The SCP Experience - The Cult Skull | SCP-1857

Episode Date: May 4, 2022

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-1857: The Cult Skull This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1857, 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 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

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and it was a weird one. I acknowledged the call and told dispatch that we were responding. Then I looked over at Weaver. He looked back at me with raised eyebrows and thinned lips. Maybe it's a midday prayer meeting, he said. Some Karen is freaking out because she thinks a terrorist attack is about to happen. It sounds a little more involved than that. I said, putting the cruiser in drive,

and pulling away from the curb. Yeah, well, you know how these things are, Weaver said. Dispatch hears what they want to hear. I had to give them that. Many times we got calls where the actual situation was completely different from what dispatch said. That was just the name of the game working as a patrol officer. We arrived at the office building about ten minutes later.

We hadn't really hurried because it didn't sound like an emergency. It sounded like a misunderstanding. standing. The sunlight glinted off the glass and metal facade of the large commercial structure. The parking lot was full, and we headed inside. The receptionist pointing the way to the elevators. What do you want to bet they're rolling up their prayer rugs as we get up there? Weaver said as the elevator ascended. How much? I said. But before Weaver could answer, the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor. The hallway was darker than it should have been, and we stepped out to see that one of the light fixtures in the little elevator foyer had been smashed. Glass crunched

under our boots as we moved away from the elevators, unclipping the leather straps over our barretta's. Rounding the corner into a long hallway that fed the various offices, we saw that every other light fixture in the hallway ceiling had been smashed. We saw no people, just a hall littered with glass and a line of closed office doors. A low hum of voices was barely audible where we were near the elevators, but it got louder as we advanced down the hall. It was the sound of dozens of people speaking in low, musical tones all at the same time. How much was the bed about the prayer rugs again? I asked Weaver. No deal. Too late, he said. I smiled weekly, just a little freaked out about whatever was going on here. We came to the first office, clearly able to hear

the persistent hum singing through the closed door. The frosted glass, window next to the door didn't allow for visibility. So the only way to see what was up was to open the door. Weaver opened it, and I went through, gun drawn. There was an empty reception desk in front of me, backed by a dividing wall. Past the wall, I could see some cubicles, all empty as far as I could tell. It was dark in the office. Although none of the lights were smashed, they were just turned off. Weaver came in behind me as I rounded the reception desk and saw all the people that were making the noise. They were lined up on the floor between two rows of cubicles, all facing the same direction, north, toward the far end of the hall. They were dressed in business casual and all on their hands and knees, moving back and forth and whipping their heads from side to side while they made the strange, unintelligible sounds.

Excuse me! I said, speaking in my car. cop voice. They didn't react. It was like I wasn't even there. I looked over my shoulder at Weaver, who shrugged. There wasn't any law against people being weird. Sure, it was probably bad for productivity, but it looked like their boss was in on the fun. Maybe it was some new morale thing that I hadn't heard about. Get all your weird out so you can work better, or something. Let's check the other offices, I said. We tracked back out of the room and into the hall. hallway. The next office in line was more of the same, but the one after that was something different.

The people were sitting in their chairs, all facing north, like the others, and they all had their shirts or jackets pulled over their heads. And like the others, they were all humming the same indecipherable nonsense. I called out to them, seeing if any would react. None did. This is freaking me out, man, weaver said. I nodded in agreement. The office across the hall was similar, people sitting with their faces covered, chanting. I think we need to call backup, weaver said when we came out. What is backup going to do? I asked. I think we need to call a psychologist or something. This is like mass hysteria. Or maybe there's a gas leak. We both stopped at that, sniffing

the air. I did a quick mental search of my body, but found that I wasn't lightheaded or anything. And I definitely didn't feel the urge to get on the floor and chant, or cover my face and chant. In all honesty, chanting was low on the list of things I wanted to do, way under getting the hell out of the building. I unclipped the radio microphone from my shoulder and called dispatch, telling them to send a supervisor. We moved to the next office and went inside. The smell of blood hit me, and I knew something was seriously wrong. Before I moved first, I was. Before I moved first, into the room past the reception desk, I heard, under the chanting,

what sounded like popping, small, wet pops, coming in groups every 10 seconds or so. I moved into the main room and recoiled at the site there. Weaver, moving behind me, took the Lord's name in vain as he saw the gory scene. There was one rather large man lying on his back in the middle of the floor, completely naked. The other office workers, these ones fully closed,

sat around him in a rough circle. They were chanting, but they were also stabbing the man with office tools. The popping sounds I heard were them stabbing him, and his skin giving way under the tips of metal pens, letter-opiners, and even a few metal eating utensils brought from home with the day's lunch. The stab wounds covered all of the man's body, which could only mean that they'd been sitting there, chanting and stabbing, for a good 30 minutes at least.

The man was clearly dead. was clearly dead and the people stabbing him were sitting in his blood which the thin commercial carpet had done a poor job of absorbing I turned to Weaver and told him to get out his phone and record a little bit of the scene I figured we'd need it in court once he did I told the people to stop they ignored me just like the others had I moved forward and yanked one man away from the corpse my hope was to restrain him but he pulled away from me without so much as a glance and scrambled back to his position. While trying to decide what to do, I heard a whooping

shout from the hallway. Both Weaver and I turned toward the office door, tensing, and ready for action. It sounded like a happy sound, which made no sense. Weaver opened the door and I stepped out, leading with my gun. My eyes landed on two men about 10 yards away in the hall. One man was crawling on his hands and knees, while the other one, a much smaller man, rode on his his back. The man on top was in his underwear, while the other one was dressed in a cheap suit. The one on his hands and knees was chanting, and he didn't seem to notice that he was bleeding thanks to the broken glass littering the hallway floor. The smaller man's eyes locked on mine. He froze, but the bigger man kept trudging forward, chanting.

Step off that man! I commanded. The smaller man's eyes shifted from my face to my gun and back again. He couldn't have been more than 5'3 and 100 pounds. He was scrawny to the point of being skeletal. His face was clean-shaven, his skin clear, but from the neck down, he had inflamed scars in various stages of healing. They looked self-inflicted. His lustreless brown hair stuck up all over his head,

and his face held open disgust and just a hint of fear. Get off him and put your hands up, I said. The guy shot off like a woman. bullet, running down the hallway with no regard for his bare feet. He ducked into an office as I shouted for him to stop. I'd been standing in the doorway, so Weaver hadn't seen what I had. We got a suspect. I said to him. He went into the second office down on the right. We moved into the hall, just as the door to the office I mentioned opened. But the scrawny guy wasn't the one coming

out. Six fully dressed office workers marched out, faces blank, mouths moving automatically as they continued to chant. Stop! I shouted. Stop there and face the wall. They kept coming. Shit. Weaver said.

What do we do? Take them down, but don't kill them. I said, putting my pistol away and pulling out my expandable baton, Weaver followed suit. The first one in line, a man, approached me and put his hands up as if to grab me. I pulled back and knocked his hand away, but he persisted. So I swung the baton striking him in the side of the left knee. He went down and I shoved him to the ground, then moved forward to deal with the next one in line.

Weaver moved ahead and engaged another office worker, and we worked our way through them, hitting them in the legs and heads to make them go down. I approached the office door out of breath, chaining out the baton for my pistol. The office was larger than the others, and it had another pair of doors past the roomy reception area, both of which were closed. Weaver came in behind me and then opened one of the inner door. doors. I moved in and saw four rows of cubicles, maybe 20 in total. There was a row each on either side of the room, and two rows butted up against each other in the middle of the room. This made

for two aisles to allow access to them. The room was quiet, aside from the sound of feverish typing on a keyboard somewhere near the back of the room. Come out now, I called. The typing sound intensified. I pointed at the aisle to the left, and Weaver nodded, heading that way, while I headed down the right-hand aisle. I could see that the two aisles met at the end of the room, thanks to a gap between the back wall and the last of the cubicles. The second cubicle on the right held a man slumped in his chair. I turned his chair toward me and saw that his throat had been cut. I continued on. The typing sound was coming from the last cubicle on the right. behind me. I heard the hallway door open, and the sound of chanting followed. More people were coming

to stop us. I moved, taking an angle so I could see into the last cubicle. The scrawny, half-naked man was sitting there, typing away. Next to him on the desk was a human skull with two horns coming out of its forehead. Its eye sockets glowed faintly from deep inside. Three words written in blood adorned the top of the skull. Fuck you, pig. Stop typing, I said. The man paid me no mind. I lunged forward and grabbed the back of his chair, ganking it backward and spilling him to the ground.

He started to scramble up, but Weaver's foot came down on his chest. I looked back toward the front of the room and saw the people who had been stabbing the big man on the floor in the other office. They had their makeshift weapons in hand, ready to use them on us. Turning my attention back to the desk, I saw that the strange skull was connected to the computer with a USB cable. And the writing had changed reading, Fuck the police.

What the hell? I said. What do we do? Weaver said. They have weapons. Is the skull how you're doing this? I asked, the scrawny man. He sneered at me,

struggling ineffectually to get out from under Weaver's boot. Stepping forward, I grabbed the skull and yanked it, severing the connection. The chanting office workers were close. I threw the skull into the corner and shot it twice with my verretta. The shots allowed in the enclosed,

base, so loud that I couldn't tell at first whether the ringing in my ears was the reason I couldn't hear the chanting anymore. Slowly turning around, I realized that my gamble had worked. The office workers were looking around, confused. They glanced at the bloody weapons in their hands, and then up at Weaver and me. No, I wasn't done, the scrawny guy on the ground said. So many more have to pay. He screeched. I noticed a piece of paper on the desk where the skull had been. I reached. I reached, down and picked it up, reading it aloud to Weaver. CultMaker 13, I read. Copyright 2012, Diabolism Incorporated. Form your own cult with the

Cult Maker series. Ever dreamed of leading your own cult? With Cult Maker, those dreams can become a reality, even if you know nothing about occult worship. Create your own occult icons, attract followers, and develop foul rituals with our easy-to-use editor. The Cult-Maker series is powerful yet easy to learn, making it perfect for beginners and experts alike. Unleash the power of cult maker today. I looked down at the man on the ground. Works like a charm, he said with a sneer. SEP 1857 is a deformed human skull with what appears to be horns extending from its forehead.

The letters CM-X-I-I-I are engraved in a serif font on its back, and a USB port is located at the base. X-ray photography has shown no wiring attached to this port, nor the presence of any other metallic components. When directly observed, subjects report seeing writing in blood on the skull in the language they are most familiar with, though indirect observation via photography or closed circuit video does not corroborate this. Subjects report that the writing on SCP 1857 most often takes the form of insults directed at the reader, though the exact wording is often laid with spelling and grammatical errors. This text reportedly changes when unobserved, often in such a way as to suggest that SCP 1857 is aware of its surroundings. Subjects

exposed to SCP 1857 for extended periods of time often exhibit a wide range of symptoms, commonly found in brainwashed cult members. Once removed from the SCP's range of efficacy and given time to recover, they often describe their time near the as being in a trance-like state with little to no coherent thought or free will.