The SCP Experience - The Cursed Number | SCP-048

Episode Date: April 21, 2023

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-048: The Cursed Number This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp. Go to betterhelp.com/scp today to get 10% off your first month! This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-048 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Discover the Author's impressive series of SCP Tales here: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0BVWJFGV3 Check out more of Mr. Click's work here: newpulptales.com 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

It's never too early to plan your summer story 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. Jesus Christ, look at him. You know, you always hear about humans domesticating the dog, but that fat fuck proves that sheep were the real accomplishment.

I make a non-committal sound of agreement with Mero's comments. I'm no stranger to lewd language myself, but with the tape recording for the foundation's logs, I try to keep it civil. Our director is a real pain in the ass when it comes to colorful commentary on official records. Best to let Merrow get the receiving end of the tongue lashing again. However, I can see his point. There are still wild sheep scattered throughout the world's countryside, but they've lost the ability to shed their wool. Someone has to shear it off, or it'll just keep growing. It's an extreme liability in the wild,

and the potential SCP I'm staring at through the binoculars is no exception. It looks more like Cousin It from the Adams family than an animal. Normally, pure white wool is dirty brown, with only a few patches to indicate its proper color. The sheep's wool has grown so thick that you can't see its legs, making it look like a filthy cloud crawling on the ground. The only hint of a face is its snout poking out from the puffy, stained crown. Well, Mero's grin makes him look even younger than he is.

Should we release the big bad wolf? That was pigs. My tone is just a slight rebuke. I've only worked with Mero for a year or so, but he's much more refreshing than the last investigator I was paired with. Most people in the foundation think of researchers only as the ones in the white coats in the labs at are various sites. But science takes many forms, and everything can be studied safely behind containment protocols. As a biologist, I much prefer studying potential subjects in the wild, in their native element.

The last investigator I was paired with came from a security background, only concerned about threats and not in awe even in the slightest of the SCPs we discovered, cataloged and contained. Mero might be young and over-excited, but it's a breath of fresh air from the stodgy old man that used to shadow me. Still, sometimes I wish he would just show a bit more restraint. Like now, he's bobbing on his feet,

leaning back and forth from his heels to his toes, waiting for me to give the command. Sying, I clicked the walkie-talkie-he clipped to my chest. Alpha team, proceed with the self-defense test. Mero's grin blossoms into a full-blown smile as it returns to his tablet, turning it toward me so I can see. We're watching through a feed from one of the Foundation's drones, hovering several hundred feet over the sheep.

Mero moves his fingers, zooming in, past the mountains, so that we have a clear view of the sheep and its untamed wool. The security team stationed in the woods is upwind, several hundred yards away, so their scent won't alert the sheep, even if its potential to flee from us is minimal at best. An affirmation sounds on the radio before a response. Target now, fast as his feet can carry him. Mero slaps my shoulder in anticipation, and I shoot another frown at him. Mero is just as excited about the potential bloodshed as he leans toward the screen. It doesn't take us long to spot the wolf. It hasn't eaten anything for three

days. It's a necessary cruelty to make sure that it will attack the sheep and not merely flee foundation custody. The wolf doesn't even bother trying to conceal itself in the woods. It's so hungry that it tears through the underbrush, charging straight at the easy meal. It sinks its fangs into the sheep's flanks. The wool-draped mouth opens up for a panic scream, but we can't hear it through the drone. The wool around the sheep is several feet thick, and the wolf shakes its head, pulling back nothing but a chunk of dirty wool. It spits it out and latches onto the same spot, chomping desperately for a taste of blood.

It's hard to see the action on the tablet, especially with marrow hogging the screen. But the wool changes. It shudders and quakes, energy building up from it that momentarily distorts the camera. The screen clears long enough for us to see the wolf tossed aside and slammed into the trunk of a nearby tree. The sheep stumbles as it turns toward its attacker,

At the same time, the wolf stands on unsteady feet as if it's drunk. The wolf charges again, shifting and moving. But this time, crackling with bolts of electricity, the wolf charges at the same time a bolt of lightning erupts from the sheep's wool, the flash so bright that it appears over the mountain's horizon. I turn away from the hill and back to the screen. All the remains of the wolf is a smoldering pile of blackened fur and charred meat. Anomalous behavior confirmed.

I savored the recording. Subject appears to store static electricity through its wool and is capable of discharging it when threatened. Initial theory pending, further scientific analysis. Request immediate classification and containment. We have a live link with the site director, and the affirmation pops up with the green light. Agent Merrow, what's the next available number?

That would be... Mero trails off as he checks the archives. Ah, SCP-48. SCP-48? It's strange that such an early number is still available within the archives. Mero's fingers race across the tablet, distracting me from dwelling on the designation further. SCP-48 Thundersoft, what do you think?

I make my non-committal grunt again before reaching for the radio. Alpha Team, proceed with capture and containment. Be careful. We're still not sure of its range, and the only spot available for tranquilization appears to be its face. It only takes a moment for Alpha Team to respond. Capture and containment will advise of any technical difficulties. Mero zooms out of the drone's view and switches the camera to infrared.

The surrounding countryside is darkened but lit up with various spots of orange as the drone switches lenses. Mero marks the sheep with a digital marker. It's easy to spot the security forces moving in, circling the sheep. One raises a tranquilizer gun, and though I can't see the trajectory, through the infrared, the sheep twitches and then topples in on itself. Overwatch, Alpha Team's leader says again. Subject drop. The large box they carry doesn't emit any heat.

It shows up just as a dark block on the screen, but I designed it myself. It's not complicated, just a typical cage that's surrounded by a layer of rubber insulation. Simple, but like my father used to say, if you have a job that requires a nail, don't overthink it. Use a hammer. It should contain the sheep and protect foundation security from any potential electrical discharges. Our job finished. Mero closes the tablet while I pack up the surveillance equipment. So, what are you thinking for dinner?

Mero smiles. We're in Scotland. Might as well see if Hage lives up to the hype, right? I open my mouth to counter with a decent Indian place a few miles away when I'm blinded. I stumble, bumping into Mero, groping around me as the ground shakes. I trip over something heavy and swear as I fall. McCoy! Mara's voice is high-pitched and panicked.

McCoy! Are you okay? I'm fine. Just stand still and wait a minute. I recognize what blinded me. It's the same as the flash from the sheep's attack, but on a grander scale, like a Roman candle versus Hiroshima. Sitting on the ground, I let out a breath of relief as dark circles dot my vision.

Slowly, my sight returns, and I sit up to see Mara rubbed. his eyes. Get that goddamn drone back online! Now! I'm the senior agent, but Mero isn't used to me swearing or barking out orders. He rushes for the tablet, his hands fumbling several times before reopening the program. His jaw drops before he hands it to me. There's a deep hole of charred earth where the sheep had stood. Alpha Team is scattered around it, like toy soldiers battered about by a toddler and a tantrum. I switched to infrared. There aren't any heat signatures. Alpha Team is dead.

Jesus Christ! Mara wipes his mouth. What the fuck happened? I... I rewind the footage, but there's nothing but static between our last check and the current one. I have no idea. Lasagne sur-joled, puissance-moyance-moyon-pon-kind.

We're like the dojo. Fere to play the pleasure with the Ojo. The casino in-line, that proposes the most recent machine-ass-sou and the games of casino in direct. Profite of 50 tours, on Big Bass Bonanza without without

any questions of Misses and with the pleasure Play-Ojo 108-8-0 plus, 1st5%

3%% 2%% per capita deposit for deposit bonus deposit deposit pay you know to play

byroye Embarked Embarked and Profite Embarked and relaxed Syroted Bukkinet

Oh, that also and profite Veyrails Vey Rai Marrow and I sit on the balcony of a nearby apartment, looking over the abandoned docks. Most of the piers collapsed into the ocean long ago, but a few still stand on sagging foundations of rotting wood. One of them has a dinghy tied to a post.

It's not a much better condition than the docks. It's aged and dying wood, bubbling on the ocean's gentle waves. So that's Bochula. I inhale, tasting the salt in the air that reminds me of home. a place I haven't been in decades before turning to my partner. Bochilla? He frowns. It's a boat that drinks blood.

Do you have a better name? I shrug. Boat pyre? Shit. Merrow slumps loudly in the seat next to me. That is better. Why I get paid the big bucks. We've gotten more comfortable in our three-year partnership.

Sure. He still thinks I'm a grumpy old bastard who doesn't. doesn't get out enough. And I still think he's an over-eager SCP fanboy. But like my dad used to say, if it ain't broke, don't fix it. We work well together and seem content in our professional relationships. I raise the binoculars and look at the decrepit boat again, as I've done for the last hour. I can give the order if you want, Mero says, breaking my needless examination. I know you're not a big fan of using D-Class.

If there's one persistent thorn in the side of the Foundation's scientific ethics, it's the use of D-class personnel to conduct experiments. Some of them are former foundation personnel, their memories wiped after an attempt to betray the organization. Others are homeless or illegal immigrants. People the country won't miss, and others still are inmates, usually pulled from death row. They're undesirables, people's society won't miss,

and the foundation uses them as human guinea pigs. But that doesn't mean they deserve to die. At least, not most of them. I turned toward Mero. Tell me again about him. Convicted child molester, Mero says, the jovial grin dropping from his face. The prosecutor presented videos he took with the kids.

Asshole thought he was the hunter-est Thompson of pedophilia. If you have to send a person to their death, it might as well be a person who deserves to die. Still, I'm a scientist, not an executioner. But that doesn't stop me from reaching for the radio at my chest. Alpha Team, release D7721. The collision of the van with the telephone pole is thunderous, even from here. Mero sets up a laptop on the table between us, pulling up the nearby security camera so

we can observe the van's rear doors pop open. The guards do a convincing job of pretending to be knocked out. At least, I hope they're pretending. Every precaution was taken, but you can never be certain when performing a real accident. D-7721 lumbers out of the van. He doesn't fit the stereotypical appearance of a pedophile, whatever that may be. If you took off the orange jumpsuit with his serial number on the shoulder, you could easily cross him on the street without batting an eye.

He looks left, then right, then hesitantly steps toward the driver's seat. Seeing the guards seemingly knocked out, he sprints toward the docks. He soon appears in my binoculars. Swearing, he kicks the ground but jumps in the dinghy. Wobbling on the boat, he nearly topples into the water before riding himself and picking up a paddle. He casts off the line and starts frantically paddling against the waves. D7721 is no sailor.

It's hard work paddling against the ocean's waves, even for an experienced boater. He's clearly unaccustomed to the task, but as time passes, he starts to slow down even more. Mero clicks on the app for the drone, giving us a clear view of the subject. He's oblivious to the changes, but his skin starts to shrivel and wrinkle like he's aging years in a matter of moments. He looks down at his arms. They look like they belong to a stick-thin mummy. He raises his hands to his eyes, and Mero and I watch as his hair grays and falls from his head. His eyes roll back in his head as his lips draw back to his gum line, turning his teeth into fangs.

He collapses on the boat, finally resembling the monster he was in life. The juxtaposition slightly eases the guilt tightening in my chest. Mero taps a button. Drone is detecting zero vital signs. I nod. Cause of death, at least from a precursory glance, appears to be dehydration, not just of blood, but all bodily. fluids. Anomalous behavior confirmed. Recommend immediate classification and contamination. Green confirmation signal pops up on the tablet. Mero, look for the next available designation.

That would be, he glances at the laptop. Ah, SCP-48, boat buyer. SCP-48? Why does that sound so familiar? I close my eyes and think, needing a distraction from the execution I ordered, when it suddenly clicks into my mind. Wait, SCP-48? Wasn't that the same as the sheep that exploded a year ago? Merrow frowns before understanding crosses his face. Oh, the one that had the chain reaction to the tranquilization darts? I shrug.

That was my hypothesis. Impossible to prove without an autopsy, and impossible to do one of those without a body. Well? Mero scratches his. head. It makes sense that it's available again, right? Something about it still nags my mind. But I nod to Mero. It makes sense, but he and I have catalogued dozens of SEP since then. Why is it popping up now? Putting it out of my mind, I reach for my radio. Alpha Team. Proceed with the capture and containment of SEP 48. Make sure not to come into

physical contact with it. I recommend delivering it to site 119. They specialize in nautical SCPs and have a dock not too far away. The response is immediate. Roger, Overwatch. Moving in for capture and containment. We'll advise of any complications. This was just one potential SCP on mine and Mero's to-do list today. Fortunately, we don't have that much gear to pack up.

It only takes a few minutes before we're on the road and heading toward the next sighting. With only a short time to grab a bite to eat, I pull into a drive-thru at a nearby by Wendy's. As the bored teenage employees hands us a bag of value burgers, Mero answers his phone. Fuck! Mero's obscenity makes the poor girl jump, banging her head on the window. I frown and offer a quick apology before pulling into one of the parking spots. I let the engine idle while Mero finishes his conversation, which mostly consisted of more swears, before he puts down the phone and looks at me.

There was an engine malfunction with the boat towing SEP 48. He shakes his head. It, and SCP-48 are at the bottom of the Atlantic. You have to be fucking shitting me. Mero swears ahead of me, barely sweating after the three-mile hike with more of the equipment strapped to his back. Unlike Mero, I'm sweating from head to toe, adding five extra pounds to my body.

I wipe my brow and bend over, trying to catch my breath along the abandoned Appalachian Trail. I still prefer going outside and observing potential SEPs rather than being stuck in a lab. But it's getting impossible to deny that the more strenuous aspects of the job are finally catching up with me. I wouldn't have been this winded even three years ago

when Mero and I started working together. I finally get enough air in my lungs, so it doesn't feel like I'm on the verge of passing out. Standing, I look where Mero points through the cluster of trees just below the mountains. It's just another splash of green before it starts to move. It stands taller than the trees. Roughly, it has the same features as a human, two legs, two arms, a neck, a head, and eyes.

But the proportions are rail thin, giving it an almost insectal-like appearance. That is until it moves again, and the stalks of its towering head are revealed past the trees. It takes several minutes before the tablet comes online, linking to the satellites fighting for a signal through the mountains surrounding us. The green light slowly pops up with a live camera feed. I lifted, capturing the giant in the frames. Subject appears...

I cough and try again. Subject appears to be a giant made of broccoli. Anomalous behavior confirmed. A giant made of broccoli? Mero frowns. Seriously? Usually, your explanations are a bit more scientific. Yeah, well...

I paused to unscrew a water bottle and take a long drink. Sometimes the results speak for themselves. Mero smirks. Uh-huh. And sometimes old farts are short of breath. Shut it and classify the damned thing already. Marrow's grin doesn't falter as he takes the tablet from my hands. He's recently gotten access to catalog and name SCPs without my permission.

However, I wait for him to suggest a name as he always does. I think he does this more to brag about his creativity than to check for my permission. Broccoli giant isn't catchy enough. I'm thinking maybe green giant. Nice bit of alliteration, don't you think? Yeah, he's definitely bragging. Try to avoid naming it anything that's trademarked. He stares blankly at me.

What do you mean? Ah, come on, green giant. I deepen my voice. Ho, ho, ho, green giant. Remember what I said about old farts? Remember what I said about shutting up? Mero's smart grows as he types something into the tablet and gets a confirmation signal.

There. Now I read about this nearby diner on TripAdvisor. Supposed to have the best burgers. A loud groan drowns out the rest of his words. It shakes the trees around, raining down leaves around us. A loud snap follows the sound. And I look up in time to see the giant, now missing one of its legs. It topples slowly toward the ground. Mero grabs me roughly by the shoulder, dragging me away at full speed.

The ground lurches with a violent impact. with a violent impact, lifting us into the air before planting us roughly onto the forest floor. Mero gets up before I do and offers me a hand. I rub my sore back as I examine the broccoli giant, surrounded by upturned trees ripped from their roots. It'll take a team to confirm its death, but it lies unmoving on the ground without so much as a stir or another groan of pain. Jim, what classification did you assign the thing? The first one available. He opens the tablet to check.

SCP-48. I sit at a computer in an unused lab, my fingers thrumming with excitement as they open the database. Usually, I do everything possible to avoid getting stuck in a lab. However, SCPs come in a variety of forms. They can't all be easily defined and can be quite abstract, making their discovery potentially impossible. I think Mero and I have discovered one that fits this definition.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't have clearance to go through the Foundation's archives. Luckily, Director Ramirez is much more open-minded than most psych directors. After explaining my theory, she gave me temporary unlimited access, but pertaining to only one specific SCP, the elusive SCP-48. My eyes widened as I find the first entry. The designation has been used off and on throughout the Foundation's history. The first item classified as SCP-48 was an invisible elephant found in India and transported stateside with considerable difficulty.

Due to the subject's nature, it took them a while before they noticed it had somehow gone missing in the early 20s. Ten years later, the designation was assigned to another SCP, this time to a grown man who stood only six inches tall. He had been contained at a research site for six months before a brazen escape attack. No one had noticed his attempt to flee, and he ended up as gunk on some lab assistant's shoe. SCP48's history is filled with entries like these. Every item, human, or creature assigned the designation was only temporarily detained.

Everything either died, stopped functioning, or went missing. Something about it still seems off, though. So I plug the dates into a spreadsheet, convert it to a chart, and observe the varying lengths of containment. The gaps in time explain why it hasn't been realized before now. On average, the subject is contained for around 10 years before the designation reopens. There are a few outliers of a much shorter time, but they are easily overlooked, considering more pressing classifications and containments. I squint, examining the outliers closer. Strange, most of them occurred over the last three years. They jumped from happening at

every decade to almost annually in that time. That's why it's been nagging at me. Wait, three years. That's how long Merrow and I have been working together. A loud click interrupts my thoughts. Step away from the computer, Jonas. I freeze, but don't fully comply with the order. Instead, I swivel my chair toward the familiar voice.

Mero is standing in front of me. The gun in his hand has been affixed with a silencer. His face is devoid of any malice. Instead, he's sadder than I've ever seen him. I'm sorry, man, he shakes his head. I really did like working with you. Shit, even this is one of the things I admire about you. Whenever you have a question, you always have to keep digging, don't you?

Jim, I put my hands to my sides. Why are you doing this? Because the foundation thinks they're the only ones who should control these things. Why? Who decided that? Someone needs to stand up to them. And now, thanks to us, my society has access to a few weapons to combat their control. Realization dawns on me. The sheep and the boat. Your people recovered them. And Brockolieth. I frown.

Brockolieth? That's the name I ended up giving the last one. Thought it made more of a punch. Sure, Alpha Team managed to burn most of it. But we've got enough genetic samples that we should be able to replicate them into smaller shock soldiers. Mero pauses in size. That's the problem with working with someone for so long. You get to know their tricks. That's how I know you're stalling for time,

hoping to either talk me out of this or wait until someone comes by. Sorry, Jonas, it's not going to work. I only have one chance. So I spin in my chair. My fingers race across the keyboard, typing two words before hitting enter. I barely hear the silenced gunshot over the clacking keys, but pain rips through my side, and I topple onto the floor, feeling the blood rush over my legs. Mero darts forward and kicks the ruined chair away from him.

He leans in close over the screen, checking to see if I sent a distress signal. I hadn't. I just had time to catalog the newest addition to the SCP-48 moniker. Just two words. James Mero. Mero frowns as the computer starts to smoke. He coughs, the acidic smoke of burnt metal filling my nostrils even from the floor. The screen flashes once as the monitor explodes.

Mero gasps and grabs his neck where one of the shards of glass is embedded deep into his skin. The gun drops from his hands as blood pours down his throat. I grunt as I hoist myself off the floor, needing the aid of the table to lift me. My side screams in agony and protests the whole time. I look down at Mero's corpse. His blood still spilling out of the wound on the floor, and sorrow fills my heart. A poet would have better words, but I'm a scientist, so I stick with the facts. I'm so sorry, Jim. I liked working with you too.

I pick up the phone and call Director Ramirez before I collapse in a heap beside him. SCP-48 has long been considered the cursed SCP number by SCP staff. Any items given this designation tend to be destroyed, decommissioned, stolen, or otherwise lost to the foundation, usually through no fault of any individual person. In addition, personnel assigned to SCP 48 in its various incarnations have had a 50% higher rate of turnover due to death, dismemberment, and disciplinary action. Whether or not the number 48 actually has any supernatural qualities is unknown. But given the superstition around this number, the designation has been removed from the catalog in order to help maintain employee morale.