The SCP Experience - The Little Monster | SCP-053

Episode Date: April 10, 2023

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-053: The Little Monster  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-053 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

Lazang sur-gillet, and thence-molyne for 15 minutes. Oh, we're like it's the hour Dojo? Prere to play? Vive the pleasure

with Leo Jo. The casino in-line that proposes the most recent machines to and games to get to Bacus Bonanza.

Without the exigance of misgance and with the payments instantane. Hey! I've gained! Woohoo!

Sentire the pleasure Playo Joe! 18 years, 1,000, 1Pos only depots only depots only $112 $1B1B1Nza,

depop minimum of $10 DeVosos $0. Veye to pay to a responsibility 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 comes with 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. It's a bullshit call, Greer says, setting the walkie-talkie back onto the dashboard. 100%. I'll bet you breakfast on it. I wonder if she's saying it for my benefit. Police work is never easy, not even during the best of circumstances. You're never prepared for it.

Not even after finishing college and the academy. At least, I sure as hell wasn't. But after my first three years on the job, I managed to get a handle on it. but it was a lot easier before I got married. As a cop, you learn early on that there's always a possibility that your next call might be your last. Not even a decade on the force, and I've already lost friends in the line of duty. Still, that possibility was easier to accept

when I was in my early 20s, in the prime of my life, with just myself to take care of. It got harder after I got married, though, and even harder after we had a little girl. Sure, most cops live long enough to see retirement, the vast majority as a matter of fact, and even the safest occupations have risks. Even librarians can get sideswiped by an asshole running a red light, and yet somehow, I can't forget that statistically, the odds for death are greater in my profession than most.

The possibility that I might not be around to see my daughter grow up has loomed over my head since she was born. Greer has been my partner since I've been on the force. She's built for the job and nothing else. She's never had a girlfriend that's lasted longer than a weekend. She probably would have made detective by now, but she hates being cooped up behind a desk. She's told me on more than one occasion that she's going to work until she's too old and not scary enough for the brass to tell her differently. It's a dedication to the job that I respect, simple, and it's single, mindedness. It's also her dedication that makes me question or comment. Things have changed since coming back from paternity leave. Greer's great at reading people. I've seen perps break down

and confess just from a raised eyebrow and a well-placed cynical question. Even though I've never mentioned my fears to her, I feel like she knows. I'm worried, she thinks I've gone soft, that I'm not cut out for life on the streets anymore. My suspicions retreat to the back of my mind as she switches on the red and blue lights atop our car and speeds through the next traffic light. Raising myself against the side of the door, I resist the urge to grab the oh shit bars. Part of me thinks that Greer only became a cop so she could drive as recklessly as she wanted. It's a joke that she still finds hilarious. We pull up into the quiet suburbs where the 911 call originated.

The place looks like a mix between a Fourth of July block party and a war zone. Red, white, and blue decorations littered the several blocks of cookie cutter homes. One banner manages to still swing defiantly in the breeze amongst the carnage. The rest of the decorations have been torn apart and scattered amongst them are bodies. The streets are filled with them, and as far as we can see, corpses fill the road and the yards. Greer puts the car into park, but keeps the lights flashing. The distress call had reported absolute chaos, people running around, attacking each other, killing and maiming.

The dispatcher had cautioned the caller to stay in his house, but he said he had family attending the party. He couldn't leave them alone. Then the call cut off abruptly with a scream. That's why we were so sure the call was bogus. Our city has never been the victim of a terrorist attack or mass shooting, but law enforcement forever changed after 9-11. We all went through courses on what to expect during a mass attack.

The phone circuits get jammed with so many calls. If what the caller described was true, there should have been more than one person reporting it. We were wrong. Okay. The smile is gone from Greer's face, replaced with fierce determination despite her bleak human. I owe you an egg McMuffin.

We hop out of the car weapons drawn and head toward the first cluster of bodies. Kneeling, I reach for the neck and check for a pulse. Nothing. The body is already cool, the same as the night air. Greer flicks on her flashlight and whistles low, glancing the beam over the bodies. Danvers, what do you make of this? Panic tingles in the back of my mind, but I see. smother down the desire to flee and focus on Greer's question.

I take a closer look at the bodies, trying not to lose the contents of my stomach. There's little the victims have in common. They're all different races and ages. The eldest being about 70, and the youngest being, oh, good God, this boy can't be more than four. He's far from the only small frame scattered across the death-filled streets. Another deep breath. Another exhalation. The faint stench of death lingers in the air, combined with the burning smell of unattended barbecues. I shake my head, forcing myself to look at the bodies again

when I finally see what Greer noticed. A lot of the bodies are in a similar state. Most of them collapsed on the ground without a mark on them. A few older men gripping their left arms. Some of the bodies look like they've been torn apart. Arms and legs wrenched from sockets. Faces bashed in, a few frantic but deep cuts gorged into their torsos. Never seen anything like this, Greer mutters.

Her aloof tone nearly as terrifying as the parade of bodies. A chemical weapon attack, maybe? I suddenly feel exposed, breathing in the night air. Something to induce cardiac arrest? That would certainly explain some of these bodies. The rest, though. Greer works her jaw up and down as if she's mulling over my suggestion. She reaches for the radio clipped at her shoulder.

This is Car 94, confirming the distress call. This is a mass casualty event. All available units respond. Better get the feds on the horn, too. This looks like it's going to be a long one. A rustling sound cuts off, dispatches response. Greer and I unholster our sidearms. The sound is coming from one of the nearby yards, concealed by a privacy fence.

Greer and I both take a side of the door that opens to the other side. She gently pushes it. It swings open, and with a nod, we step into the backyard with our guns raised. Holy shit! It takes a lot to break Greer from police mode. Whatever happened, it looks like it started here. Dozens of bodies are strewn across the well-kept yard. Unlike outside the yard, only a few look like they died peacefully.

Most of the bodies have been hacked apart, some missing limbs and eyes gouged out. The ground is so thick with blood that it makes a red mud that squishes with every step. Violent sounds snap our attention away from the bodies. There are three people locked in a struggle. A couple of teenagers with baseball bats take out the knees of one man. He struggles, swinging his fists wildly at them, blood coating his face. Police! Greer shouts.

Freeze! The man's skull cracks open with the last swing that finally brings him to the ground. Each bat rises and falls, filling the air with the snaps of freshly broken bones. If we don't act now, they're going to kill him. With no other choice, I'd line up my shot and open fire. Greer opens fire as well. The shots ringing in my ears. Our shots hit center mass, and both teenagers drop to the ground, unmoving.

Regret fills me. my heart, and I swallow the gorge working its way up my throat. That's one thing people don't understand about self-defense unless they have the proper training. Shooting to wound sounds like a great idea in practice, but it's entirely impractical. The only way to do that is to aim for the arms or legs, which are small targets and nearly impossible to hit on a moving target. When a cop draws his gun, it's only with the intent to use it. And unfortunately, The broadest target on anybody is their chest, which means we shoot to kill. We holster our weapons and rush forward to check on the teenagers.

Our shots were accurate. There's no pulse on mine. A shake from Greer's head tells me the same as true for her. She reaches for her radio, but the man on the ground stirs before she can talk. We rush over to him, but he claws his broken fingers into the ground despite his injuries, trying to drag himself forward. A wheezing comes from his mouth, and it takes me a while to hear his words.

Too! He wheezes, and pulls himself forward. I have to kill the monster. He only makes it another inch before his body convulses. His mangled hand dangles to his chest, his mouth hanging open, unable to form any other words. No, God damn it, no! Creer bends down and rips open his shirt.

She rapidly moves her hands down on his chest, then brings her mouth down over his. Swearing, she rises and repeats the motion. Another scream of rage and a clattering of overturned patio furniture snaps my head around. A lone man is tearing up the remains of the decorations. He's flipping over tables before hefting up a metal fold-out chair. He brings it up and takes a practice swing before grinning maniacly and slamming it into a nearby pile of bodies.

Shit! Greer swears. Her eyes moving toward the dying man and then darting toward the new suspect. You stay with him. I reached for my taser this time, hoping to have at least one survivor make it out of this mess. I'll take care of him.

Greer nods and goes back to performing CPR while I approach the man. Based on everyone else's behavior, I thought he would charge right at me. Instead, he bashes the chair into the chair into the next group of bodies with another wet thud. Suddenly, there's a flash of color, a bright summer dress, and then running feet.

A little girl leaps up from the pile of bodies, driven from her hiding spot. Laughing, the man goes after her, and it takes me a while to realize it's the girl he's after. I charged the suspect, shoving my shoulder into him hard. It knocks him off balance, and he bounces off the fence's wall while the girl scurries under one of the few remaining upturned patio

tables. As he climbs to his feet, I get my first good look at him. He's a burly man in his 40s, bald-headed with a neatly trimmed beard. His shoulders are so broad that he must have been an athlete at some point before relocating to the suburbs. Again, the man looks through me, eyes sharpening on the table where the girl is hiding. Without hesitation, I jump between them. Drop it, buddy. I raise my taser. Drop it or I'll drop you. If I have to go through you to get that little monster, I'll fucking do it. He charges forward, chair raised.

I wait until he closes the distance. Then I squeeze the trigger on the taser. I barely see the two coils unleashed from the weapon until they dig into the man's chest. His body jerks and convulses, tongue lulling out from his mouth before his teeth sink down. The soft flesh is severed, and blood pours from his mouth before he drops to the ground. Fuck! I swear it rushed to him, forcing his head to the side and his mouth open, so he doesn't choke on his own blood. That's all I have time to do. He may be sick or deranged, but I have little sympathy for anyone looking to hurt a child.

I finish my minimal attempts at First Aid and make my way over to the table. I keep my pace slow and my arms at my sides. She hasn't run yet, so I hunker down and lift the Fourth of July tablecloth. I see her for the first time. She reminds me of my little girl, all pig tails and a white summer dress, stained with blood, but leaving the yellow embroidered flowers still visible. I offer her the best smile I can as I reach a hand toward her. Hey, sweetie, it's okay. You're safe now. She refuses to take my hand, so I try again.

It's okay. We're not going to let anyone hurt you, not any. There's something wrong with the child. I expected her to be all tears and snot, or shocked and withdrawn. But she's not either of those things. She looks at me blankly, unimpressed and unfazed by what's happening, like a kid zoned out while watching YouTube. How could I ever mistake this thing for my daughter? There's a dark and menacing aura permeating throughout her.

No, not dark. Evil. She's responsible for all this. I know it. The fucking little monster. With a yell of rage, I reach out and grip it roughly by the shoulder. I can't let it live.

I can't let it get outside and do this all over again. My wife, my daughter, she'll kill them both if given a chance. I draw my gun and put it to the monster's head. Christ, Danvers! The voice causes me to pause. And I look up at Greer, pointing her gun at me. What the fuck are you doing?

What needs to be done? I scream. Look at her, Greer. She did this. She did all of it. She's a fucking monster. Danvers, put the... The rest of Greer's words trail off as she locks eyes with the girl.

Slowly, she sees what I see and nods. She adjusts her aim to point at the girl, not me. I got your back, partner. How could I ever suspect Greer of doubting me? Notting, I put my finger on the trigger. But before I can squeeze, A sharp pain pierces through my chest. My arm goes numb while my heart erupts in fire.

Both me and my gun drop beside the girl. My vision blurs, but I can just make out Greer. I might be dying, but I can always count on Greer. She steadies her aim, but as she does, one side of her face slackens. Her arm drops to her side before her body collapses. No. I hear Greer's words as the darkness closes in around me. We have to kill the little monster.

SCP 53 appears to be a small, three-year-old girl. She is capable of basic speech and appears to be slightly above average in mental development. She has a generally pleasant personality and rarely seems upset, becoming agitated only in the presence of groups of people. Any and all humans over the age of three who make eye contact with, physically touch or remain around SCP 53 for longer than 10 minutes, will rapidly become irrational, paranoid, and homicidal. Most, if not all, of these feelings will be directed at SCP 53,

and afflicted subjects will attempt to kill SCP 53 after first killing or driving off all humans visible to them. Those attempting to kill SCP 53 will suffer massive heart attacks or seizures and die seconds after doing any physical damage to SCP-53. SCP-53 will regenerate almost instantaneously from any wound, regardless of severity. SCP-53 appears wholly ignorant of these effects, and ignores any and all subjects affected. When questioned about the effect, SCP-53 is incapable of response.