The SCP Experience - The Crooked Man | SCP-783

Episode Date: January 3, 2022

SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-783: The Crooked Man Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-783, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drscp #scp #scpfoundation #doctorscp #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Welcome to board of Viarai. Embarked and profite. Embarked and relax. Cirotay. Bookiné. Oh, that also. And profite. Villaray, the voice that we love that we love.

There's a lot of new people in town. I whispered a ray as we sit at the 100-year-old pub. There are names and forgotten punchlines. And the occasional curse carved into the wooden bar surface. What are you talking about? Ray asks, already three sheets to the wind. Of course, he hasn't noticed. I look down at the damaged bar on which my elbows are resting

and the dim lighting of the pub. New people spend time deciphering the bar top, but I've lived in this little town my whole life. I've read all there is to read on the bar. I've even added a word or two on those long, boring nights where the only sensible thing to do is pull out your pocket knife and leave a little sign that you were here on this earth,

so that a hundred years later, some Jack or Jill will read what you wrote. They'll know, in some small way, that you existed, that you mattered. You think they know something? I say. Still gazing down at the old wood, it's musty, pulpy smell permeating the air around me. Know what? Ray asks, his beer halfway to his lips. There would have to be new people. people here looking, for them to know anything. There's no one. You're paranoid, always have been.

Right, I say, motioning to Becky, the bartender. I don't know why I thought Ray would believe me. I don't know why I thought he would care about anything but the status quo. As long as we keep electing him sheriff of our tiny town, he'll never change. I think briefly how nice it would be to not vote for Ray Ketchum next time he's up for re-election. The only problem is, there's never anyone running against him. Becky comes over, and I ask her for a shot of whiskey and my tab. She pours the shot. I down it, and I toss two bills down on the scarred bar top.

I tell her to keep the change, then I head out into the burgeoning night. My petty act of revenge is not saying by to Ray. But it's like shouting into the void. He won't remember either way. I doubt he'll even remember our conversation tomorrow. It's a warm fall night, and I walked down the street toward the hospital, the whiskey in my stomach warming me with a sense of importance, of confidence. I had been visiting my mother in the assisted living place next to the hospital when I saw

them. This was yesterday. They were loading some large boxes into a three-story building. That's technically part of the small medical complex, which served. the small nearby towns. But it wasn't the movers that caught my eye. It was the people they were supervising. They had the look of military personnel,

the way they carried themselves, the way they were dressed in tidy dark suits, their haircuts, and the bulges under their shirts were all telltale signs. As someone who had been in the military, I knew what these guys looked like. I had been one of them. But that wasn't the only thing.

thing. Even before they showed up, I'd been noticing lots of utility workers around the town for a few weeks, placing objects high up on utility poles. Most of them were black and gray boxes that looked like they were wired into the power lines. What purpose they served? I don't know. But the first thing they came to mind was the possibility of cameras hidden inside those boxes. that got me looking at the sky, much like an amateur astronomer would do on a nightly walk, only I wasn't looking at celestial bodies. No, I was looking for drones,

and I was fairly confident I'd spotted a few at night. But I'd never gotten a good look at them. The sightings were just a blur of movement, or a distant star momentarily obstructed, or a faint whirring sound carried on with the wind. Coming to the three-story building, I stop and kneel like I'm tying my shoe. There are lights on in all the windows of the top floor,

but the shades are drawn, so all I can see are the borders of illumination around the shades. The front door of the building opens, and a man in a dark suit steps out, a cigarette in his mouth. He looks to his left, away from me. Then he looks up the street to his right. His eyes land on me and he pauses.

One hand cupped to block the bed. breeze and one holding a lighter. I don't look away quickly. I know better than that. But after a moment, I look down and finish the charade of tying my shoe. The man lights his cigarette and puffs on it, but I can still feel his eyes on me. I stand up and continue walking. As I get closer to the man and the building, the alcohol in my veins pushes me toward a decision. I cross the street, Slowly, bringing a hand up in salutation. Working late? I asked the man.

He nods and puffs his cigarette. What do you do? I ask, casually. Medical supplies, he says, then looks off down the street, puffing his cigarette. It's clear he doesn't want to talk, but I push it anyway. Not from around here, are you? I ask. Just moved here for work, he says. Welcome.

I say, putting out my hand. My name's Derek. He takes my hand and shakes it. His mouth a slash around his cigarette butt. His eyes slid it against the smoke drifting into his face. Morgan, he says. Come up to the pub some night. I'll buy you a beer, I say, pulling my hand away. Morgan nods disinterestedly.

I look up at the building one last time before moving on. When I'm a good distance down the road, I smile. Although there's no proof of anything there, the absence of proof tells me something. Morgan, if that really is his name, does not work in medical supplies. Of that, I'm sure. I just need to gather some proof, and now I have an excuse to head into that building one day, looking for my new friend Morgan. When I have proof, I'll bring it to Ray.

He won't be able to ignore me then. After all, if Ray Ketcham won't protect our town, then I will. I get home around 10 and get ready for bed. Mine is a small, single-story house, almost a cottage. It has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, an open kitchen, a large living room, and a small yard. I've been living here for about a year now since the divorce. My wife kept the big house we used to share. I'm just lying down in bed when a crunching sound reverberates throughout my house.

My heart rate immediately boosts, and a nod of dreadful excitement twists in my gut as I sit up. I'm not sure, but I think I can feel the house move slightly as the crunching subsides. I swing my legs off the bed and reach toward the dresser for some clothes as the crunching starts again. This time, I'm sure I feel the structure vibrate. I run out of my room to the front of the house, Eyes wide and still in my boxer shorts. The front door of my house hangs open at an angle. The wall around the open door is distorted with jagged cracks running up to the ceiling.

I can see in the moonlight streaming through the windows that some plaster dust is still floating down from these cracks. To my left, a living room window is broken, having been twisted in its frame. The hardwood floor under the window looks as if it has been hit from underneath by a sledgehammer. Off to my right, a dark form floats into my peripheral vision. The house shakes, the tremors emanating from the kitchen on my right. The fridge tilts forward as the ground beneath it fractures. The doors come open, spilling light onto the ground, followed swiftly by food.

Glass condiment bottles shatter, adding to the noise rolling through my home. I find myself backpedaling, my fighter flight response is taking over. I notice that I have a worried smile on my face. I told myself I wouldn't run if this ever happened. Before I can stop myself, I call out. No! This only seems to anger the entity, and the hallway around me begins to crack. The floor under my feet shifting, sending me slamming into the wall.

I lose my footing and end up on the ground. The black distorted air rushes toward me, touching my right foot. My toes bend impossibly toward my ankle, all of them snapping at once when the pressure becomes too much. I cry out in pain. Before my cry is even halfway finished, the bones of my feet snap as my foot bends in half. I scramble with my arms and left foot, trying to get away from the pain in what's causing it. I reach my bedroom and slam the door shut.

Shock seems to take away the sharpness of the pain, but I'm pouring sweat and my eyes are watering. My breath wheezes in and out of my lungs. The door to my bedroom snaps in half lengthwise, the outer half falling into the room, while the inner half swings open. The walls around the doorway erupt in an elaborate spider web of cracks. I managed to stand up on my left leg. I hopped to the window as the cracks and the walls snake toward me. I know that the black distortion is close now. I try to open the window, but the frame distorts when I get it open a few inches,

making it impossible for me to move it any further. I glance around, searching for an object with which to break the window. I promised I wouldn't run. promised I wouldn't run. The words repeat again and again in my mind as I turn around. The entity is upon me quickly. I reach my arms out in a feeble attempt to stop it. My wrists and fingers snap. The pain so great my breath leaves me. My forearms break, pointing in different directions. My elbows bend the wrong way. My rib cage breaks like an old wicker basket under a cinder block. As my spine snaps, consciousness leaves me.

But it isn't gone long. I find myself on the bedroom floor, writhing as all the breaks in my bones heal quickly but not properly. New bone has been added, stretching my skin to its limits. I can't move. But I can look down and see my deformed, elongated body. I promised I wouldn't run, I think, crying with joy now that it's over. Now, all I have to do is die. But death doesn't come.

I lie in my broken house with my new and forever broken body for a long time as consciousness undulates. The pain I feel isn't the pain of broken bones. It's the pain of strained muscles, stretched skin, and torn ligaments. It's a constant pain that I know will never leave, not until I'm dead. I wake up to a group of men surrounding me. They wear tactical gear and helmets so I can't see their faces. One of them takes off his helmet and looks down at me. It's Morgan.

Can you move? He asks. I try to speak, but nothing happens. I try to move my head, but I can't do that either. After a moment, Morgan nods. He signals some other men into my bedroom. They come into view toting a gurney, onto which they load me up. They put me in the back of an ambulance that's not really an ambulance.

There are no paramedics to take care of me. There's only Morgan and another man in tactical gear. Morgan injects me with something, which dulls the pain. They bring me to the three-story building near the hospital, wheeling me in through the back door. They take me up in an elevator and put me in a hospital-like room with heart monitors and life support machines. Fear crowds in my mind as I realize they're going to keep me alive,

to study me, no doubt. They're going to try to figure out who the crooked man is, to stop him. I want to tell Morgan to let me die. I want to tell him how we've lived with the crooked man for generations. I want to tell him that the crooked man protects us. He keeps our little town going, no matter what's happening in the rest of the world.

He's our curse, our blessing. We're glad to sacrifice a few of our residents to him every 12 years. Morgan and the people he works for will only make things worse. They'll only make the crooked man, I want to tell him all this, but I can't. I'm trapped in this broken body, this body that shouldn't be alive, this body that's meant to die in tribute. I say a silent sorry to the crooked man.

Forgive them, I pray, for they know not what they do. Please, Crooked Man, don't desert us. Not now, not ever. SCP 783 is a hostile entity currently preying upon the residents of a small, rural town. It has a period of activity lasting roughly 70 days over the fall and winter months, occurring every 12 years. It exclusively attacks those who are alone and indoors after sunset. Buildings housing SCP 783's current target will experience a steady degradation of their structural integrity,

giving the affected structures an angled or crooked appearance. To date, personnel have yet to prevent an attack or been able to provide any means of assistance to SCP-783's targets. Due to this, as well as SCP-783's effects on recording equipment, little is known regarding its exact appearance and the nature of its anomalous attributes. Victims of the entity's attacks exhibit gross deformations in their body structure as the result of dozens of compound fractures along their long bones

and severely displaced vertebrae. These are healed via the rapid generation of excessive cartilage and tissue. The end result of this malformation and elongation are subjects who visually present as being wholly serrated, deformed or gnarled. Lazzangue surgellé,

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