The SCP Experience - The Red Brook Mine Massacre | SCP-8987 [Part 1]

Episode Date: October 3, 2025

In the shadow of Dutch Mountain, a lone Foundation agent enters a cursed Appalachian mine where frozen men, impossible creatures, and a living crystal tree conspire to turn a rebellion for survival into a nightmare of blood and terror. This story was derived from ⁠⁠https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-8987 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. ⁠⁠https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/⁠⁠ Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Welcome to aboard Via Rai, Embarked and Profite. Embarked and celebrate. Rigolet. Publié. Savoray. Admirate. And profite. Villaray, the voice that we love.

The mining town seemed to emerge from the woods all at once. As if it were leaping out to scare me. One moment, I was zoning out as I hiked through a forest of red oak, sugar maple, and American beech trees. Their leaves barely clinging to. green as autumn crowded summer out. The next moment, the hastily constructed wooden buildings of the mining town were there, startling me with their alienness. After hours in the woods, I had grown used to the tall trees and rhododendron in the spice bush and the mountain laurel. Now, civilization was

staring me in the face again. I could have walked for days through the woods, perfectly content, at least until I ran out of food. But the mining town and the job I had to had to do spoiled that fantasy. I stopped at the edge of the town, which had been built in a large clearing that had surely once been a meadow. Beyond it, on the other side of the pit village, Dutch mountains slopes continued on, giving way to the rest of the Appalachians. Calling it a town was a stretch. It was a collection of wooden shacks where the miners stayed during those short hours when they weren't underground. Most of the shacks were small, designed to keep the workers out of the elements so they could get enough rest to continue mining. There were larger, more sturdy

buildings that I knew would serve other purposes, a general store, a school, maybe even a church. Stepping out of the fresh, woodsy air, I caught a whiff of human waste as I passed a latrine set back from a collection of shacks. Moving between the shacks, I stepped onto the one dirt road running through the middle of the tiny company town. Now, in the middle of the middle of the day there was little activity. Most of the men were in the mine, and those who were assigned a different shift were likely sleeping. The few children were in whatever passed for the local school, the women, busy keeping the snacks in order, or preparing food for when the men came back, hungry, and covered in coal dust. I had opted for the more direct but longer route to the town,

which took me through the woods on foot. The single road to the town took a meandering route as it navigated the Appalachians. And although I could have gotten a ride in an empty truck returning for another load of coal, I wanted to walk. I jumped at any chance to spend time in the woods, away from the craziness of a country in turmoil. Vietnam War protests had swelled ever since Johnson had called for even more U.S. troops. The latest draft of some 380,000 men had created yet another wave of anger among the American public. it wasn't just the hippies who were pissed. The tide was turning. There was no telling what kind of craziness I would face in the mine, but I had a feeling it would be better than what

those boys were facing in the jungle, half a world away. In my mid-30s, I was too old for the military. Even if I were 10 years younger, I would have received a deferment because I was employed by the foundation. But if the reports from the Red Brook Mine were true, I was walking into the middle of something strange and dangerous. Apparently, men were dying in some very bizarre ways down in the guts of Dutch Mountain. I just had to make sure I wasn't one of them. Pitching my backpack up, I headed toward the company store, where a mining company rep would surely be. I had to get my assigned sleeping quarters from him, along with the supplies I needed. Supplies I would pay off for the first month of my employment. It was a wonder any of any of it.

these guys made enough money to support a family, what with a mining company owning everything in the town, and setting prices to whatever they wanted. But the economics of Appalachian coal mining weren't my concern. And I hoped I wouldn't be here for a month. The more time I spent here, the more likely it was I would die in some strange and horrible manner. No time like the present. I entered the store and officially started my assignment. I followed the road until it ended at the mine's entrance, which was essentially just a gash in the mountain wall between two massive moss-covered stones, jutting from the mountain like the fingers of some dead and buried giant. The area, which had been stripped of trees, was crowded with broken equipment.

Overturned mine carts, dulled pickaxes, shovels with snapped handles. A couple of empty bird cages with baseball-sized holes in them sat askew on the ground. My gaze fixed on them, The thin metal wires that comprised the cage had been bent outward, as if the birds they had once held exploded from within, escaping their confinement like a bullet from a gun. Of course, that was impossible, or it should have been impossible. Mine cart tracks ran directly out of the mine entrance to a stop, constructed of old railroad ties, with car ties to cushion the impact. The carts would be taken out to the stop, where the truck would back.

in. The miners would load the truck, rinse and repeat until the coal dried up. The company man at the store, Darden, had set me up with the equipment I would need for the job, quoting me the ridiculously high prices they were charging for them as he wrote everything in his ledger. I didn't have to ask to know that they wouldn't let people bring their own equipment. I had done my research. It was a damn racket. I readied my hard hat with the attached light as I walked. into the mine. I had the battery pack clipped to my belt at my back. The cord from the light ran along the side of my helmet held in place by brackets, and then down my back to connect to the heavy battery pack. As I stepped into the mine's mouth, I turned the contraption on.

It produced a decent cone of light that illuminated a three-foot diameter patch of earth about seven feet in front of me, and all the space in between. I held my brain. I held my brinket brand-new, overpriced pickaxe in one hand, the smooth wood handle, and the cold metal comforting. It was an illusion. If there was an anomaly in the mine, it surely couldn't be beaten with a pickaxe. Nothing with the foundation was ever that simple. I also had a used leather tool belt that held smaller tools, like a hammer, chisel, and other various items I might need in the course of my job.

I had tied a bandana around my neck, but I didn't yet pull it up over my nose and mouth. By the time I'd gone about 20 feet into the mine, the temperature had dropped 10 degrees. The sunlight from outside was little more than a memory as I followed the tracks around a bend in the tunnel. Suddenly I was happy to have the canvas jacket I wore. Somewhere deep in the earth, dynamite exploded, causing the ground to vibrate. I stood still, looking at the wooden braces placed every six feet or so to help prevent cave-ins. Fine dirt floated down from these beams thanks to the vibrations. When it seemed the ceiling wouldn't fall and turn me to mush,

I continued through the dark until I came to a sheer drop. It was a roughly square vertical shaft plunging through the earth. There were no guardrails, no warning signs. The floor just ended, along with the mine tracks. My light picked out several thick cables in the middle of the shaft. I followed them with my eyes to see that they were attached to some kind of machine with wheels and counterweights. An elevator. Searching for a moment yielded the control panel.

There were two buttons on it, one for up, one for down. I hit the top button. The machinery installed at the roof of the shaft clunked noisily to life, as the elevator started its ascent toward me. When it arrived, I saw how the mine carts would be transferred to and from it. There was a rotating circular platform in the middle of the elevator car. The platform had cart rails on it that stuck out just beyond the elevator's edge when it was in the proper position.

I rotated it to meet the rails on the stone floor from which I'd just stepped. They met with a satisfying click. Had there been a loaded mine cart on them, I could have pushed it right across onto those tracks. But since there was no mine cart, I rotated the platform back the other way, only after finding the mechanism that released them from the stationary tracks. Then, using another control panel in the elevator, I got the thing moving into the guts of Dutch Mountain. Like the edge of the shaft, the elevator had no railings at the front or back,

and only a shin-high rail on the sides. For a good ten seconds, I was surrounded by stone walls as the platform descended. Then the shaft opened up in front of me, on the opposite side of the elevator from where I'd gotten on. After the explosion, I expected to hear the distant sound of metal striking stone when I reached the bottom of the shaft. But after the sound of the elevator's operation faded away, I faced utter silence from the dark mine shaft ahead.

My headlamp picked out tunnel and tracks, nothing else, no people. A chill took hold in my stomach, as if I'd just swallowed a large ice cube. Pepting my pickaxe, I stepped off the elevator and started down the shaft. After 15 yards, the tunnel curved left. I still hadn't heard a sound to indicate that anyone was down here. But as I rounded the curve in the tunnel, my light picked out a man standing in the middle of the tracks, facing me. I jerked back in surprise and then laughed nervously. Scared the hell out of me. The man stared blankly past me. He wore a headlamp, but the light was off. The overalls he wore

had hardly any dirt or dust on them. Plus, he didn't have a tool belt or a pickaxe. I figured this was the foreman. His clean-shaven and sharp-featured face was slack, expressionless. He made no move, not even to blink. Hello? My stomach clenched as the icy feeling returned. He stared, unchanged. With one hand, I reached out and tapped his shoulder. He was clearly alive, still warm, but he didn't respond to my touch.

The foundation had been developing small video cameras that could be worn on the head, kind of like the light on my heart hat, but I didn't yet have access to one. I was to investigate, write down my findings, and send word as to my recommendations. That was it. But now I wished I had one of those cameras, just in case something did happen to me down here. If I missed even one of my check-ins, they would send a team to investigate. Granted, my next check-in wasn't for another four days. I eased past the frozen man and continued down the shaft.

Around the next bend, I found a dozen more men. They stood facing each other across the tracks, six on a side. none of their lights were on. Before I had come around, they had been standing in the pitch dark, frozen, eyes open, I whispered. At the first pair, I approached the man on my right and waved a hand in front of his face. Hello? No response. I raised a finger and put it under his nose, feeling warm air from his nostrils as he breathed.

Stepping back, I looked at the other eleven men, scanning them. Hello! I shouted. immediately regretting it as my voice echoed from farther down the shaft. None of the men responded. I continued down the line of them, looking into their coal dust covered faces. They were all around my age or older. All the men of fighting age had either willfully joined up or been drafted for the Vietnam War. They had beards and glassy eyes and smelled of sweat. Several of them had bandanas around their necks, and I could see the lines across their noses, where the cloth items had been recently fastened.

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I turned my head that way. The light illuminated a man standing in the middle of the tunnel, facing me. He had his pickaxe held diagonally across his chest in both hands, as if ready to bring it up and swing it at any moment. I stared. There was something different about him, but I couldn't put my finger on it. He was at the very edge of my light's effective range. I called a greeting, my voice higher in pitch than I meant it to be.

The fear in that one word caught me off guard and created a feedback loop that sent me hurtling toward panic. But what happened next propelled me over the edge. The man blinked. Before I could process this or even convince myself that I hadn't imagined it, he started moving with hard, quick steps. Hey! I said, backing up the end up. on instinct. You okay? He didn't answer, just kept coming, slightly bent forward at the waist,

legs moving quickly and with clear intention. Hey, stop! He didn't stop. As he approached the nearest pair of frozen men, he angled to his right, my left, raising the pickaxe. His eyes were fixed on the man standing there, completely oblivious. I opened my mouth to shout at him again, but before I could, he swung the pickaxe savagely. into the frozen man's head. Before the struck man even crumpled to the ground, the others were moving, shouting. I spun around, my headlamp leaving the attacker and his victim as someone rushed toward me. I raised my pickaxe, unsure whether these men were going to attack me. Stop! I shouted, not knowing what else to say as one of the newly unfrozen men came at me.

He raised his pickaxe, my light, illuminating two competing emotions on his face, fear and anger. I jabbed him in the face with the blunt top of my tool, trying only for a warning. But in my adrenaline-jumpy state, I hit him harder than I thought, and his nose crunched with the sound like stepping on a bundle of wet twigs.

He cried out and stumbled backward. I could sense the chaos around me. But since I was the only one with a working light, I couldn't see all of it. Awful noises erupted from the dark where I'd seen the unprovoked and vicious attack. I didn't have to see it to know where. what was happening, hearing it was enough.

Now, some of the men were struggling with each other, others calling out names, cursing, wondering aloud what the hell was going on. The man whose nose I broke, dropped his pickaxe and raised both hands to his face, before stumbling off toward the elevator into the darkness. As I turned around to deal with the others, I stepped into a big, hard fist that struck me just below my left eye. I stumbled back a few steps, but kept on my feet out of sheer habit, despite my own. not knowing which way was up.

I was now facing down the tunnel, and at the edge of my light, I could see the gut-wrenching scene taking place there. Now that my light was pointed in that direction, a couple of the other men could see it too. Jesus Christ! One of them called in a high-pitched wail. Something in his voice must have struck a nerve in the man who'd punched me, because he glanced over his shoulder. The man I assumed was Combs stood over the same man he'd struck in the temple. Only now there was nothing left of that man's head. The guy had fallen face down across the tracks

so that his upper body rested between them. His neck ended in a ragged, bloody mess. I could just make out a piece of shattered jaw still attached. The rest of his head was in pieces of varying sizes between the tracks. Combs was breathing hard, his pickaxe dripping blood, but he didn't seem to hear the other man. He raised the tool for another strike, but before he could send it down,

the nearest miner lurched over and caught it, yanking it out of Combs' hands. The guy who had punched me faced forward, he still had his fists up, and he looked at me from between them, although he didn't seem to see me. His face, where there wasn't a bushy black beard covering it, had become pale, his eyes glazed. Still, I dropped the pickaxe to the ground and raised my hands to show I wasn't a threat. Let's get out of here, I said. No one responded for a moment. Everyone was staring at the headless corpse on the tracks. Then, one guy nearby reached up and turned his headlamp on. The others followed suit. Soon, the tunnel was full of light. Moments after that, most of the lights were fixed on my face. The voice boomed from behind us.

I had just finished telling these shocked and confused men that I was Jake Mullins and that it was my first day. I was in the middle of telling them how I'd just come around the bend and found them standing there like statues when the man yelled. All the heads swiveled that way to see the man in overalls, whom I had first encountered. Like the others, he was clearly unfrozen now. Fucking Seismore. A man behind me grumbled. What's the hold up? Sysmore said. His once slack features now held a sneer. His eyes fixed on me. And who the hell are you? Before I could answer, the guy who'd punched me spoke from behind my right shoulder. Pickens is dead. This made Seismore straightened and surprise. What? How?

I turned to the side and looked at the grisly scene along with most of the others. Our collective lights illuminating the headless man, Pickens, Sysmore whispered to himself. I was close enough to make out the words, and I whipped my head back toward him. He paid me no mind. Instead, fixing his gaze on combs, the man who'd done the killing. It seemed he had come out of his trance, because he was now staring at Pickens' body and shaking his head weakly. Another man stood next to him, having taken the bloody pickaxe out of Combs' hands, staring not unkindly as if trying to see his thoughts. I...

Combs said. I didn't do it, did I? I don't remember doing it, but I did, didn't I? Why would I do that? I liked Pickens. He was my friend. He was my... Friend.

A compact man with a pronounced brow rushed at Seismore, grabbing him by the straps of his overalls and slamming him into the craggy wall. We told you this place isn't safe. We fucking told you again and again, damn it. How many of us have to die before you listen? He shifted his hands to Seizmore's throat and started choking. The foreman reached up, trying to grasp his attacker's face. But he only got slammed hard into the rock for his trouble.

That's enough. The man who'd punched me shouted, Come on, Vanover, let him go. Sysmore was dazed, his hands twitching at his sides, but Van Over kept choking him until the man with the bushy black beard stepped over and wrapped an arm around his neck. He hitched up, putting pressure on his throat, and spoke softly into Van Over's ear.

Van Over did, and the foreman stumbled away, coughing and sputtering. I'm good now, so get the fuck off me, John, Van Over said. John let him go. and watched as Vanover stalked away from the foreman. Then he turned to me. You good? It wasn't my best punch, but I'm surprised you're still standing.

I guess I was a little confused when I came too. Saw a face I didn't recognize. I could feel the throb on my cheekbone from where he'd hit me. It was going to bruise badly. I'm good, I said. Barely even felt it. That earned me an upward twitch of the beard from John and a couple of chuckles from some other guys.

After a moment, John looked around, taking a deep breath. Everyone was looking to him for what came next. Let's get the body out, he said. We're done working for today. He looked at the foreman as he said this last, as if daring the man to challenge him. Seismore gave him a look, but kept his mouth shut except to cough. Walker, go tell the others we're done. John continued.

And make sure everyone's accounted for. We're going topside. As a group, we all headed to the elevator. Four men, including John, carried Pickens' body. Combs followed along like a zombie, staring at the man he'd murdered. The rest of the shift was coming up behind us. Another 42 men, according to Seismore. I wondered how many of them were still alive.

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As soon as we arrived back in the mining town, word spread about Pickens' death, which was, miraculously, the only one of the day. Chaos ensued as the entire population of the small town poured into the streets. Many of the men with families found their loved ones to assure them they were okay before joining the fray in front of the company store. Pickens had no wife for children, but Combs did. His wife screamed, while Sysmore and the other men from the company store tried to lock him up in the makeshift cell they had in the store,

which was really just a windowless storage room. No one was having it. I heard shouts about it not being his fault, about the mind being haunted, about some sort of gas that was making the men behave strangely. It seemed everyone had a theory as to why Combs killed Pickens, and none of them involved maliciousness on Combs' part. It seemed he was known and well-like. For his part, Combs stood like a zombie as he was jostled, the two factions playing tug-of-war

with him. He was catatonic, but his distraught wife put up the most of the most of the most of the most of the most of a syphorous fight, with the whole town backing her up. After realizing it was a losing battle, Seismore and the other company man, Darden, relented and retreated into the company store, locking the doors against the baying hordes. After that, everyone dispersed. Since I was a newcomer, I was shut out of any conversations. I spent an hour trying to talk to people, only to get stonewalled. So, I soon walked back to the mine and stood outside. staring into the black mouth, thinking, until the sun went down.

On my way back to the town, I came across two dozen men sitting around a raging fire in a clearing between the mine and the town. I thought about staying in the dark, listening to their little meeting, but I knew it would only make me look bad if I were caught. So, I announced myself and walked in. All eyes were on me as I stepped into the illumination cast by the fire. That's the asshole who broke my nose, a man said. That true, you broke Dunlap's nose, John asked, tossing a cigarette butt into the fire.

He was coming at me. I didn't know what the hell was going on down there, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry. Everyone stared at me. It was clear my apology wasn't enough. I knew I had to do something now or be shut out for good. I think we should go on strike, I said, taking a big chance. In this part of the country, striking wasn't something to be taken lightly. It was often seen as communist in a sense. But I was betting the bizarre happenings had shifted some perspectives. And ask for what? John said.

What would our demands be? To get some safety inspectors here, I said, thinking that foundation investigators could easily pose as safety inspectors. But the mining company would never allow them unless they were bullied into it. Eliminate the most likely possibilities first. And what are the least likely possibilities? John asked, tapping a cigarette out of a soft pack and putting it between his lips. I shrugged.

Something that can't be explained by modern science. John opened his zippo with a metallic clink and lit a cigarette. Like what? Ghosts? I shrugged again. All I know is that I saw you frozen down there today. I went right up to you and waved a hand in your face. And it was like I wasn't even there. Do you remember me doing that?

Any of you? Why didn't you stop Combs then? A man from the crowd asked. As soon as he hit Pickens, everyone woke up, I said. That's when I hit Dunlap. I thought he was about to attack me like Combs attacked Pickens. I didn't know what the hell was going on. By the time everything calmed down, Pickens was dead.

A moment of silence answered. Everyone looked to John, who exhaled smoke before nodding. Take a seat. Let's talk about this. We were discussing going on strike when you came sneaking out of the woods. There was just a hint of levity in his voice, making me think I didn't need to defend myself against the comment. So I found a spot to sit, and the discussion continued. I learned that six people had died before Pickens in just the last month.

It seems the deeper we go, the worse it gets, one man said. It only started happening after we found that petrified wood. another man proclaimed. Ah, bullshit! Dunlap Snap. It's coincidence. It's not haunted petrified wood. They fell into arguing.

But it had piqued my curiosity. I wanted to see some of this petrified wood they were talking about. But my first priority was making sure no one else died. We talked deep into the night. And by the time we headed back to the mining town, we had a plan. But when we got up the next morning, our plan went to shit. immediately. I already knew the mine was too dangerous for anyone to enter again. Despite what I told John and the others, I was certain something anomalous was happening. So when I woke up in the cramped shack with the sunrise the next morning,

my plan was to slip away the first chance I got to contact the foundation and have them send a team. I knew there was no phone in the mining town, or if there was, it was under lock and key in the company store. It was one of the first things I had asked Darden when I went into the store to get my equipment yesterday. He only shook his head. So if there was a phone, I couldn't access it without alerting Darden or Seismore. To play things safe, I would have to slip away and hike the four hours back to the nearest town. But before I even stepped out of the shack, that plan went out the window. As I was getting my boots on, I heard John shouting from outside.

He didn't sound happy. I rushed outside, the laces of one boot still loose, and saw the things had taken a sharp turn. A small crowd had gathered outside the company store, where several men with bandanas over their faces, bulletproof vests on their chests, and semi-auter rifles in their hands stood blocking entry. Seismore stood behind these armed guards on the narrow porch, looking smug. More people poured out of the shacks, brought by all the shouting. John was at the head of the crowd, but the clamor was so low. loud, I couldn't tell what he was shouting about. As I looked around, I saw more armed and masked

guards coming out of the woodwork from every direction. I quickly realized the entire town was surrounded, and I knew what would come next. I worked my way toward the company store, aiming to talk to John. But before I could reach the man, the sound of a gunshot from behind had me spinning around and crouching, ready to hit the dirt. In the middle of the dirt road, about 20 yards away, An armed guard stood over a man I recognized, but whose name I didn't know. The miner was on the ground, gripping his leg and muttering something I couldn't hear. The entire crowd, which now included both shifts and all the family members who lived here, totaling over a hundred people, went silent.

Tension crackled in the air as everyone realized what had happened. One of their own had been shot by an armed thug. I expected chaos to erupt at any moment, but I knew that if it did, Things would go very badly for those of us without firearms. Glancing frantically around, I saw that the armed guard surrounding us now had their weapons pointed into the crowd instead of at the sky. I met John's eyes, and although I hadn't even known the man for 24 hours, I felt that he was near his breaking point.

If he gave the word, these people would attack. I shook my head once, but I wasn't even sure he was seeing me. The tension expanded. I felt it in my chest like a swarm of angry insects. Then the door to the company store opened, and a man dressed in a charcoal gray suit with thinning white hair and a stately demeanor stepped out next to Seismore. He cleared his throat, a noise that carried in the pregnant silence.

All heads turned toward him, but the tension was still there. The Summit Anthracite Mining Company will not tolerate strikes. If you want to leave, you are free to do so, if you do not owe the company store for food, supplies, or lodging. The man spoke with a clipped mid-Atlantic accent that was a world away from the thick Appalachian twang the miners had. Provided you are all paid up, you are free to leave after you give a 30-day notice.

Once that notice is accepted by Mr. Seismore here or Mr. Darden inside, and those 30 days have been worked to their satisfaction, then you will be free and clear to leave and seek employment elsewhere. According to the meticulous books Mr. Darden keeps, only a handful of you owe no debt to the summit anthracite mining company, and none of you have given your 30-day notice. No one ever told us about no 30-day notice, one miner called out. The man in the suit didn't even look his way. I suggest you read your employment agreement again. It's there, plain as day. He raised a wrist and moved his sleeve aside, revealing a sparkling watch. Now, first shift is supposed to be in the mine already. I suggest you get moving if you don't want to be docked pay.

Disbelieving scoffs erupted from the crowd, but the guns didn't waver. Much of the tension had been slowly absorbed back into the crowd as the man spoke, and now the rest of it was reabsorbed as a handful of men headed for the mine, and then a handful more. Soon, the crowd dispersed entirely. I joined the rest of the first shift workers and headed down the road to the mine, escorted by half of the armed contingent that had been brought to the mining town under dark of night. In pairs of two, the mine swallowed us.