The SCP Experience - The Contract | SCP-350

Episode Date: September 18, 2023

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-350: You Have Been Found Guilty This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-350 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 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

Welcome to board of Via Rai. Embarked and profite. Embarque and celebrate. Rigolet. Publiere. Savoy. Admire. And profite.

Viarai. The voice that we love that we love. We pulled to a stop in front of the enormous new car dealership. The glare of the sun reflecting against a thousand polished car windshields assaulted me as I stepped out of the Uber. My driver nodded goodbye as I squinted at him and said thanks. Good luck, he said as began to roll away. Remember what I said. Be careful. The people who run these places are all devils.

I laughed as he drove off, but I couldn't help thinking it had been an odd choice of words. Most people would say thieves or crooks, but he had called them devils. I would remember that later on, for very obvious reasons. Like a million other people, I needed an affordable car very badly right now. My last vehicle had been side-swiped, and the insurance adjuster had put a low-ball price tag on it, calling it a write-off. Now I had no choice but to try to find a reliable car for a decent price. No easy feat nowadays.

Part of me wished I had the insurance adjuster with me while I shopped for vehicles, just so I could rub it in his face how far off he had been. Maybe the guy had never heard of inflation. Sure, the driver-side door of my old car didn't open from the inside. The tires were bald and the bumper was sagging, but that Civic was a reliable car, despite those minor deficiencies. Just because it had a couple hundred thousand clicks on it, the adjuster had spoken about it as if it were nothing more than scrap metal. As I wandered the lot looking at various cars, most of which were far out of my price range, I kept a lookout for salesman out of the corner of my eye.

It wouldn't take long before one of those sharks spotted me. I was ready for them, though. I'd watched several YouTube videos detailing negotiation tactics the night prior, not to mention my 14-year education and bartering from watching Pond Stars on the History Channel. But surprisingly, no one came out to greet me or to ask if I needed help looking for anything. Instead, I wandered the lot alone for nearly half an hour, before I started to feel slightly annoyed they weren't catering to me. It was like they had taken one look at me and said,

Nah, that one isn't worth our time. Just look at his terrible shoes and bland clothing. He can take the bus to work. Interestingly enough, I had actually managed to find a car that was within my price range. It was a make and model I'd never heard of before, but it had low miles, air conditioning, heated seats, and even a sunroof. I decided to take my chances and venture inside. I'll be honest, I was more than a little nervous,

since I'd never purchased a car by myself before. My dad had always been there to walk me through things and to help negotiate, but he passed away a couple years prior, so I was on my own now. Hey, welcome to Natus Auto Sales. How can I help you? A woman sitting at a reception desk asked when I entered. Hi, I wanted to talk to somebody about a car out there. The black one. It's a 2020. I can't remember the name of it. Sorry. Sure, just a sec. I'll get someone.

somebody right out. She picked up a phone and hit a button, speaking softly into the receiver. A few moments later, a man emerged from behind a glass door and came over to help me. He reached out his hand and shook mine with an aggressive double pump, his white teeth gleaming in the lights of the showroom. He reminded me a bit of Christian Bale, an American Psycho. Hey, how are we doing today? I heard you were interested in the Pactam Dioboli. No wonder I hadn't been able to remember the name, I thought. It looked like an ordinary car, but it certainly had a strange moniker. Yeah, that's right. I've never heard of that brand before. Are they European or something? Definitely. Or something. Would you like to take it for a test drive? He asked, raising his eyebrows and

jingling a set of keys in one hand. I guarantee you it's everything you're looking for in a car, and at just the right price. We were out on the road a few minutes. later, and the man was 100% correct in his assessment. The vehicle was a match made in heaven, I thought. It was exactly what I needed in a car, and then some. Actually, it was a lot better than my previous car, and had all the amenities I'd ever wanted, leather seats, a television, Bluetooth, and sufficient leg room for a tall man like myself, which was never easy to find. Give it some gas, he said, grinning. Feel this baby purr.

I did as he asked, and the car leapt across the asphalt like a cheetah, bolting past other cars and giving me a rush of adrenaline. I didn't even notice the car salesman turn on the radio, blasting highway to hell until he started singing. And by then I was singing right along with him. Okay, I'm sold. I gushed as I pulled into the car dealership's lot. Just tell me where to sign.

I want this fucking car. Slow down. slow down, he laughed and winked. You haven't even taken me out to dinner yet. Parking in the same spot we'd left from, I turned the key and the engine quieted. Suddenly it was very still and very silent in the Pactam Dioboli. Seriously, I need this car. I really, really need it.

And the price is almost too good. What's wrong with it? Is there something wrong with it? I could hear the desperation in my voice, but I didn't care. I just wanted the car. I needed it, in fact. There's nothing wrong with it, Jason, he said. I tried to remember if I'd told him my name but couldn't.

It didn't seem to matter, though. As I looked into his deep crimson-colored eyes, suddenly nothing mattered at all except what he was saying. This car is exactly what you've always desired. It's as if it was built just for you. In fact, you might even say it was. Custom-built to meet your every requirement. What do I need to do?

What do you want me to do so I can have it? Please. He smiled that American psycho grin of his and produced a contract from somewhere. Despite the fact that he pulled it from his pocket, it was crisp and unwrinkled, hot as if it had come straight out of a printer. I actually recoiled a little bit at the heat of it at first,

afraid it might burn my fingers. It felt like fire. Take it, it's okay, he said, ending me a pen. You just need to sign right there at the bottom, and the car is yours for the agreed-upon price. I glanced over the details of the contract very quickly, seeing that it looked like a standard car sales agreement on the first page. But the rest of the stack of paper was entirely blank. There was a whole stack of blank paper behind the first page with the sales agreement on it, and the signature line was at the bottom of the very last page in the pile.

Printing error, the man said, shrugging at the image. pages. So much for saving the trees. Uncapping the pen, I signed it on my lap and handed it back to him, along with the check for the full sales price. I barely remember doing this, as if it happened in a dream. Ah, perfect. Our negotiations are now complete. The car is yours, and our contracted terms have begun. He jingled the keys again, and I felt like I snapped awake, looking around as if I had been sleeping, or hypnotized. Enjoy, he said, handing me the keys. I'll be speaking to you very soon.

I thought at the time he meant he would call to check on how I was enjoying the car, but of course, that wasn't what he meant. He meant he was going to call to speak to me about the terms of the contract and how I was fulfilling them. Oh, how I regret signing that stack of papers. If only I'd walked out right then and there and gone to another car lot. but the past is the past, and we can't change it. Like words on a page, what's written can't be altered,

even if it's typed in invisible ink. When I got home from the car dealership, I noticed a copy of the contract was sitting next to me on the passenger seat. I picked it up and brought it inside the house, meaning to put it with my other important papers. I didn't do that right away, though. Instead, I put the stack of papers on the coffee table and went into the kitchen to make myself some lunch.

I came back out to sit down and set my plate on the table beside the contract, as well as a glass of water. As I sat there watching TV and eating my sandwich, the heat of the day caused the glass of water to perspire. A small puddle formed around the base of it and slowly made its way over to the contract. Lazzang sur-goled, puissance-molyne, for 15 minutes. We'd say that's the hour dojo. Pre-to-joo!

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in Europe with WestJet from rolling countryside to cobblestone streets. begin your next chapter. Book your seat at westjet.com or call your travel agent. WestJet, where your story takes off. The strange sound caused me to jump with fright. It was like the noise of water being poured onto a fire. I realized it was coming from the stack of paper. Ah, shit, I muttered, seeing that the contract was getting wet.

I pulled it away from the puddle of water and went into the kitchen to dry it off with a towel. What the hell was that noise? I asked my... self-allowed, looking back at the living room table, and then at the contract in my hands. Strangely, the papers were still warm. I began flipping through pages of it, trying to see if it was soaked through. It wasn't, and just the outer back page was wet at the top. As I flipped through the pages again, I noticed something new. On page two, which had previously been blank, there was now a clause written in tiny print. Had I simply missed it at the same, the first time? I'd been almost certain that there was only one page of written text,

but now there was something on the second page as well. I read the amendment and reread it six more times. It said, 11B. The buyer agrees to bring six cups of black coffee to the seller's car dealership every Tuesday morning at 8 a.m. Coffee must be of the largest size and must be Pike Place Roast from Starbucks. What the fuck? I muttered to the empty room. It's a joke. It must be a joke. I called the car dealership, holding the contract in my hands,

and rereading the lines over and over again. Natus Auto Sales. A familiar, cheerful voice said on the other end of the line. How can we assist you? Hi. I bought a car there earlier today. The Pactam something? Could I please speak to the salesman who helped me?

I just need to talk to him about the contract for a second. Of course, she said. Just a second. I'll transfer you over to his office. Thanks. A second later, there was a bit of hold music, and then I heard the voice of the salesman from earlier. Natus Auto Sales.

You've got Natus. Hey, I'm the guy you sold the car to earlier, the Pactam. Oh, Jason. Of course. The Pactam Diaboli. How are you enjoying it, son? I cringed when he called me, son. The guy was barely older than I was.

It was creepy. It's fine. Listen, I was looking over the contract and... We gave you a hell of a deal, Jason. You must be so happy with your purchase. You don't get a deal like that every day, do you? Of course, that's why the contract was a little bit different than your standard sales agreement.

We just love that Starbucks coffee over here and, hey, you don't mind, do you? You got such a great deal after all. You wouldn't get a car like that for that price just anywhere. The guy was talking a mile a minute, and worse yet, he was being very persuasive. I could feel myself nodding along when he talked, as if this wasn't the most fucked-up thing that had ever happened to me in my life. Yeah, I guess that makes sense, I said. It's only once a week.

I can swing by on my way to work. That's the spirit. Whoop, got to go. I've got a customer. See you next Tuesday. You can tell me how much you're loving the car. The line went dead, and I stared at the phone in numb shock. Oh well, I thought to myself, Starbucks once a week isn't such a bad deal for a car like that.

You still got a bargain. It wasn't until much, much later that I did the math and figured out how much that would cost once calculated over the rest of my lifespan, and by then I would have much worse problems than coffee. Over the following week, I drove the car around without incident, but I didn't enjoy myself. I kept feeling as if there were eyes watching me, and I kept thinking about the leering smile of the salesman who had sold it to me. Finally, Tuesday arrived, and I went to Starbucks, first thing in the morning to pick up the coffee.

Seven coffees, to be precise. One for myself, and one for every employee of Natus Auto Sales. Or so I assumed. When I arrived at the door to the place, I was struggling, juggling six cups of coffee in my arms on a disintegrating, overloaded travel tray. I wasn't even able to open the door since my hands were so full and had to set everything down to get inside. Ah, perfect timing, the salesman said as I entered, smiling and taking the tray from me with ease. You have fulfilled your contractual obligations for this week, Jason. You may go now.

I stood there dumbfounded as he turned around and left me standing there. But I had to get to work anyway, so I quietly left without another word. When I turned back around and looked back at the place, I could see the man pouring the coffee out onto a house plant in the showroom. He saw me watching, smiled, and waved. Then he continued pouring cup after cup onto the plant. What the fuck? I muttered to myself. But by then, I was already waving back at him, as if this was all completely normal.

That night, I read the contract again. It felt like all of this must have been a dream. This couldn't possibly be real. What I found took me more than a little bit by surprise. There was another amendment. This one was still pretty mundane, but it wouldn't take long before they got much, much worse. As the weeks and months went on,

I found the contract became more and more complicated. Each time I looked it over, I noticed a new amendment that I hadn't seen before. They grew increasingly difficult and strange before taking a dark and sinister turn. More on that later. I tried to ignore the demands of the contract, especially when I got to the one about cleaning up the salesman's backyard

where his dog did his business. And what a hellhound that thing was. It bit me on four separate occasions, but I found that I couldn't avoid doing the things asked of me. Each new term of the contract was stranger than the last, demanding more and more of my time. After several months, I found that my entire week was being consumed, fulfilling the terms of the contract. On Monday, I cleaned Natus's backyard. On Tuesday, I brought

coffee. On Wednesday morning, I was to take out his garbage, and on Wednesday evening, I was to bring the bins back inside. Thursday became car detailing day, where I was forced to work at the dealership and clean vehicles that had been brought in to be resold. Friday afternoon, I vacuumed the entire place, and at night, I was the dealer for Natus's poker games. Saturday and Sunday, I chauffered him around and made him breakfast and dinner. I tried to stop. I tried to tell him no. But no matter how many times I said it, and no matter how many times I refused to leave my house to do these things, I found myself going anyway. The longest I managed to resist was for a five-day period, and then I found myself sleepwalking in Natus's backyard, picking up dog shit in my pajamas.

My feet were filthy and bare, cut up as if I'd walked there while dreaming. I was picking up this shit with my bare hands and stuffing dew wet turds in my pockets. I was beginning to suspect that Natus was no man at all, but something else entirely, when a new contract amendment appeared that was different from the previous ones.

47B, proceed to 56 Sycamore Street tonight at 4 a.m. and murder resident John Simpson, removing his left arm and leg, and bagging them for future use, it read. No, I muttered aloud, standing in my kitchen where I was reading the document.

What? Hell no. I won't kill someone. I can't. As much as the car had a hold on me, I had to return it, I realized. There was no way I could keep this up. This was way too much. Despite the salesman's mysterious abilities to persuade me, I had to find a way to return the car and get out of this. I drove the Pactam Diaboli back to the lot, thinking I would dump the thing off at the front door with the keys in it and make a run for it. Surely the contract would be null and void if I was no longer in possession of the car.

If I returned it, he'd have to let me go. When I pulled up out front, I saw Natus standing there, waiting for me. He was grinning and waved, as if he were expecting me. I slammed on the brakes and reached for the interior door handle. But suddenly, it was no longer there. The inside of the door was smooth and bare. The car was locked, but the passenger side unlocked itself automatically. when Natus approached the car.

He opened it and sat down next to me, looking at me over the shifter. I guess you saw the newest amendment to the contract, he said. Let me assure you, there's no way out of this. You're mine, understand, Jason. You may want to look up the name of this car, the Pactam Dioboli. It's Latin, actually. It means the devil's contract.

And that's what you've signed. Ornes began to sprout from the man's head on the sides, just little nubs, but they appeared very sharp. Here's what's going to happen, he continued, after I was unable to say a word. You're going to drive out of here, and you're going to do what's written on that contract. And every week when you read it, you're going to find something new that I want you to do for me. Things much worse than simple yard work and coffee runs to Starbucks. You're going to steal for me, kill for me. Rape and plunder and lie for me.

Every waking minute you will spend working for me. I sputtered and tried to speak, but only a puff of air came out, and then a dry heave. Have a nice day, he said, getting out of the car. See you soon. The door slammed shut behind him, and I was left alone and terrified in the vehicle I'd once loved so much. Now I understood what it really was. Just a sham. A glittering, shiny thing meant to entice me, and then leave me locked in a contract that would

steal my soul over time. I could try to ignore the urge to kill the man at 56 Sycamore Street, but I would find myself doing it anyway, I realized, picturing myself picking up dog shit in my pajamas at four in the morning. That's what had happened when I tried to say no, and to ignore the urge to comply. Maybe I could resist for a few days, or even a week, but then I'd find myself sleepwalking with blood on my hands, or worse yet, I'd wake up in a prison cell. Then what would happen, my mind wondered.

If I were to be locked away and forced to ignore the urges, I pictured myself trying to squeeze through prison bars, forcing my way through the narrow gap between steel rods, and shredding my flesh to pieces in the process, desperate to fulfill the demands of the contract. I imagined myself killing prison guards, scaling a tall chain-link fence, and shredding my skin on the barbed wire at the top.

Assuming I didn't get shot to death by guards first. No, I couldn't get caught. That was not an option. But could I really bring myself to kill a man? I would find out later that night. And the answer was yes. There was a period of several weeks where I did some very dark and heinous things,

awful things that I won't talk about here. Needless to say, I wouldn't have done them, if not for that fucking contract. I'll have nightmares about those acts every single time I fall asleep. Every time I close my eyes, I'll see myself doing those things.

Horrible, despicable things that I will take with me to my grave, knowing I can never be forgiven for them. But one day I woke up and felt as if the power of the contract had dissipated. It was still there, but not as strong. I could feel its grip on me loosening. I looked outside and saw the Pactam Diaboli was gone,

vanished from my driveway like a bad dream. I still had the contract, and I looked it over to see the words of all the amendments fading, getting more and more invisible by the second. A smile spread across my face, and I began to laugh, and then cry. I sunk down to the floor of the kitchen and huddled up in a ball and cried for a long, long time. I was free. Needless to say, I was curious. I took an Uber to the district, where I'd purchased the car, and took a stroke.

through the neighborhood, wanting to look at the car dealership from a distance. I didn't want to get too close, but I felt like something huge had shifted. Like there had been some massive change, and I wanted to go to the source of all this madness to see if there had been a change there too. Clutching the blank contract against my chest like a baby, I found myself wandering up toward the building once I saw it. A big change had happened here, it seemed, and that change had driven Natus out of business. business. The sign on the place now read Secura Continent Pricidio Auto Sales. The salesmen at this

place were much more ambitious and came out to greet me right away. When they saw the stunned look on my face and the contract in my hands, they took me inside and gave me a hot cup of coffee, apologizing for the way the former owner of the place had done business. They assured me they were not associated with him and had in fact put a stop to his predatory business practices. Let me take a look at that contract, a salesman with icy blue eyes said, taking the stack of papers from me. I have a feeling we can come up with something much better for you, and this time it won't cost an arm and a leg. SCP 350 appears to be a single-page contract, followed by 49 blank sheets. The wording of SCP 350 is different to every reader prior to signature, and the good or service offered is always something the subject has expressed great desire.

to obtain. The document is also always in the native language of the reader and conforms to the laws of the nation in which the subject makes their primary residence. Attempts to use video or photography to get an objective image of SCP 350 at this stage have failed, as the text continues to vary from person to person. Should the signatory of SCP 350 fulfill the terms of the contract and wire the money to the bank account, SCP 350 begins to add new amendments and terms starting from the second page, most of which demand a minor service of some form from the signatory. However, the complexity of the terms and demands increases with a number of amendments fulfilled, eventually reaching extremes. Should the signatory not fulfill the original

or new terms of SCP 350 for any reason for a full week, they will begin to feel a noticeable urge to complete the current task. This grows into a compulsion on the order of the ticks of those suffering from severe obsessive compulsive disorder. Should the subject be prevented from completing the terms at this point, the subject will begin to lie, steal, kill, and take other extreme actions to attempt to fulfill the demands of the contract. Psychological analysis at this point reveals nothing, as the subject is utterly fixated on completing the task,

to the exclusion of all else. If the subject is restrained from completing the task, the subject will resort to constant, escape attempts, refusing to eat, drink, or sleep. Subjects will die unless placed on intravenous fluids and forced into a chemically induced coma. At this point, their metabolism and bodily functions will begin to speed up until the subject dies from either a heart attack or the inability of intravenous therapy equipment to keep up with the metabolism.