The SCP Experience - The Gift of Purpose | SCP-925

Episode Date: February 28, 2022

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-925: The Gift of Purpose 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-925, 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

It's something else here now. Something new. From. Exclusively on Paramount Plus. It's the series Stephen King calls Scary as Hell. Everything here is impossible, but it's also real. Sci-fi Vision calls it the best show streaming right now. We're running out of time and we still don't know the rules.

Don't miss what the movie blog calls something you need to watch. Saving those children is how we all go home. From binge all episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. I was sitting at my desk, facing the window in my upstairs office, when I saw a group of people walk by on the dirt road at the end of my short gravel driveway. All four members of the Danver family from down the street were there. I also recognized Sherida and Saul from the house at the end of our cul-de-sac. There were five other people whose names I didn't know.

I had only been living in the neighborhood for a few months. I had moved here because it was tucked away in the woods, a good 20 miles from Colorado Springs. The houses, each built on lots an acre or larger, sat under pine trees whose tips swayed together in the breeze. It was a quiet neighborhood, which was exactly what I wanted. And the months leading up to these strange occurrences were uneventful. I got plenty of work done in my home office overlooking my front yard and driveway. But the feeling that impelled itself on me as I watched that group pass by was not a good one. The man leading them, a man I'd never seen around the neighborhood, wasn't special by any means.

He wore brown slacks and a short-sleeve button-up shirt of a slightly larger shade of brown. He walked casually, but with purpose, and he walked ahead of everyone else in the group, the members of which stared at the back of his head with rapt attention, as if expecting his head to twist impossibly around and look at them. I watched them with growing curiosity until they were lost to sight, hidden behind the trees that populated my yard. It was late in the afternoon, and I'd been having difficulty folks. focusing on my writing, so I worked at my desk for several more hours to make up for lost time.

I kept expecting the members of the group to come back down the road at some point, perhaps altogether or in little clumps, but they never did. The late summer sun set. Although the official sunset time was around 8 o'clock, it got dark in the neighborhood closer to 7.30, thanks to the reaching trees that created a false horizon. The feeling of wrongness stayed with me as I quit for the day and went downstairs to eat dinner. There were three sodium lights on wooden poles along the street, providing some level of illumination on the dirt road. I ate my dinner with my kitchen shades open, looking out at the poorly lighted road, waiting expectantly. When nine o'clock rolled around, and I still hadn't seen

anyone come back. I decided that I'd missed them. Maybe then I'd been in the bathroom, or busy with dinner preparations. The children in the Danver family, 10 and 13, had to be home and in bed by 9 on school nights, which this was. I knew this because I had hired the kids to do some yard work a week ago. Their parents had told me they could only work until 7.30 on that Wednesday night, as school had just started up again, and the children needed time to eat before their nine o'clock bedtime. I walked down to the Danver house and knocked on their door. There was no answer. The house was dark, and their golden retriever was out in the yard, watching me closely and wagging her tail slowly. I left, that bad feeling expanding in my chest. The next morning I went and then

knocked on their door again. No answer. Their dog, Missy, was still out in the yard, and she whined when she saw me. I opened their side gate and grabbed her collar, taking her back to my house and giving her some of my leftovers from the night before. I then walked back down and left a note on their door, telling them that I had Missy. I received no answer at Sherita and Saul's house either. I knew something was wrong. I also knew that, despite what movies and TV shows suggest, you don't have to wait any amount of time to report someone missing. So I did, calling the police and giving them as much information as I could, detailing what I saw the previous day. An officer came out about an hour after my call and talked to me. He also went and checked both houses,

house as I knew to be empty. Then he talked to the neighbors who were home, but they didn't see anything. I'll drive around a little bit. If they left on foot, maybe they're still around, the officer said. But if you see anything else, call us immediately. I nodded, knowing that things like this rarely ended well. I should have followed them, I thought. I knew something was wrong right away, and I did nothing. Three days passed with no news and no sign of anyone. Missy was making herself at home in my house, and I'd gone out to buy food, treats, and two bowls for her.

Then, as I sat at my desk, unable to focus on my work, I saw the man again, the two normal one, dressed in brown. He walked up the road again, this time with three more of my neighbors in his wake. I knew the couple and their teenage daughter following him only by sight. I'd never officially met them. As with the others, they stared at the man like he was their savior, following him up the road. I immediately called the police, and they told me they would send someone out, but I knew how long that would take.

They would be long gone by the time an officer made it out. As soon as the small group passed my driveway, I ran outside. and followed along, sticking to the trees and bushes in front yards. The man in brown came to the paved cross street that fed our cul-de-sac and crossed it, heading into the woods there. The three followed him without a word. I knew there were acres of undeveloped wilderness there. My curiosity grew, and so did the sense of foreboding I'd been living with for four days.

Following at a safe distance, I managed to track them for what must have been over a mile. They stopped at a clearing, and I noticed the large mounds of dirt placed around the area. Three shovels leaned against one of these mounds. The man spoke words to the three family members I could not hear. Each member picked up a shovel and disappeared behind the mound. I was too far away to see for sure, but the presence of all that dirt could mean only one thing. They were digging a hole or a cavern. What the hell is going on here, I thought.

I saw no evidence of any other people there. Soon enough, the man dressed in brown disappeared behind the mound, apparently following the others in whatever hole they'd constructed. If I'd been a stronger man, a braver man, I might have moved closer, trying to get a glimpse of what was there. But I wasn't, and I didn't. Instead, I headed back to my house to wait for the police, hoping I hadn't missed them. By the time I got home, I only had to wait about ten minutes before two uniformed officers showed up. They're out in the woods.

I told them. They're digging some sort of hole. Somehow, he's recruiting them to do his work. I don't know how or why. Did you see any of the people you reported missing? The officer whose name tag said, Pallard, asked me. No. I only saw him with another family.

A mom, a dad, and a daughter. I don't know their names. Okay, Mr. Finley. The other officer, Marquez, said, Why don't you take us out there now? I led them through the forest and stopped in the tree line away from the clearing. See? I said. They're digging some kind of hole. As we stood there, watching, my neighbor Saul appeared from behind a dirt pile with a wheelbarrow.

He upended the tool, adding more dirt to one of the mounds. He looked sickly like he'd lost weight. Even from a distance, his face looked haggard and worn beyond. his years. That's one of the people I reported, I said. Saul, he lives at the end of our cul-de-sac with his wife, who also went missing. The officers looked at each other, then back at the clearing. And you said this man wasn't ever armed when you saw him, the leader? Palard asked. No, not that I saw, I said. Okay, we'll get to the bottom of this, Palard said. The two officers walked out into the clearing. Their hands,

resting on their pistols. Sir, Marquez called out, catching Saul's attention. Saul looked up briefly, then returned his attention on the wheelbarrow, heading back toward where the hole must have been. I watched as the officers made their way cautiously toward the hole. Then I lost sight of them. I sat in the trees for a long time, waiting for the officers to come back. After an hour passed, I decided I'd have to do something drastic.

I searched around, finding a stick I could use as a bludgeon. Then I crept forward toward the mounds of dirt. As I approached, Saul came out again with another wheelbarrow full of dirt to dump. Saul, I said in a strange whisper as he dumped the barrow. He looked up at me, but I saw no recognition in his eyes. Up close, I could see that he had lost a significant amount of weight. His clothes hung off him, where they had been once filled out. He was stained with dirt smudges all over.

The skin of his hands and arms was a different color than the rest of his body. So what are you doing? I said, moving up to him and gripping his arm. He dropped the wheelbarrow handles and yanked his arm away, the movement revealing how weak he really was. Then he looked at me and mumbled something about having a purpose. He bent down to lift the empty wheelbarrow, but he fell forward, face-planting into the tool, which tipped over onto its side, spilling him to the ground.

He looked up to the sky with bloodshot eyes and tried to raise himself, but could not. His eyes closed as I stared down at him, unsure what to do. Looking over to the hole, I knew I had to go in. The hole had been dug at an angle, creating a kind of round. down into the earth. The ramp was packed hard from footsteps. I could see the tracks the wheelbarrow's single tire had left behind. I made my way down, my stick held in both hands like a baseball bat, resting on my shoulder. There were little electric lanterns placed on the floor of the tunnel, which leveled out, perhaps eight feet under the surface of the ground. I could hear the scraping

of shovels from somewhere ahead as I passed a small cavern on the right. I retrieved a lantern and looked inside to see hundreds of mushrooms growing from the rich loam on the ground. The dirt looked different, and I assumed it must have been fertilized. I passed two more little caverns, the first of which was filled with more mushrooms. The other was only half-filled. The footsteps left behind in the dirt suggested that someone had harvested the other half recently. I kept going. The sounds of shoveling increasing. Turning a corner, I saw the largest cavern yet. The man in Brown stood with his back to me not far ahead, watching as eight other people worked,

expanding the walls. I saw the two policemen, one of which was shoveling dirt into a wheelbarrow. The other was working on excavating a large rock from the wall. I saw the two Denver parents, Mark and Heather, they looked emaciated like walking skeletons. I saw the three family members whose names I did not know. They, along with the policemen, were the freshest, and they worked with a vigor none of the others possessed. As one of the police officers, Marquez, accidentally bumped a lantern, the light changed, illuminating something I had not seen before,

the figure of a little body. It was one of the Danver children, the 10-year-old Lucas. He was clearly dead, half covered in dirt, his open eyes staring up at the dirt ceiling. Marquez, stepping to retrieve the lantern, stumbled over the boy's body. This caught the man in Brown's attention. You, he said, pointing at Marquez. His voice was low and slow, sounding like a drug addict at the peak of his eye.

Chop that boy up. We'll use him as fertilizer like the others. Just use your shovel. The words filled me with a sudden rage, overcoming my confusion and shock in an instant. Memories of the happy boy Lucas had been flashed through my head. The fact that I hadn't known him well didn't matter. This callous disregard for his life, for all their lives, filled me with purpose. I stepped behind the man in Brown and swung my club at him as hard as I could, striking him in the side of the head. His head split open with the blow, the seemingly soft flesh tearing apart much easier than it should have.

Instead of blood pouring out, a small cloud of white spores erupted from the wound. I pulled the stick away, looking at his damaged head unbreathing, unbelieving. Under the appearance of normal flesh was a kind of spongy fiber that was a little bit of looked just like, yes, that was it. It looked just like the inside of a mushroom. The man in Brown turned and looked at me with the one eye I hadn't damaged with the blow. Get him. He said as best he could with one side of his mouth torn open. Pallard, one of the police officers, pulled his gun and shot me through the lower abdomen. My legs stopped working, and I crumpled to the ground. The others advanced on me. Shovels held over their shoulders.

and blank looks on their faces. Wait, the man in Brown said, putting a hand up. The others stopped in unison. The man leaned down next to me, placing his hand on my arm. Better to die with a purpose, he said, as if I should understand what he meant. But after a few seconds of contact, I started getting an idea of what having a purpose felt like,

a real purpose. The man changed in my mind from someone to be feared and hated to someone that had answers. Maybe not all of them, but he certainly couldn't be blamed for that. He kept his hand on my arm for several minutes, and by the time he withdrew his touch, I had forgotten all the anger I'd felt toward him just minutes before. I stared up at him in awe, not caring a bit about his damaged and twisted head. I knew what purpose was. I knew what I had to do.

And it was important. Without a doubt, the most important thing I'd ever done in my life. I smiled up at him and nodded. Then I crawled into the large dirt room, dragging my paralyzed legs, leaving a trail of blood behind me. I made it to a wall, shoving Lucas's body out of the way so I could work. I dug with my hands until I could dig no more. It didn't take long. The life drained out of me,

but the sense of purpose stayed fixed in my mind. And as I reluctantly greeted death, my only regret was that I wasn't able to keep digging. Instances of SCP 925, of which there are currently 13 known, resembles humans of both the male and female sexes. When an SCP 925 specimen makes physical contact with a human, the victim will become more sympathetic to the specimen. If physical contact is maintained for more than three to five minutes, the affected human will become completely devoted to the specimen. Once a specimen has gathered between 10 and 30 followers, it will lead them to a distant, secluded area.

Any attempt to interact with or stop the group will be met with violence. Once the group has arrived, the followers will begin digging downwards, starting with a tunnel and gradually widening it out into a cavern as the group digs deeper. Once the cavern is finished, the followers will search the nearby area for materials to use as fertilizer, then grow mushrooms in the cavern, eating as little as possible to stay alive. Followers who die due to exhaustion and malnutrition will also be used as fertilizer. SCP 925 will gorge itself on mushrooms whenever a crop is ready for harvest. Once most of the followers have been worked to death, the specimen will leave the cavern,

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