The SCP Experience - The Hoarder's Son | SCP-2328

Episode Date: May 6, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-2328: The Hoarder's Son This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2328 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt D. * * * 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 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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The black coffee sitting halfway down the white mug had started to leave a ring around the inside that lingered whenever Stephen picked it up and tilted it one way or the other. He had not sipped from it in the past half hour. ever since the appointment time for his meeting with his father's social worker had come and gone. He kept glancing between his phone and the diner's analog clock, as if somehow the split second in between would reveal some sort of discrepancy that he had missed.

He had even texted the social worker and called the office, but it was a dead end both ways. The diner's front door swung open, knocking the side of the scuffed bell that dangled just above the top corner. Stevens' head came up and he finally set eyes on the red-faced, beetle-shaped man, who had been juggling his father's case for the past three years. The caseworker went up to the bar and muttered something to the waitress while shuffling some vanilla folders around in his hands. She pointed towards Stephen's table, and the caseworker's exhausted eyes followed the line of her finger.

Stephen raised his cold coffee cup in a half-hearted greeting. The caseworker shuffled over to the table, snobbed. snorting and rubbing his nose before holding out his hand. Stephen didn't take it. Instead, he just smiled and waited for the man to get settled. Sorry to keep you waiting, the caseworker muttered. It's been a busy day. Had a client, well, I know you don't care. I had a client with seven kids and a car repossession, but no liquid assets. Had them absolutely up the creek without a paddle, and I slogged through 12 layers of mud to dig them out of it.

All in a day's work, am I right? How is the coffee here? Tolerable, Stephen said. And it's all right. We can do this another day. I don't have another day this week, unfortunately. But your father's case is pretty straightforward. The caseworker spread his manila envelopes out in front of him, like a fortune teller's cards, and pulled one out of the middle.

Sorry to hear that you had to move him into that nursing home. That sucks. It really does. Had to put my mother in a nursing home. Awful place. She had three UTIs a month. That's what they say killed her. Stephen grimaced at the mental imagery. It wasn't my first choice, he said.

But the house was getting to be unlivable. Oh, for sure. The caseworker snorted and rubbed his nose again. Sorry, bit of a cold. Your dad was climbing over piles of shit just to get to his bed. And it was just a tiny mattress in the middle of the room. room, completely bare, flattest, most yellow pillows you ever saw in your life. Good thing you extracted him when you did.

I think he would have died there otherwise. Truly, Stephen agreed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed the corners of his eyes. I had no idea it was that bad. My siblings never said a word. Not surprised. The caseworker opened up a file and slidded across the table. This is what the county says about your dad's house.

and what needs to be done if you're trying to resell it. Now, if you can sign it over to the county, you don't really make anything off it. But you don't have to pay for all that garbage to be hauled out either. These are the fines he's collected from all the shit in his yard the past ten years. I know it's a lot. Are you following me? The beetle man squinted. You look overwhelmed, guy.

I'll let you catch your breath. I'm fine, Stephen said. He picked up the file and began to do that. began to flip through the papers that were stapled to the folder. It's just a lot. I've only been in town for about two weeks. But now that my dad is settled in the nursing home, I'd like to have the property inspected before I decide what to do.

Oof! The caseworker sniffled. Well, let me tell you, that is going to be expensive. I am aware, Stephen said. I intend to stop by today and take a look at it myself. I have someone coming out to get it professionally evaluation. waited on Thursday. Well, keep me in the loop, the caseworker said.

If you need any reports pulled, I can do that. But believe me when I say that no matter what, these fines aren't going to go away. The county is going to get their money. So think about that. When you're looking at the mountains of garbage and weighing whether or not it's worth it. I appreciate all your help, Stephen said. He was already tired of the man, and he was annoyed enough that he had been kept waiting for almost 45 minutes for a meeting that had been less than 10.

I'll call you Thursday. Make it Friday, the caseworker said. Actually, scratch that. Make it Monday. I'll talk to you then. Monday it is. Stephen pushed his cold coffee cup towards the edge of the table for easy cleanup. Talk to you then. The house was in a much worse condition than Stephen realized. When he had visited for Christmas five years ago,

he could have sworn that it had not been nearly this bad. And he had been too busy the past few weeks running his father back and forth to doctor's appointments, transferring funds, and getting him settled into the new place. Stephen had not even gone inside. His father wouldn't allow it. Al always met him on the porch, bent over his walker with his shaking head swinging from side to side. He always twisted around and raised one arm solemnly, as if he was saying goodbye to someone within the house right before he left.

Of course, he cared about that place. Stephen's mother had lived her whole married life there, but it wasn't suitable for people anymore. The yard was just the tip of the iceberg. It wasn't just cars either. Cars would have made sense. There were a few scattered around, nestled deep into trees and overgrown weeds that curled around dry-rodded tires, and busted their way through rusted engine hoods. Even more so, though, were random collections of objects. Two deflated plastic swimming pools, a stack of concrete blocks, half-painted wooden chair frames with the upholstery ripped out, overturned garbage cans, broken planners, mattresses with jutting steel springs and more. It went on and on. An entire half-acre of land covered in absolute crap. Stephen made it all the way up to the door without tripping on anything and could barely get the damn thing open.

His key turned, but the door itself stuck. He threw his shoulder against it, and he heard something scrape across the floor on the other side. A rat ran out and across the top of his foot, but he kept going. The scraping on the other side sounded like a mountain of papers or cardboard that was being shoved across the wood flooring. Finally, Stephen managed to get a wide enough space for himself to slide through. The house was dark. All the windows were blocked by the teetering mountains of stuff, and no sunlight. could sneak its way through.

The rank stench of urine and mold smacked him in the face, and as soon as he took his first deep breath, Stephen weezed. He pulled a flimsy mask out of his pocket and looped the strings around his ears, but it did not do much to help. He coughed into the fibers and kept going. One hand out to brace his fall if he went tumbling, while the other arm stuck out to help him maintain his balance. He could not even see the floor.

The little bits of exposed wood that managed to peek through were covered in dark gunk. It looked like a mixture of feces and soda that had been spilled a long time ago. Everything smelled like sour milk. Stephen coughed and tried to remember which way he had to go to get into the kitchen. With so much garbage piled up around him, it was hard to follow the childhood floor plan in his head. He might as well have been on an alien planet. The couch and chairs that did exist were buried underneath boxes and piles of water-damaged books. Raggedy stuffed animals and cracked china dolls from his mother's final years

leered up at him from the corners they had been stuffed into. Every step crunched or skid, and there were several instances where he lost his balance. Stephen finally made it to the kitchen, and the smell alone was almost enough to make him throw up. It was completely smeared in food waste, some of it so far gone and rotten that it was black as tar and adhered to whatever surface it had been stuck on. Whatever was not dried and dark was white, green, and fuzzy. It stuck up from the rotting wooden surfaces like moss on a forest log.

The floor sank and squelched when he took another step. Gray water bubbled up between the cracks and the wooden floorboards that dipped when he drove his toe downward. From that alone, he knew that the foundation was fucked. The house probably wasn't even worth cleaning up and flipping. It would be better to burn it all and try to collect on the insurance. The thought was only fleeting. Illegal, maybe, but he wasn't above it.

Stephen turned around to try and find his way out of the kitchen. He had seen enough. He was going to cancel the inspection and call back the social worker and then go home and take a really hot shower to burn the mold spores off his skin. Something crunched in the hallway just outside of the kitchen. an entrance. Stephen paused, balancing on one heel while the other rested on top of a pile of discarded water bottles. It could have been a rat, easily, or a stray cat. There was no telling what else was trapped in this house.

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he wanted to do was step on a living creature. The shuffling and crunching continued. Whatever it was, it was definitely bigger than a cat. Stephen pulled his jacket sleeve down over his hand and used it as a barrier between him and the doorframe as he gripped it to keep his balance. Hey! He kicked a pile of trash in front of him, hoping to scare the animal away. Hey, go on. Get out of here. Watch your step. A new voice said.

Even as it spoke, Stephen nearly went tumbling. He caught himself on a bookshelf, and the fact that it was anchored to the wall was his only saving grace. Shit! His head came up. He caught a glimpse of green play. plastic, while a person wearing a containment suit stepped into his line of vision. They were covered from head to toe with a mask over their face, and the only features he could make out were a glimpse of skin and two unsettlingly bright eyes that just stared at him.

Stephen regained his balance and wiped his hands off on his jeans. He wanted to wrap his clothes up in a plastic trash bag and throw them away. Maybe he would, or maybe he would burn them. Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry, you scared me, he said to the the man in front of him. Once he was standing up straight, he took another look. There was no label on the man's clothing, and nothing equipment-wise he could identify, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. The green plastic was smeared in filth, so it was probably safe to assume that the guy had been there for a while. I, this is my dad's house, Stephen said. Are you doing the inspection? I didn't think that you guys were coming out until Thursday. The man just stared at him for

second longer and then blinked. It seemed like he did so in slow motion, and then he turned his head and began to pick his way again through the trash. Watch your step, he said again. And in the exact intonation as he had before, Stephen furrowed his brow and followed him. Well, I was going to call you, Stephen kept talking as he went. But since you're here, I might as well get your opinion. I think you are going to agree with me that this house is way beyond saving, and I am the last person who wants to see it get torn down. But I don't think there is anything that can be done about these floors. It was really squishy in the kitchen and... The man wasn't paying any attention to him. He kept walking through the piles, as if it were second nature to him.

Everywhere Stephen tripped and stumbled, this guy seemed to be climbing with ease. Stephen couldn't even tell how far into the house they had gone. It wasn't an enormous place by any means, but it was big enough, and he didn't want to end up getting lost. Besides, the mold and the urine smells were getting to him. He was already lightheaded, and his breakfast was sloshing around dangerously in his stomach. He chalked up his uneasiness to the fact that the entrances were getting narrower, as the walls seemed to close in around them, but it was just a lot of. Just more and more towering piles of junk.

Maybe we can talk about this outside? Stephen asked. I'm sure it would be easier. The man didn't even look behind him. Stephen's frustration climbed, and he struggled to catch up. The man was several steps ahead, and Stephen tried to close the distance without skidding on dried turds or sloppy piles of old, moldy food.

Hey, look, Stephen finally managed a few more steps. Can you even hear me? The man paused and turned to face him at last. Those bright green eyes that matched his suit seemed to burrow their way right through Stephen's skull. Watch your step, the man repeated, then said, Don't mind me, make yourself at home. At home?

Stephen was already writing the review in his head. So far, this inspector had been nothing but completely unprofessional, and he was going to make sure that someone in charge heard about it. The man nodded. Don't mind me. Make yourself at home. Find a seat where you can. He continued to step over the piles. Dad will be back soon. Confusion flared up quickly into anger, which was enough to push Stephen over the last few heaps that separated them.

Hey, look, are you making fun of me? His hot words squeezed out through his clenched teeth. Because that is not going to fly. Not at all. This is beyond unprofessional. And if you don't think I will call the office right now. He reached out and grabbed the man's arm. The green plastic crinkled underneath his fingers, but then the whole arm caved in. It was not like human flesh at all. It was like grabbing a trash bag and feeling all the lumps of garbage underneath. Stephen recoiled, shaking his hand as if he had just slammed it against a hot burner. The man just looked at him, his eyes as bright

as a cat's in the darkness. A long, uncomfortable pause settled between them. Watch your step, the man said again. Fuck you! Stephen grabbed him again. This time, his hand slid down that plastic green arm as if it had been greased. He made one last desperate grab at the man's latex glove, and he came right off. Not just the glove, though. It was the entire hand.

The glove itself was filled with what looked like old, rotten leafy vegetables, and it smelled like wet spinach that had expired in the fridge. From the stump had left behind, the sleeve. stuck out, and Stephen could see glimpses of bright blue and yellow plastic, as well as broken splinters of wood that looked like they had been shoved up there. The man just blinked. The glove coming off had not even hurt him. His arm was not flesh and blood, but just padded with trash like some abhorrent scarecrow.

Even though Stephen could not wrap his mind around how that was possible, he could see skin through the mask, he could see human eyes. As unsettling as they were, there was no way that the entire suit was filled with the same stuff that was in the glove. Realizing he was still holding the glove, Stephen dropped it quickly and disgust. He wiped his hands on his shirt and took several steps back. The man lowered his green plastic sleeve and garbage came spilling out of the hole. It did not do anything to deflate the arm, but globs of rotten food and wads of dried paper

and bits and pieces of plastic bags and bottles came tumbling out. Like a garbage can had been upended in the middle of the room. All the pieces that fell out joined a pile on the floor where it blended in perfectly, as if it had always been part of the house. Stephen clenched his stomach. He took several more steps and the man, or whatever it was, bent down to pick up its fallen glove. A hundred thoughts raced through Stephen's head, and he couldn't make sense of a single one. Had this thing been living with his dad? And if so, for how long? Everything about Al was suddenly making that much more sense. Stephen thought about the last time he picked up his dad on the porch,

right before they left for the nursing home. Al turned like he always did and waved back into the house. Now, Stephen had to wonder if he was actually waving at something. The man-shaped creature shoved its glove back against its cuff, and twisted it a bit until the glove adhered back into place. Then it turned around again and started venturing deeper into the house, stepping over the piles that cracked like carnage underneath its heavy footfalls. Watch your step! It repeated, never once changing its cadence.

Make yourself at home. Dad, we'll be back soon. SCP 2328 is a construct resembling a Caucasian male human, approximately 18 to 21 years of age and 1.8 meters in height. It appears to be dressed in a green plastic containment suit and a black gas mask, with no exposed skin, save for the portions of its face visible through its mask's eye holes. However, radiography reveals that SCP 2328's containment suit, gas mask, and facial skin are a single-fused, non-removable piece, and that the interior of SCP 2328's containment suit is filled exclusively with household refuse, such as newspapers, components of traditional kitchen

and bathroom appliances and decaying food. It contains no detectable human components, save for its visible facial skin. Despite its non-living composition, SCP 2328 is animate, sapient and capable of speech and is indistinguishable from a human to an unwitting observer.

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