The SCP Experience - The Murder Maggots | SCP-726

Episode Date: December 8, 2021

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-726: The Murder Maggots. 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-726, 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 important to separate the body parts. I've heard some people say on the dark web that scattering body parts across the city actually increases your risk of exposure, but I have to disagree with that. Sure, if you're driving around like an idiot in the middle of the night, chucking body parts out of the back of your car, while looking around all paranoid and shit, you're likely to get caught. But if you do it right, if you do it carefully, if you're methodical about it, you won't get caught. I tell myself this every time I leave the house with a load of body parts to get rid of. It makes me feel better, reminds me that I'm careful, methodical. It reassures me that I won't

get caught. Right now I have just one part left to ditch. It's a leg. It once belonged to a man named Rupert Dearborn. In fact, it was attached to Mr. Dearborn up until a few hours ago. When I chopped it off with an electric saw of the kind medical examiners use. A few hours before that, Ruper Dearborn was walking around on that leg, both legs, in fact, probably oblivious to the fact that I'd been watching him closely for several weeks. As I pull up to the dumpster behind a strip mall, I recall how he died. He went out hard, crying, pleading, begging. I had my fun with him, But that fun never seems to last long enough. It's always over too soon.

I get out of my late model SUV and walk around to the back hatch. I press the button and step back as the hatch opens. I don't look around to see if anyone's watching me. I've already used my mirrors and my peripheral vision to make sure no one's likely to be paying attention. I don't rush. Rushing would make me look guilty of something if anyone was. watching. It's after 8 o'clock at night on a Tuesday, and I'm just a normal guy, throwing out some

garbage. I grabbed the bag with a leg in it. It's not just a leg wrapped in a black trash bag. That wouldn't be smart. That wouldn't be methodical. No. I've stuffed bunched up newspapers and old magazines and even a small cardboard box in the bag around the leg. It just looks like a regular garbage bag full of regular garbage. I step up to the dumpster and swing the bag in like I don't care what's inside of it. The dumpster is old. It's more rust brown than the dark green it used to be. The lip has been damaged and there's a piece of jagged metal sticking up that I didn't see. The bag snags on it, the metal ripping open a four-inch hole in the bag. Shit. I pull it back up, unsnagging it from the metal.

and then let it fall into the mostly empty dumpster. I may want to grab it back out and put a new trash bag around it, just in case. But doing that would draw attention to me. After all, a normal guy throwing away his trash wouldn't care if the bag ripped, would he? No, he wouldn't. I shut the back hatch on my SUV and get back in the driver's seat. I drive away, knowing that the tear in the bag will bother me. It will keep me from sleeping.

Not that I sleep much anyway. I try to let it go. I get home and sit down on my couch. Rupert Dearborn's torso is propped on the couch next to me, wrapped in five black trash bags, and taped up with duct tape to keep it from getting blood on my furniture. The torso is the last thing I need to get rid of. I'll do it tomorrow.

For now, Rupert and I binge some Netflix. He's not much of a talker. Maybe something to do with me cutting off his head. That's okay. I'm not much of a talker either. Eventually, I fall asleep. I wake up and go to work the next day. I won't bore you with those details.

When I get off work, I head home and package Rupert's torso for delivery to a dumpster. I get rid of it without a hitch. I head back to the strip mall where I dumped his leg. I park my SUV against a cinder block wall, about 100 yards down from the dumpster, and I sit. I'm not here because of the ripped bag. Not entirely, anyway. I know the pickup schedules for all the dumpsters I used to get rid of the various parts of Rupert's body.

I know that the dumpster I threw one of his arms in has already been picked up, but this one won't be picked up for several days, and I'd like to be near them. I like to sit here. knowing that my handiwork is sitting in the dumpster, out in public, and no one knows. I like to watch people come out and throw trash into the dumpster, thinking how they would react if they knew a severed human leg was in there. I check my mirrors and lean back in my seat to begin my meditations when something happens down at the dumpster.

Something moves inside. I sit up straight, squinting at the beat up and worn down receptacle. The sun is going down, and at first I think it's just a trick of the light. Then a pale white hand flops out and grips the side of the dumpster. My blood pressure skyrockets as another hand joins the first, and then a head. Rupert Dearborn's head. I choke on my own saliva, sure that I've gone insane, or that God is real, and he's punishing me for my ghastly sins.

Rupert Dearborn stands up in the dumpster, and I see that he's not wearing a shirt. He wasn't wearing any clothes when I killed him and chopped him up. I did chop him up, didn't I? Yes, I did. It was hard work. He glances around, a vacant look on his face, at least as far as I can tell from a hundred yards away.

He sways and twitches, like he's got a terrible itch between his shoulder blades. Chaos fills my head as the possibilities of this insanity, stretch out before me. I see a jail cell in my not too distant future. A cell I'll be in for the rest of my life, unless I do something. I look around frantically, searching for prying eyes in the dusty, dirty area behind the strip mall. It looks like I'm alone. I cranked the key, turning the engine over. I slam the gear shift into drive and pull out for my spot, heading toward the impossibly alive Rupert Dearborn.

As I approach, he swings one hairy pale leg over the edge of the dumpster. Again, he twitches, his shoulders convulsing strangely. Then he shifts his weight forward and falls onto the scuffed asphalt in front of the dumpster. I'm tempted to just run him over right here and now, but it wouldn't be the smart, methodical thing to do. So I stop mere feet from him, slam my SUV into park, and jump out. I approach him with my hands out, ready to subdue him when he recognizes me.

He looks up from the ground. Our eyes meet. But I see no recognition in them. Only a blank parody of intelligent life, seemingly devoid of consciousness. He turns his head, looking around mechanically as he twitches his shoulders again. Hey there, guy, I say. Are you okay? At the sound of my voice, his head shifts back to look at me.

He holds my gaze for a moment. Then he's back to looking around, as if he's trying to figure out where he is. I don't have much of a choice. There's only one thing I can do. I reach down and help him stand up from the ground. He doesn't resist. I lead him to the back passenger's side door, open it, and gesture for him to get in. He's completely naked and smells of the dumpster.

But it's the least of my worries right now. I need to get him out of here before anyone sees him. I give him a good shove, and he falls into the back of the vehicle, crying out dumbly in pain. I grab his legs and shove them in after him, slamming the door when they're clear. I turned back to the dumpster and look for the leg I disposed of yesterday. I find the bag filled with stuffing that I put the leg inside. I even find the bags I had wrapped the leg itself in, but there's no leg. I swallow hard, barely holding it together as I get back in the SUV.

It's the longest drive of my life to get home. He doesn't speak a word as we drive, and his face never changes from its blank yet vaguely curious stare. Luckily, it's dark by the time we arrive at my house. I usher him inside quickly, thankful for my tall fences and the privacy trees I planted long ago. I put him in my special room. and locked the door from the outside.

Just over 24 hours earlier, he was in the very same room. Only he was screaming and sobbing then. Now he's completely silent. Confident that he couldn't get out even if he was in the right mind, I leave the house. I need to find out if I'm completely insane or not. I drive straight to the construction site dumpster where I ditched Rupert Dearborn's right arm the night before. It's late enough now that there's no one working at.

at the site. I climb into the huge dumpster and start searching through all the new debris that has accumulated throughout the day. It takes me about 10 minutes to find the arm. I rip it out of its trash bag filled with newspapers and cardboard, holding it to my chest in a hug. I'm not insane. The proof is right here. I toss the arm out of the dumpster and clamber out after it. I drive home one-handed, the other hand caressing the cold, dead flesh of Rupert Dearborn severed right arm. I half expect the Dearborn double to be gone when I get home, but he's not. He's still here. He looks at me as I enter the room. He doesn't seem to notice the arm I carry in my right hand. What now? What does this mean? The impossibility of it all crashes in on me. I chucked the arm down

and rush out of the room, my throat thick, and my heart banging on my chest like a dejected prisoner sentenced to death. I lock the door on my way out and collapse onto my couch on the living room. I bring my bald fists to my eyes, thinking hard about what I should do. Is this a one-off? Or will there be more Rupert Dearborns running around soon? Are there more out there right now? And if so, can they identify me? If the one locked in my special room is any indication, the answer is no. They can't ID me. Do I want to risk it? Maybe I should pack up and leave.

Live the rest of my life on the run. Maybe. Time passes. I calm down a bit, coming back to myself. But I still don't know what to do. I head back to the room and open the door. The naked and dumb Rupert Dearborn is standing in the middle of the room, staring down at the floor.

I follow his gaze and see that he's staring at the arm I tossed down. I step back from the limb involuntarily. It's crawling with maggots, which have apparently eaten most of it, even the bones. There's only a small amount of the hand left. There are hundreds of the little white worms, and they're fast. They eat all the flesh off a finger in less than a minute. But where did they come from? There were no maggots on the arm when I brought it home.

There were no flies in the room. Not that I saw anyway. Ruper twitches his shoulders again, dragging my eyes. attention away from the maggots, he's still staring at them. The look on his face, the closest thing to intelligence I've seen from him yet, is it possible that he brought the maggots somehow? I turned back to look at what's left of the arm, but it's gone, and the maggots are moving. There seems to be more of them now, but I don't know how that's possible. They're all gathering at a spot on the floor a few feet away from their feast. I watched them, curious as to why

Rupert is staring so intently at them. Their numbers obscure whatever is happening underneath them, but after a few minutes of watching, I come to the conclusion that they're regurgitating what they just ate. Something is forming underneath them, although I can't quite see what it is yet. A few minutes more, and I see the makings of a hand there. I sit down against a nearby wall and watch, eyes wide, as the maggots do their strange work. Rupert doesn't move at all. just stands there, watching. Somehow they create the whole arm again, and I think they'll stop there, but they don't. They keep going as their numbers multiply seemingly out of nowhere. They reveal a shoulder, then a chest, a neck and a head. It takes them nearly two hours to reconstruct

a new loop of Dearborn. As they finish, the maggots fall to the ground and melt slowly away into nothing. I watch them, transfixed, the possibilities rolling savagely through my mind. The new Rupert Dearborn opens his blank eyes and looks around. The two Ruperts share a look. My God, I say, amazing, simply amazing. The two Ruperts look my way at the sound of my voice. I smile at them. I laugh, thinking about how I thought God was punishing me for my sins when I saw the first new Rupert standing up in the dumpster. But it's just the opposite. God has given me a gift.

I can kill and kill and kill. I can kill Rupert Dearborns for the rest of my life if I want. I just have to save a limb and one copy of Rupert. The maggots will do the rest. Thank you, God, I say, giddy with excitement, thinking of all the wonderful, terrible things I'll do to my Rupert's. SCP 726 are physiologically and genetically identical to the eggs and larva of blowflies common worldwide. When larva hatch on decomposing animal matter, they begin to consume non-living tissues as normal until none remain,

at which point they collect at a central point and begin to regurgitate a continuous stream of healthy, living cellular matter, and will multiply a number by unknown means as volume increases. SCP 726 will reconstruct a complete body matching that of the original tissue source. The reconstruction process occurs at high speed, resembling footage of maggot activity in reverse, and ends with the full restoration of life functions as all larva abruptly drop off and appear to disintegrate. While otherwise restored to optimum physical health, any organism reconstituted by SCP 726 exhibits only the mental processes of a mature blood. fly. Instances instinctively follow the wafting odors of decaying organic materials and attempt to consume them via licking and sucking actions. Instances of all species move clumsily and periodically

spasm in an apparent attempt to beat non-existent insect wings. SCP 726 has proven capable of replicating a complete body from any volume of flesh regardless of its condition, including multiple copies of the same body, from disconnected fragments. Lazangue surgellé, power and 15 minutes. We'd say that's the hour dojo. Pre-a-to-Jew?

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