The SCP Experience - The Malevolent Obsession | SCP-293

Episode Date: October 18, 2021

SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-293: The Malevolent Obsession. This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-293, 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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The Reglements of the Concourse. The Reglements of the Concourse. Mary, can you tell me when you started having these feelings about the pen? Mary and her husband Derek sat on the couch across from me in my office. It was our first meeting. It was clear to me that Mary had no interest in being here. But that was nothing new for me. Many of my patients don't think they need therapy.

It comes with the territory of being a psychiatrist. I wouldn't know until later that nothing about Mary's case was normal. Nothing was routine. If I had known, maybe I could have done something to stop, what happened. Mary gently held the cheap, black pen in her cupped hands. She made no attempt to answer my question. She didn't even move her gaze from the pen. I wasn't sure she had even heard me.

Mary? Derek said. The doctor asked you a question. Hmm? Mary said, looking up at her husband, and then me. An apologetic smile on her face. I'm sorry, Dr. Johannes. What was the question?

Please, Mary, call me Henry, I said. I asked if you could tell me when you started having these feelings about the pen. Oh, Mary said softly, still smiling, gazing back down at the writing utensil in her hands. I don't know. It seems like I've always adored this pen. In fact, it's more than just a pen, you know? I don't know how you can't see that. Mary and Derek were in their late 30s.

They were both reasonably successful and had two boys, both teenagers. They looked healthy that first visit. Although it was clear to me that Mary's obsession was wearing on Derek, he seemed to love his wife very much, and she was clearly pulling away from him. I just needed to figure out why. There's always a why. Have you spent any time away from the pen lately, Mary?

Oh, no. Why would I do that? Something could happen, and I just couldn't live with myself. It's my responsibility. Can't you understand that? Although her voice started off calm, the last four words she spoke came out as a growl. Her eyes hardening as she stared at me.

In my periphery, I could see Derek look at me with concern. But I didn't take my eyes from Mary's. I didn't change my expression, although the sudden change in her demeanor startled me. Yes, I understand that's what you feel, Mary. But I wonder if you could tell me why that pen. As I spoke, I stood up and stepped over to my desk. I retrieved an identical pen and stepped back over, kneeling in front of Mary.

I held the pen up and let her look at it. Can you tell me the difference between this pen and the one in your hands? Mary laughed, a shrill and hysterical noise that stopped abruptly shortly after it started. You're kidding, right? She asked, her voice low. You can't tell the difference? And I'm the one that needs help? That's just a bend.

This one is so much more. And if you can't see that, doctor, then I'm not sure I need to be here. Mary, I'm asking you what you think the difference is, I said. There's no right or wrong answer. I simply want to know what you think. So thank you for telling me. I paused. Unsure how far I wanted to take this.

She was already on the edge. I looked into her eyes and saw them soften a little. Can I hold it? I asked, reaching toward the pen in her hands. No! She screamed and kicked out at me, hitting me in the chest with her right foot. The hit sent me sprawling back, causing me to bang the back of my head on the arm of my chair. Mary! Derek yelled, reaching out to restrain his wife as she tried to stand up from the couch.

I wasn't sure what she would have done had Derek not restrained her, but I had a feeling she would have continued her attack. It was clear I had pushed her too far. It's all right, I said. rubbing the back of my head. I think that's enough for today. Mary, I apologize for overreaching my bounds. Mary seemed to calm down, returning her focus to the pen.

I bid them farewell and told them I'd see them in three days' time for our next session. The days passed. My thoughts returned to Mary often. Something bothered me about her case, but I couldn't put my finger on it. A few hours before our next appointment, Derek called me to tell me that Mary had been fired from her job and that she had told him she was done with therapy. It has gotten so much worse, Doctor, Derek told me over the phone. Text me your address, Derek, I said. I'll make a house call in this case. I'll be there at our

scheduled time. I looked at my watch. Just leave her B for three hours, and then I'll assess when I get there. We hung up, and I got through my next two appointments with Mary's case, always in the back of my mind. When I pulled up to their home at five that evening, a terrible sense of foreboding gripped me. The house looked normal enough from the outside, a well-cared-for two-story suburban home and a nice neighborhood, white with blue trim. But there was something there, some kind of presence. It was almost as if there were slight sound waves coming from the house. But when I stopped to listen closely, I couldn't identify anything out of the ordinary. I parked the car and walked up to the front door, briefcase in hand, and rang the doorbell.

Nothing. I knocked. Nothing. Fear crept up my spine as I banged on the door and called out to Derek and Mary. No answer. I tried the knob to see if the door was unlocked. It was. I opened the door and stepped into the entryway. Hello? I called. No answer. Only the immense silence of an empty house. Ahead of me and slightly to my left was a staircase leading up to the second floor. To the right of the staircase was a hallway leading deeper into the house.

The room to my right was a living room. I looked inside. No one there. I walked slowly down the hallway, calling out every few seconds. I saw the blood pooled on the floor in the kitchen as I grew closer. My throat grew thick as I stepped into the kitchen at the back of the house, knowing what I would see, but hoping it was all some kind of bad dream. Derek was lying on the floor near the refrigerator.

The stab wounds on his chest, legs, stomach, throat, and face were too many to count. A large pool of drying blood had spread out around him. I dropped my suitcase and gagged. The coppery smell of blood and the horrific sight caused my world to spin, my stomach to spasm. Off to my right, someone whispered. I twisted toward the sound and saw Mary sitting on the floor against cabinets in the corner of the kitchen. She held the pen in her cupped hands, whispering to the object lovingly. But something wasn't right.

I had expected to see her coated in blood, but she was clean. Not a spot of blood on her. No knife or any other weapon near her. I stepped closer to her, trying to hear what she was saying. I didn't dare speak for fear of breaking her from her trance. I didn't know what she was capable of. Two hesitant steps closer, and I could make out what she was. was saying. They tried to take it. They won't take it. They tried to take it. They won't take it.

She repeated the two sentences again and again, gazing down at her beloved pen. They? I thought. Oh God, no. The kids! I turned and ran out of the kitchen, searching through the dining room and home office on the first floor before running up the stairs to check the bedrooms. The house was silent, but I prayed that their two kids were alive. Maybe they were out with friends, or at an after-school program. The first bedroom I entered was empty. Relief flowed over me for a moment. It was clearly a teenage boy's bedroom.

It was messy, with posters on the walls, a cluttered desk, and a television with a video game system. No blood, no bodies. I entered the second upstairs bedroom and stopped cold. Just inside the doorway, face down on the floor, was another body. Stab wounds littered every visible surface on the boy's back, buttocks, and legs. The beige carpet around him was nearly black with blood, and sitting in a chair in the corner of the room was another boy, maybe 15 or 16.

A bloody knife sat on the floor between his feet. His arms were covered in drying blood, with spots on his face and clothes. He held a small object in his cupped hands. It was a rabbit's foot keychain. It had been white, but now was marred with blood. The boy was whispering to the keychain, saying, I couldn't let them take you. I couldn't.

won't. I won't ever let them take you. Then he stopped and looked up at me. You won't take it, he said. His blank eyes and the tone of his voice left no doubt as to what he would do if I did try to take the item. I stepped slowly back out of the room, the bile building in my throat. I vomited on the hallway carpet. I made my way back downstairs in a daze, noticing for the first time the little drops of blood on the stairs. My mind reeled with questions. None of this made any sense. All my training as a psychiatrist told me that things like this didn't happen, not this quickly, and not spreading from parents a child like a disease. Derek had never mentioned anything about either of his son's experiencing problems. I stepped out the front door and called

911, then sat in my car with the doors locked and windows up, unsure what else to do. The police arrived and questioned me before going into the house. It took three officers to subdue the boy because they ignored my advice to let him hold on to the keychain. I could hear the screaming and fighting from where I stood outside the home. He continued to struggle and fight as they brought him out of the house and put him in the back of a squad car. More police showed up, along with two ambulances. There were people in uniform everywhere. They brought Mary out, letting her hold on to the pen. They tried to question her, but she simply ignored them, focusing instead on her beloved pen, while the paramedics checked her for injuries.

Are you Dr. Johannes? A man said from my elbow. I turned toward him, startled. He wore a dark suit and had plain features. Yes? Are you a homicide detective? No, sir. My name is Fitzgerald.

I work for the SCP Foundation. He said, bringing a badge wallet out of his jacket pocket and showing me his ID. SCP Foundation? I asked, looking at the strange badge. What is that? Tell me about the objects, he said, ignoring my question, while putting his wallet away. A pen and a rabbit's foot keychain.

That's what you told the officers, correct? Yes, I said. Both the mother and her son are showing signs of obsessive compulsive disorder. But it's as if they just suddenly started experiencing these issues. Rapid onset of this severity is unheard of. Can't explain it. I can't, Fitzgerald said. Well, perhaps not to your satisfaction, or even mine for that matter.

Let's just say that I've seen things like this before. numerous times. What are you talking about? I asked. Our designation for whatever causes this obsession is SCP-293. We don't know the underlying cause, although some claim to have auditory disturbances when in close proximity to an affected object. Fitzgerald paused and looked at me closely.

Did you hear anything strange when you were around the pen? Or maybe when you were in the house? I nodded blankly, remembering the strange sounds I heard when I pulled up to the house. The thing is, Dr. Johannes, this obsession can spread from one object to another. It seems to choose both objects and people randomly. We've seen no clear evidence that people with certain proclivities

or personality traits become affected more than others. I don't understand, I said, looking over at the squad car that held the boy. It rocked on its struts as the teenager raged in the back seat. Even though the windows were up, and I was standing far away, I could still hear his scream. He wanted the rabbit's foot back.

There must be some rational explanation for this behavior. There must be. I turned back to Fitzgerald, looking for an answer. He gave none. Instead, he just looked at me with a kind of exasperated sympathy. What will you do with them? I asked him. We've had some success treating those afflicted.

We have specialists for this kind of thing. They'll be taken care of. He paused, seeming to consider his next words carefully. carefully. Listen, doctor, the reason I'm telling you this stuff is because I need you to do something for me. I need you to call me if you start to experience even the beginnings of a fixation on an object. He handed me a business card as he spoke. I took it and looked down at it, not really reading the words. Doctor, Fitzgerald asked. Did you hear what I said? Anything strange, you call me. Before it's too late, you've been near two of these objects. We believe that

increases your chances, but we have no way of testing that theory, so please let me know. Anything strange at all, call me. Gunfire erupted from inside the house, causing both of us to flinch as we snapped our attention toward the noise. I lost count of the shots. It sounded like three or four guns were firing at once. The medical and police personnel outside the house ran for cover behind their vehicles, shouting questions at each other. The only people in the house were police and EMTs. Fitzgerald pulled me over behind his car. both crouched there, watching the house.

The shots died off after 10 or 15 seconds. Several seconds passed before a uniformed officer stumbled out the front door, gun held in one hand and an evidence bag in the other. He'd been shot once in the leg, and he left a trail of blood behind him as he hobbled toward a squad car, waving his gun wildly and shouting incoherently. The other police on the scene, those that had been outside, were yelling his name, telling him to stop, pleading with him.

He didn't listen. He fired once at a nearby officer who had been creeping out from behind an ambulance. He missed, and the officer jumped back behind the vehicle for cover. That was enough. The other officers fired on the crazed policeman. Bullets punched into his abdomen, many of them hitting his bulletproof vest. The killing shot struck him in the nose, collapsing the front of his face. He came to rest on his back in the middle of the front yard.

I didn't have to guess what was in the evidence bag he still clutched in his dead hand. I knew what it was. a rabbit's foot keychain. SCP-293 is currently held to be some form of intangible force or presence. SCP-293 is most visible in its effect on human behavior, and is only detectable in very advanced cases as a very slight auditory disturbance. This lack of presence forms the major issue with SCP-293 detection, as it is almost impossible to detect if items or people are infected by SCP-293

without long-term observation. SCP-293 bonds to physical items, in most cases small, lightweight items. However, there are several instances of SCP-293 bonding to much larger items as well. SCP-293 will spread to new items if they are left in close proximity for several weeks. SCP-293 does not appear to bond living things, and its effect is only visible in humans. It is unknown how SCP-293 spreads to new items, or what the criteria are for an item to be bonded. However, there appears to be a higher probability of bonding for items

that can be easily carried and or transported in a human hand. Attempting to remove the item from this subject will cause the subject to enter a violent, fearful, depressed, hysterical, or one of many other mental states. These episodes are nearly impossible to end, except by the return of the item, or several months of separation. Subjects will become more and more erratic and hysterical the longer they are separated

and will violently attack others to re-acquire the item. Subjects will often commit suicide after several days of separation from or loss of the SCP-293 item. Lazzang sur-gillet, puissance-moleaned for 15 minutes. We're like to dojo.

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