The SCP Experience - The Fur Coat Metamorphosis | SCP-801

Episode Date: January 10, 2022

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-801: The Fur Coat Metamorphosis 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-801, 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

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Ontario, 50 Tours B'Bus Bonanza, deposit, DePos b'clock Responsible. The conditions apply. Pawsing under a large oak tree, I look up at the smattering of remaining red leaves hanging to the branches with the last of their life.

Soon, they'll fall to the ground, adding themselves to the carpet of sodden leaves I'm standing on. After that, they'll decompose, helping provide nutrients to their parent tree, and all the other trees and plants around. The rolling Adirondack Mountains stretch out on all sorts. sides of me, imbuing me with the sense of calm I only ever get once a year, hunting season. I inhale deeply, savoring the rich, earthy smell of a changing landscape, one nearing the end of its life cycle, preparing to batten down for winter. I adjust my rifle by the strap over my shoulder

absently, letting my thoughts wander aimlessly around the subject of life cycles. The trees and plants have theirs, so do the animals, and so do we. They all feed into each other in a kind of brilliant give and take. Being part of the cycle brings me a pride and joy that are unparalleled in every other part of my life. Being able to come out here during the fall months and, hopefully, shoot me a deer, is something I look forward to every year. Don't get me wrong, I take tremendous pride and joy in raising my kids and being a good husband. Like plants and animals, we all live in a give-and-take balance, complimenting each other. Bringing home meat to feed my family is an excellent feeling. But being out here is what it's all about. Bagging a deer is a bonus. I don't understand how

some men go their whole lives without hunting or camping. It's baffling to me. Something moves off in the distance, and it sounds big. maybe as big as a deer. I crouched down and swing my Ruger American rifle down off my shoulder in one quick move. I have the rifle butt pressed up into the divot between my chest and shoulder in two breaths. I click the safety off with one gloved finger while scanning the trees for signs of movement. I need to be careful because there are other hunters out here, including three of my buddies, Mark, Jason, and Dan.

We're all pretty experienced at this. We've been coming out here for years, but tracking a deer can easily take you into the path of another hunter. The last thing I want to do is shoot another person. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen. When we joke about it, we call it pulling a cheney, as many hunters probably do. I move slowly out from under the oak tree,

thankful for the mild and short-lived rain that fell this morning, making the leaves and twigs underfoot soggy and less likely to crunch or snap. The sound of rustling comes to me again, and I make a slight change of direction because of it. It does sound big. I creep past a couple of red spruce trees, coming upon a large white pine. When the sound comes again, this time closer. I peer toward the source of the noise and catch a glimpse of movement through the trees. Crouching onto one knee, I bring my rifle.

scope up to my eye. I see some fur in a small gap between two American beech trees, and I immediately know it's not a deer. It's the wrong color. Changing my position carefully, I get a better look at the animal. At first, I think it's a coyote, which are common in this part of the world, although seldom spotted. But it only takes another moment of looking through my scope to realize it's a wolf, and it's acting very strangely. As I watch through the scope, the wolf opens and closes its mouth half a dozen times, as if it's trying to get something out of its throat.

It shakes its head and begins to whine, still opening and closing its maw. Then the wolf starts making some odd sounds. They sound to me like hacking coughs, but there's something underneath these noises. It's almost a whining sound, but not quite. There's something familiar about the sound that I can't quite place. Maybe it's a half-remembered factoid from some nature documentary I watched about wolves.

I don't know much about the species, and have never come across one in all my years hunting in upstate New York. The wolf moves, slamming its head into a nearby tree. What the hell? I whisper. As soon as the words leave my mouth, the wolf stops at strange behavior and looks right at me. It heard me. It makes a couple more of those coughing, whining sounds that are familiar to some deep part of my mind. I stay where I am, assuming that the animal is injured or sickened.

I figure it will head off into the woods, leaving me to continue my hunt. But it doesn't. It stares at me as it lowers its head and bears its teeth. It's hackles rays, and I hear a low growl. I'm still not concerned. I do know that wolves usually don't attack him. humans, especially not when they're alone. Hollywood movies may suggest otherwise, but it just doesn't happen. It moves slowly toward me, which starts my heart beating a little faster. I stand up,

thinking getting to my full height will scare it off. It doesn't. The wolf is still moving toward me, still bearing its teeth, still growling. I yell out without ever taking my eye from my scope, telling it to scram. It starts running right at me. I don't hesitate. I don't back up. I just aim, exhale, and pull the trigger. It's a good shot,

putting a bullet right into the wolf's chest in a spot just under its throat. The animal tumbles and comes to rest in a limp pile about 40 yards away from me. Ooh! I say, breathing a sigh of relief as I bring my rifle down. The guys won't believe me about this.

Who'd ever heard of a wolf in the Adirondon? Xondax, much less one that tried to attack a human. I reload my rifle and gather the spent shell up, putting it in my coat pocket. Then I head over to inspect the wolf. It's a big sucker, probably a good 150 pounds. Who knows what it would have done to me had it closed the distance. I noticed that it has dried blood on its muzzle. It must have eaten not long ago.

Maybe whatever it ate had some kind of bacteria that made it act the way it was. way it was. Maybe it had rabies. I don't touch it, keeping my distance just in case it's contagious. I pull out my phone and take a picture, thinking that my buddies won't be able to refute that evidence. After a few moments, I turned to leave, but catch sight of a structure about 50 yards away, partially obscured by trees and bushes. It looks like the corner of a small derelict cabin. There's no way I'm not checking this out. I give the dead wolf a wide bird, as I step around it, heading for the cabin. The structure isn't as dilapidated as it first looked.

It's old, sure, but the roof is still intact, and there are still panes of glass on the two windows I can see. It's a single-story cabin with an a-frame roof. Still, I can tell by the state of it that it hasn't been cared for in a year or two. For one thing, the door is standing wide open, and I can see that some leaves have fallen or been to be in the door. fallen or been tracked through the doorway. I noticed canine footprints in a patch of drying mud as I approach the wooden steps. There's no way to tell for sure, but they could belong to the wolf I

just killed. They're leading away from the cabin, and they look fresh, so it's a pretty safe bet. I step up onto the first of three wooden steps leading up to the small porch. Then I stop to listen. Hello? I call out. Anyone home? There's no answer. So I step up onto the porch and walk through the cabin's open front doorway. The large main room is empty, except for some old wooden furniture and a pile of furs in the middle of the floor. I notice that the furniture is dusty while the pile of furs looks almost pristine. I kick at the furs with one foot and notice that it's actually fur clothing lying in a pile on the floor. There are four different coats, each made from a different type of fur.

I recognize mink and raccoon, but can't quite place the other two. There's also a pair of what looked to be rabbit-skin mittens and a pair of boots made of some animal skin. They look professionally made and authentic to my untrained and undecerning eye. They'd probably fetch a pretty penny at the kinds of places that sell authentic fur coats. An idea pops into my head, and I smile. I put down my rifle, propping it against a nearby wall, and pick up the raccoon coat. My buddies will get a kick out of this, I think, as I inspect the coat. It looks clean enough, so I swing it on, putting it over my coat.

Once I have it on, I pull out my phone and snap a selfie, making the kind of face I picture haughty rich women make when wearing expensive fur coats. I take a few more pictures for good measure, laughing to myself in between clicks. Then I go to put my phone back into my pocket, only to find that the fur coat is fastened. I don't remember buttoning it up. I search for buttons with my left hand. My phone still gripped in my right. The slightest bit of panic creeps in as I fail to find any buttons or a zipper or clasps of any kind.

The coat has sealed itself onto me. and it seems to be getting tighter. My breathing becomes shallow as the coat continues to tighten around my chest and on my arms. It also seems to be lengthening, reaching down toward my feet. My steps are restricted as I wander further into the cabin, looking for a knife or scissors or anything sharp

to cut the thing off before it kills me. I have a knife clip to my belt, but of course I can't reach it. It's underneath the coat. The small kitchen yields nothing. No sharp implements to help me. So I move into the only other room in the cabin, a bedroom. I stumble through the doorway as my legs are forced closer together by the coat.

I can feel my rib cage starting to compress, and I don't think it'll be long until it starts to break. Panic dictates my movements, the lack of oxygen getting to my brain, only making things worse. Even so, the sight I see in the bedroom gives me pause. There's a rifle leaning against the wall in the bedroom, but this isn't what's most concerning. The thing I focus on is the drying pool of blood, vomit, and flesh in the middle of the empty room.

I don't know what has happened here, but I fear I'm about to find out. I back out of the bedroom and fall down near the remaining furs in the middle of the main room. The world grows bleary as the pain reaches a crescendo. It feels as if my organs are rearranging themselves, forced against each other as the fur coat collapses my skeleton in on itself. I try crying for help. But all that escapes is a scratchy, breathless, growling sound. There's tremendous pain as my tailbone starts to lengthen, followed quickly by the elongation of the bones of my jaw and face.

I begin to vomit uncontrollably, first evacuating the contents of my stomach, and then throwing up what must be pints of brothy blood. I feel myself getting smaller, as I continue to vomit more than as humanly possible. The room gets bigger and bigger, as changes wreak havoc. on my body. The last thing that comes out of my mouth are these slimy chunks of pinkish flesh,

almost like strips of raw meat. I stumble out of the cabin on all fours, delirious and confused. The world seems huge around me, and my senses are all out of whack. I stop in the woods just outside the cabin and try to speak to cry for help again, but I can't. My mouth is no longer the same as it was. I open and close it as I try to form. words, my tongue scrapes up against pointy teeth. I look down at my hands, they're small, covered in black fur, and end in small dark claws. A look down at my body only reveals gray and black fur and a pair of stubby legs. Raccoon's legs. I try to cry for help again, and a strange, chittering sound comes out. My sensitive ears pick out movements in the woods. Something

takes over, causing me to turn my head toward the sound as I momentarily forget about my insane predicament. I see three men standing there in the woods. Three men I recognize with the vestiges of my human brain. Mark, Jason, and Dan, all dressed in their hunting outfits, all carrying hunting rifles. They're looking at me, curious. A growling bark comes out of my throat, and I charge toward them, unable to stop the animal instinct that carries me along. I run on all fours, my small legs pumping as I rush toward the three men. Dan raises his rifle and fires at me. The bullet smashes through my spine and eviscerates me as it plows through my small body.

I come to rest, much like the wolf did when I shot it. Not 15 minutes ago, the life fades for me. I suddenly realized what was familiar about the strange noises the wolf made. It was the word help, said underneath the hacking. cough in a whining tone. Hell. I remember the other rifle propped in the cabin's bedroom,

the puddle of vomit, blood, and excess tissue. There must have been a wolfskin coat in the cabin, and another hunter who put it on. Who? I hear Dan say as he lowers his rifle. You ever see a raccoon that big? A one that charges you like that?

No, that was weird, Mark says. Probably as a little. rabies. Jason says, wow, check it out. Mark says, there's a cabin over there. Let's check it out, Dan says. Maybe Rick's in there. If not, he probably heard the shot. He should be around here somewhere. I want to warn them, to tell them to stay away from the cabin, but I can't. The forest around me dims as numbness becomes all. Then, nothing. of seven articles of fur clothing found inside a cabin in the Adirondack Mountains.

These articles are as follows. One mink fur coat. One raccoon fur coat. One raccoon fur coat. One squirrel fur coat. One saber fur coat. One pair of rabbit-skin mittens. One pair of elk-skin shoes. Donning any article of SCP-801 begins a rapid change in the wearer. Subject begins by doubling over in pain, internal changes start. The subject soon loses both coherent speech and the ability to stand upright. Subject's vocalizations begin to become less human and more animal as external changes become apparent according to which article of clothing is worn. After a few minutes, the subject will begin prodigious vomiting, apparently shedding excess mass and tissue unneeded for the new form. After five minutes, the subject will appear

fully changed to their new form. All subjects thus far have shown extreme and relentless aggression and resistance to pain once in their animal state.