they've run out of foundation personnel to sacrifice,

the two poor souls dragged into the square are civilians from a nearby, city. One is a middle-aged woman, the other a man in his 30s. It pains me to watch, but I keep telling myself that only one of them will die today if all goes well. And by luck at the draw, it's the man. I gaze with all the others as he's wrestled into the tub. The two men who captured him do the honors of forcing him to drink. To my relief, the process plays out exactly as it should. The poison hasn't affected those properties of the liquid. As with every other time, the priest comes forward to drink first. My palms are sweating so profusely, I almost drop my cup as I watched the holy man gulp the liquid down. Ziegler assured me it would take

at least ten minutes for the poison to work. After swallowing, the priest smiles and spreads his arms. The crowd cheers. I'm so overcome with relief I forget to cheer until I feel eyes boring into me. I take my proper place in line when the time comes, hoping my preparations have not been in vain. Over the past few months, I've made several small holes in the base of my cup. When I reached the tub, I keep my fingers wrapped around these holes until I dip the cup in, being careful not to allow too much liquid into the container. Since we dip from the tub two at a time, I have to make it look convincing. As soon as there's liquid inside, I release the holes,

hoping the drainage is mistaken for drippings from my dip into the tub. Positioning my hand in such a way that the life tea dribbles down my forearm, I step away from the tub and pretend to drink. I have to force myself not to whip my head around, so I can see if anyone has noticed my deception. By the time I make it back to my place in the reforming crowd, I'm certain no one has. Grinding my teeth,

I watch as the first children dip their cups into the tub. I want to run forward and slap the cups out of their hands. The damage has already been done, hasn't it? Can't I spare the children? Now that all the adults have drunk? Not according to Ziegler, who made a point of telling me that people could vomit up the poison if they figured out what was going on.

Feeling sick to my stomach, I watched the procession of children dip and drink. When everyone has had their turn at the tub, the priest moves over to the platform where the woman has been strapped to the chair. As he turns to address us, a grimace twists his face, and he doubles over.

A murmur sweeps through the crowd. Growning in pain, the priest looks at your nobog, whose normally unreadable gaze now contains a hint of fear. Why? He cries. Why have you? A torrent of bloody vomit spuse from his mouth, cutting off his words. Next, the two men who drank directly after the priest gasp,

clutching their stomachs as they stumble from their places in the crowd. Moments later, they too are vomiting their insides out. Frightened shouts come from all directions as panic slowly infest the onlookers. But soon enough, the shouts, are less from fear and more from pain. Like a collection of dominoes, the members of the crowd fall to their knees, or all fours one by one, as the poison works. Before the children succumb to the excruciating pain I've inflicted upon them, they

ball uncomprehendingly, screaming for their parents to stand up. Then they too are writhing, crying, literally puking their guts out. I stand among them like a statue, afraid that if I move, they will know I'm to blame, and will somehow overcome their ailments to attack. my mother and sister clutch at my legs, begging for help between bouts of horrific vomiting. I can't look at them. I keep my eyes straight ahead, only taking it in peripherally. Minutes after the priest doubled over, I'm the only one standing, the only human standing.

Chernobog watches his followers, his worshippers, die with increasingly apparent desolation, his seemingly omniscient stare has transformed into a frightened sneer, which I can still see see over the top of the black throne structure. But as the people I've poisoned finally stopped moving, I noticed that, with each death, the black god shrinks a little. Grateful to have done something other than the consequences of my actions to focus on, I pay close attention as the god continues to shrink until he's no bigger than a man, half obscured by the complex skeletal framework of the killing throne,

and he's still shrinking. The woman strapped to the throne yells at me in a language I don't know, but it's not hard to parse what she's saying. Help me! As I force my legs to move, stepping from my spot amid the crowd, my foot squelches on my mother's bloody vomited innards. I step over fresh corpses,

some of them still twitching, phantom electrical signals traveling for the last time through the central nervous system. Finally, reaching the woman, I unstrap her from the chair and lead her away from the gruesome scene. As we go, I glance at Chernobog,

who was a wretched, twisted figure, now lying on the ground at the foot of a tree. His power is gone. Soon Ziegler and the others will be here. They've been watching via satellite. They can finally contain the black god, stopping the centuries-long killings he has commanded. I take the woman to my parents' shack and plant her in a chair,

telling her in English that help will be here soon. She seems to understand. Knowing I don't have much time until the village is overrun with foundation agents, I head toward the ritual ground. Unwilling to walk among the bodies again, I take the long way, rounding a building and walking along the tree line to where Chernobog's twisted form still lies. I approach slowly, looking into his black eyes. Their strange glow has dimmed considerably. He blinks as I crouch a few feet away next to a tree.

Staring at him, I think of how many of my friends he killed. Guys I've known for years. Ones I've trained with. I recall how, with a wave of a hand, the might. The finer god caused the bizarre deaths of Bonner and Velasco and Chang and Snyder. I remember thinking during the massacre how impossible it seemed for a bunch of villagers armed with hand tools to get the drop on us. Now I know better.

It was all Chernobog and his black luck. No one left to worship you, I say with a cruel smile. You're fucked! You'll be poked and prodded for eternity. Maybe they'll even find a way to kill you. And that whole time, I want you to remember this face. the one who did it to you. You blessed me and I got you. How does that feel? The pitiful creature's lips move, but I hear no words. One desiccated hand quickly performs a series of elaborate gestures. What are you trying to say, motherfucker? What is it? As I speak, Chernobyl crawls weakly toward me.

Before he's close enough to touch me, I stand up and step back. Still, he reaches a thin, knobby hand toward me. Then he whips his hand away, gnarled fingers brushing against the bark of the nearby tree trunk. The tall pine tree tilts drunkenly toward me, as if its roots have just been severed. I scamper out of the way as the tree collapses toward the clearing, smashing into the black throne structure, throwing pieces of debris high into the air. I watch some of them land and tree branches nearby. Pieces of wood thumped to the ground here and there, but none come near me. Untouched, the fallen tree between us, I smile at Chernobyl. I'm blessed, remember? Plus, you don't have enough.

enough power left to do anything to anyone. You're done, you piece of shit. But what if he does have enough power left, I think? Just enough black luck left for one more death? Suddenly I want to get far away from the pitiful creature. As I'm about to walk away, Chernobog grins at me, revealing a full set of black teeth and brown gums. I've never seen him smile before.

It sends a sickly shiver through me. Shaking my head, I turn away, heading back the way I came. by skirting the tree line so I don't have to walk through the dead bodies. Something else is bothering me, though. Something about the strange hand gestures Chernobyl did before crawling toward me. I mull this over while I walk. As I pass under the branches of a tall pine tree, it hits me. Can he reverse the blessing?

I freeze, looking over my shoulder at Chernobyl. He's still grinning, watching me, unblinking. Something stirs in the branches overhead. The realization comes too late. It sounds like something falling. I look up just in time to see the lines of the pitchfork hurtling toward my face. SCP 6198 is an extra-dimensional entity, believed to be a god worshipped by 6th through 12th century Pelobian Slavs,

known as Chernobog, aka the black god. The magnitude of any effects and the strength of Chernobog's presence in the world are tied to and supported by two factors. The number of devotees that worship it and the number of human sacrifices it receives. An investigation led researchers to a small village of Redacted in Poland, where the entity was active. The villagers, known as SCP 6198-A, appeared non- anomalous.

However, the life expectancy of the village was notably higher than the surrounding area. In addition to this, elderly individuals residing in the village exhibited the vitality of someone half their age. SCP 6198-B refers to a black liquid with properties that are still being studied by foundation researchers. Only those born within the village and blessed by Chernobog can safely consume this anomalous liquid without dying and turning into the liquid themselves. After heavy losses and decades of work, the foundation has SCP 6198 contained. All publicly accessible information pertaining to Chernobog is to be eliminated.

and replaced with disinformation to prevent worship of the entity.