The SCP Experience - The Returned | SCP-1102

Episode Date: June 17, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-1102: The Returned This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1102 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Andrew E. * * * 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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mother to daughter, father to son. I'm not sure how it started, and I've heard different versions whispered at late-night campfires or in alcohol-soaked basements after the actual party has long since ended. Is it a legend, a myth? A folk tale passed down through the decades. Or is it a religious story? A Bible parable changed and twisted by a generational game of telephone.

Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe we know instinctively that each version of the tale is true, in its own way. The version I first heard was told to me by my grandmother, before the cancer came back and took her away. It was just after supper, and the summer heat's edge had just started to cool as the day gave way tonight. We were sitting on the porch and staring out over the mountains. Always grand, the Blue Ridge Mountains namesake effect was particularly striking that evening. The mountains were bright blue as far as the eye could see. I just finished telling Grandma Jane what I'd learned in my science class.

Apparently, the trees release a chemical called isobrine into the atmosphere that gives the mountain their characteristic color and haze under the right light. That's interesting, dear, she said. still sitting on our little outdoor sofa, a gin and tonic in hand. Grandma Jane wasn't a big drinker, but she liked to have one or two after meals with the family. At the time, I'd thought that maybe she missed Grandpa more when the whole family came together. Maybe when she was at home alone she could pretend he was at work, or away on a trip. When the family was together, there was no reason for him not to be there, except the real one.

and so his absence hurt her more. We sat there for a few minutes in silence, watching the sunset. The Blue Ridge is a spiritual place. Life and death overlap here, she said suddenly. I turned to her. She was still staring straight out into the mountains, as if she could see something I couldn't. Her eyes were clear and blue.

They say, if you want to see a lost loved one enough, that they'll come back to you. I was 15 at the time. I had a bit of acne and long, unkempt hair that would make me cringe when I looked at photos from back then. I'd been learning to drive and had already kissed my first girl.

It was a fumbling, awkward thing, but I'd bragged about it to my buddies later anyway. The point was, I was too old to believe in magic, especially the dead coming back to life. Still, I'd never been old enough to scoff at my grandmother, so I said nothing and waited for her to continue. My kids, your father and his sisters, they never believed in the stories. They've never seen the returned animals galloping in the night.

It's just a normal ghost story for them. They're grounded in the here and now. Not the past, she sighed heavily. Maybe that's for the best. But your mother didn't grow up here, so I know she won't tell you either. I thought someone should tell you the story, at least. It's a part of our heritage.

Even though I know you won't believe it either. Maybe not, but I still wanted to hear it. A cool story was a cool story, right? Plus, if I was spending time with Grandma Jane, Dad wouldn't get mad that I hadn't helped clear the table after dinner. I crossed my legs and settled into a comfortable sitting position, eager to hear Grandma Jane's ghost story. She barked out one laugh, then took a deep swig of her drink.

When my father, your great-grandfather, was a little boy, everyone knew the mountains were dangerous, beautiful, but dangerous, especially at night. Most people said their blue color was due to the glory of God. Nowadays, they say it's caused by chemicals released into the air. Grandma Jane slid me a sly glance and continued. Anyway, on the night this happened, the sky was clear and the moon was bright.

The sky was clearer back then. You could start counting all the stars you could see and not be finished by the time the sun was rising. Dad was interested in astronomy as a boy, and he had been given a telescope for his birthday by a wealthy uncle. That night was the perfect night for stargazing. Through the woods past his house, there was a small hill that would have been perfect for using the telescope.

Of course, his parents forbade him from wandering through the woods at night. especially with his brand new, expensive birthday present. But he was young and adventurous. He waited for his parents to go to bed, and then carefully, quietly loved the telescope with him out of the house, past their lawn, and into the thick of the forest that sat at the edge of the mountains. Grandma Jane had settled back into her chair while she spoke. The night was quiet, and beyond the cicadas and some movement,

coming from inside the house. Her voice was the only sound I could hear. She had clearly told this story before. Her cadence was confident, and her recounting contained far too much detail for a foggily remembered tale told to her years ago by her father. Her voice had turned a little rough,

so she picked up her drink again and sipped at it for a moment. Then continued. Even though the telescope was mostly made, of metal and heavy. It was a short walk up the hill, and he made it there only slightly out of breath. He gazed up at the stars for an hour when he heard a branch snapped from somewhere in the woods. Having grown up near a forest all his life, this didn't alarm him, but the second branch snapped did. I was so zeroed in on Grandma Jane's story that everything else on Earth seemed to have faded away.

Then what? I asked. Of course he stayed still, studying the tree line, grandma said. Then something walked out. So something? I asked. A man. Oh, I said, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice. That wasn't very scary. I'd been expecting a werewolf, or at least a regular wolf.

Well, there was something different about this man. man. For a start, his skin was dark, almost bluish. His eyes were pure white, and he was lumbering slowly towards your great-grandfather, grandmother Jane said. Oh, and your great-grandfather knew him. Wait, what? I asked, thrown for a loop. Oh, yes, it was the grocer, Mr. Jones. only he'd passed nearly three months ago. It was a small town, and everyone had heard he'd passed from tuberculosis. So this shambling, lumbering thing that looked like Mr. Jones was heading towards my dad. What did he do?

Grandma laughed at that. He ran. What else would someone do in that situation? He fled back to his house and woke his parents up, screaming, about seeing a ghost. They woke up and even poked around the woods, looking for this ghost. The sun was already rising,

but they didn't find anything. His dad was furious and whipped your great-grandfather with a belt for sneaking out, and then waking them up to chase ghosts. His mother, however, she took him aside and told him the legend, that those who die within the bounds of the Blue Mountain Ridge are unsettled.

Sometimes the dead come back. They return and seek out those they knew in life, only to vanish without a trace by morning. She stopped there. The story apparently over. Later, in the light of day, I would realize it was just a tale, no different from any number of urban legends I'd heard over the years.

But in the moment, Somewhere along the way, I'd been convinced that what she was saying was true. What is it? I asked. Why do people come back? Some say it's a miracle of God, allowing the living to see their loved ones one more time. Others say it's the work of the devil, toying with the boundaries of life and death, trying to lure you away from the safety of your home.

My father thought that the mountains had a soul, a spirit that none could tame or understand. What do you think, Grandma? She gulp down the last of her drink before answering. I don't think it's good or bad, or anything at all, really. I think it's just like the rain, something that happens because that's the way things are. Of course, rain isn't just something. that happens, but I understood what she meant. Did you ever see someone come back? She turned and looked at me with a sad smile. No, I never did. She didn't speak of it again.

And six months later, she was dead. Twenty years later, I'd grown up and all but forgotten that story. I'd gone to college, met a girl, married her, and we'd started a life together. We'd move to an area on the North Carolinian slopes of the Blue Ridge Mountains. A couple hours dry from my hometown of Ashland. Carrie had wanted to move to a city after college, but I'd wanted to move back home. Even though I'd been thrilled to get away when I first started my computer science degree, over time, I found I missed it. I missed the clean air and the sound of crickets at night. I missed the blue haze that settled over the mountains. I missed how you could see a million stars all at once and a moon that seemed to almost perch on the tip of a mountain's peak.

We compromised and moved to a place near my hometown with similar scenery. That was also close to a reasonably sized city, Charlotte. We'd bought our house dirt cheap, probably because it was unfinished. The basement had a literal dirt floor, and the kitchen was a disaster with larger appliances, like the stove and refrigerator, gutted, and the smaller ones out of order. The exterior might have given off a charming log cabin vibe. That's fun when you book a weekend getaway, but less welcome when it's going to be your home for the next 15 years.

Still, we were young and more than a little foolish, so we bought it and threw ourselves into repairs. Carrie got a job teaching math at a nearby high school while I started working as a freelance programmer. The reception in the mountains was awful, so it was a challenge, but with Carrie's more stable income, we made it work. Still, it wasn't all smiles all the time.

We had our share of arguments. The worst happened a couple of years after we'd bought the house. You said you wanted kids, too! Carrie yelled at me. We were in our bedroom, and what had been a normal conversation about folding laundry had somehow delved into a screaming match. I do!

I yelled back. But we agreed that we wouldn't have any until the house was done. We'd made that agreement right after moving in. Neither of us wanted to be tackling major home renovations while also raising a baby. It was too much work on top of our normal jobs. Repairs had been going well enough, and we'd made massive improvements since moving in, but it still had a ways to go, in my opinion. The basement was still unfinished, for example, and it was currently being used as storage for our DIY materials. Carrie obviously felt the house was done enough.

You're just a coward. You're scared to have kids and you won't admit it! She screamed before turning on her heels, leaving the bedroom. I chased after her and caught up with her near the stairs. I grabbed her arm. Hey, that's not fair! She ripped her arm out of my grip and stuck her finger at my chest. No! What's not fair is me having to wait for you to get your shit together!

It was too much. I was so frustrated that we were having this thing. that we were having this argument again. I was angry that she'd accused me of being a coward, and that her finger was invading my personal space. I just wanted her to back up and get out of my face. I just snapped. I shoved her hard.

It was the first time I'd laid my hands on anyone, outside of a few school yard scuffles, and it was definitely the first time I'd been aggressive with Carrie. Her eyes went wide as she stumbled back. Her balance shifted as the top of her body was pushed over her hips. her hips, causing her to lose her footing and tumble to the ground. She looked at me, speechless and in shock, her eyes accusatory. I ran over to her and knelt down beside her. Carrie! Carrie! I'm so sorry! Are you okay? She refused to answer me. No matter how much

I pleaded or cried, she said nothing and gave me no comfort. The bond between us had been irrevocably shattered. Not sure what else to do. I spent the next few hours preparing the house. I worked feverishly to finish the basement floor, something Carrie had been wanting me to tackle for months. I used shovels and tarps and nails and hammers and a woodworking machine. I pulled out all the stops. I built the frame, laid the wood, and sanded it myself. Days later, when it was finished, I allowed myself to eat. Some rotten fruit and moldy leftovers had to be thrown away. But Carrie's oat cereal was still good. The shower I took to wash away the dirt and grime

was one of the best I'd ever taken. I felt as if my soul was being washed clean too. Carrie was gone. She wasn't anywhere to be found in the house. I'd thought somehow if I worked hard enough, showed her that I cared, that I did want kids, that that would somehow fix everything. It had been days since I'd last seen her.

There were five messages on, her answering machine, two from Carrie's school, and three from her friends. I knew what I had to do. I drove to the local police precinct. Hello, how can I help you? The clipped voice of a woman asked me as I approached the front desk. She was a young, black woman standing at rigid attention. Not an ounce of slack was in her back. I'd like to file a missing person's report, I said, my breath shaky. My heart felt like it was in my throat, and a gnawing pit was opening in my stomach. I had to do this.

I had to. But saying it out loud to someone was like admitting to myself that it was real, that this had really happened. My wife, Carrie, she hasn't come home, and I'm worried. The woman behind the desk looked me up and down before pulling a radio from her belt. She exchanged some words with the person at the other end of the line. She told me to sit in one of the barely padded chairs in the lobby and wait for someone to come speak to me. I thanked her and sat down. I placed my elbows on my knees and my face and my hands. I was still sitting like that when I felt a tap on my shoulder. A tall, brown-haired man stood in front of me. He wore a light purple button-down shirt and khaki slacks. His shoes were black, but were scuffed all to hell.

His thick hand was extended for me to shake. I stood up and shook it. We then sat down next to each other on the uncomfortable chairs. I'm Detective Latimer, and you are? he asked. Uh, Derek. Derek Forrest. Well, Mr. Forrest, let me see how I can help you today. I'm told you want to report your wife missing. Yes, I said. She's been gone for days.

It's not like her, and I'm very worried. Detective Latimer raised an eyebrow. Days? And you're just reporting her. missing now? I'd have to be very careful how I responded here. Even though I was in distress, I wasn't an idiot. The husband was always the first suspect in any investigation.

How I reacted could determine how suspicious of me Detective Latimer became. I... I sighed and looked away. We had a fight. A fight? Was it physical? I'd been ready for that question. I whipped my head back around to him and protect.

No, never. We just argued about starting a family. I wanted to wait until our house was ship-shape. It was a fixer-upper when we bought it, and repairs have gone slower than we expected. Carrie was getting frustrated with the wait. I see. His tone was unreadable. He simply jotted down a note and then urged me to continue. What happened after that? Well, I worked on the basement. For days. I wanted to show her that I was serious about having kids. I figured if I finished the basement, that would prove to her I wanted to get the renovations done and start our family. Maybe that was stupid. Maybe it made sense to me at the time. No, I get it, Detective Latimer said. So, when did you notice she was missing?

Well, I worked to finish the basement for days, barely sleeping. When I was done, I noticed she was gone. So I came here to report her missing. Detective Latimer frowned and scribbled something in his little note pad. He tapped the tip of his pen against the pad, considering something. Has anything like this ever happened before? Has she ever, say, gone to her parents' house to cool off after a fight? I shook my head.

No, we never really fought before the kids thing. That's another reason I'm so worried that she hasn't come home. I've tried calling her in the phone rings, but she doesn't pick up. I shouldn't have said that last part. Why add an unnecessary detail? Detective Latimer tilted his head from side to side and sucked on his teeth.

All right. Here's what we're going to do. You're going to give me a solid description of Carrie. Her habits, clothes, hair, eyes, all of that. You got a picture of her on your phone? I nodded. Great. Send that to me on here.

He handed me a business card and tapped the part that had his email printed on it. I'll follow up with their friends or family. I'll see if she's with any of them, or if she told them where she was going. Where does she work, by the way? I answered automatically. She worked at Lincoln High School as a math teacher,

algebra mainly. Detective Latimer raised an eyebrow. A long silence filled the cap between us as he stared at me. He'd noticed, but would he call it out? I breathed a sigh of relief as he finally broke away by standing up. He once again extended his hand to me. I took it and he gripped mine hard, maybe a little too hard. Don't worry, Mr. Forrest.

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It was hard at first. I had to tell her school, her friends, and her family that she'd gone missing. Her mother had been hysterical, but had stressed that she didn't blame me, which I was grateful for. We'd had a good relationship before Carrie's disappearance, and I was glad to see the effort I'd put in with her family bore fruit. A local news channel wanted to do a story about Keri's. Carrie's disappearance. Detective Latimer thought it was a good idea, so I went on air and begged her to come home. I got teary-eyed, a rarity for me, but it wasn't like I was lying. I really did

wish she would come back to me. I spent a lot of time in the newly finished basement, partially because I had to furnish it, but also because it was the place I'd built to showcase my love for Carrie. A part of her was in its bones, and being in the room made me feel closer to Even to my own ears, that sounded stupid, but I couldn't help it. That was how I felt. About two months after Carrie had disappeared, Detective Latimer called me. He asked if we could meet at my house and discuss new developments in the case. I wasn't sure what new developments there could have been, but of course I agreed to meet him.

It was a bright autumn afternoon, and the sun was just beginning to set when he drove up in his beat-up little Volkswagen. The Blue Ridge Mountains were really living up to their name. Each peak was a different shade. Azure, sea, sky, turquoise. They all blended together in a blue tapestry. Something about it triggered a memory. My grandmother and I, sitting on the porch,

her telling me a ghost story. I shook the memory loose as Detective Latimer approached. I opened the door, and offered to make him a cup of coffee, which he accepted. As I showed him to the kitchen, we made small talk. He asked about my programming work, and I asked whether the police had caught those morons that were mucking up cemeteries messing with graves.

I'd heard rumors that it was teen vandals. He told me not yet, but they would soon. I could feel him observing me and taking note of the house. His eyes flicked here and there, taking in as much detail as they could. Pictures of myself and Carrie were everywhere on the walls, which he seemed to linger by. If the man was surprised that I still had them up, he shouldn't have been. I missed her. That was the truth. It was hard to see her smiling in photos, her long chestnut

hair flowing down over her shoulders and her warm brown eyes staring at me. I knew she was gone, but it would be impossible for me to remove her photos. We were sitting in the lounge, me on the couch, Detective Latimer on a chair, both with pillows covered in floral upholstery. Carrie's influence, of course, though I'd grown fond of them myself. It was nice seeing flowers in the cold, dark winter months, even if it was only on a pillow. Detective Latimer blew on a steaming cup of coffee a bit before taking a cautious sip. Where's Carrie, Derek? he asked, out of nowhere. I, what? I said.

Aren't she supposed to tell me? His eyes seemed to pierce my soul. You think I had something to do with her disappearance? I shouted. You've been spending all this time suspecting me, instead of actually looking for her? Detective Latimer held his coffee mug. It was the pink one of the his and her set. Carrie and I had been given as a wedding present.

With both hands on the cup, he took a drink, smooth and calm. No, actually. He said, I took you at your word at first. I checked with her family, her friends, her co-workers, and none of them, not a single one, had any idea where she was. And not only that, none of them thought it was possible she ran away from home without mentioning it to anyone, especially her mother. That was true. Carrie and her mother had been exceptionally close. If she had left home willingly, she probably would have said something to her. to her. Still, that doesn't mean, Detective Latimer held up his hand, stopping me.

When I hit a dead end with that, I went back to my notes from our interview, and they helped me remember something very interesting. When I asked you where Carrie works, you said she worked at Lincoln High School as a math teacher. Worked. Past tense. Like you knew she was gone and she was never coming back. Shit. I misspoke. I was in such a panic that... And another odd thing, Detective Latimer interrupted.

You mentioned that you called Carrie's cell phone a few times, but it would always ring and then go to voicemail unanswered. Funny thing, I actually checked Carrie's call log with the phone company, and apparently your last phone call to Carrie was from before she disappeared. So that naturally made me curious. Why did you lie to me, Derek? I knew I shouldn't have said that. I should have given him just the barest amount of detail possible.

I'd gone in knowing that the husband is always the prime suspect, and that any mistake I'd made would be used as an excuse to pin her disappearance on me. Lie? No, I didn't lie, I fumbled. I called. I did. But the reception is so bad here. Maybe my calls weren't completed. Maybe?

Detective Latimer said, doubt clear in his voice. You don't remember? Surely you remember what was happening, and what you did when you realized your wife had gone missing. I shook my head. Like I said, I was frantic, so... I trailed off there, having learned my lesson about giving the police more information than they needed. I didn't want to say anything that made the detective even more suspicious of me,

if that were possible. Detective Latimer tapped one of his fingers against his knee and raised his other hand to his mouth, peering at me with a questioning look. Then he slapped his thighs and stood. Well, do you mind if I'd take a look around the house then? I don't have a warrant or anything, but it might help me find out where Carrie went if I can look through her things.

Clever. He mentioned the lack of a warrant to give me a reason to refuse, but what innocent man would say no to a police officer searching his home in order to find his missing wife. Still, I didn't mind him poking around. He could look under the bed, through cupboards and the closets, and he wouldn't find anything. Carrie wouldn't be there.

Of course, I said. I have to get back to work, though, so I'll be on the study. Let me know if you need anything. Sure thing. I retreated to the safety of my home office. I heard him going up and down the stairs. I could hear the sound of doors opening, and closing. I also heard tapping sounds, which I assumed was him testing to see if the walls

were hollow. I suppose he was attempting to covertly search for Carrie's body. He suspected I'd killed her. Knowing that, sweat poured down my back as he conducted the search. I got essentially no work done as I hyper-focused on every sound he made. After an hour, a knock on the study door made me jump. I opened the door to find Detective Latimer there. Scowling. Find anything? I asked. Even knowing what the answer would be, my palms were sweating. No, he said brusquely.

He must have really thought he'd find some evidence that I'd killed Carrie just by poking around. Well, thanks for looking, I said, trying not to show my relief. I'll show myself out, the detective said. I'm sure I'll be seeing you again, real soon. The way he said it was less a promise. and more a threat. That night, I stayed out on the porch long after the sun had set, watching the mountains. They were beautiful at any time, but I especially liked them at sunset, watching them change from blue and green to orange, and then slowly fade back to blue,

until they became imposing black shapes in the distance, almost too dark to make out. If Carrie were still here, she'd have called me back inside a while ago. I missed her terribly still. It wasn't like I'd wanted her to leave. When I finally crawled into bed, it was past midnight. I tossed and turned for another hour, still not used to sleeping on my own. I'd finally started to drift off when I was jolted awake by a bang. I clicked on the lamp that sat on my bedside table and listened. My eyes were bleary as I tried to identify the source of the sound. I heard crickets, but nothing else. Figuring it was simply an unusually loud instance of the house settling.

I turned the light off and tried to get back to sleep. Not five minutes later there was another bang. I opened the bedside table's drawer and pulled out my gun, a Ruger revolver, which I felt was a necessary evil when you lived so close to the wilderness. You never knew when you might have to dissuade a wolf or a bear from exploring your property. Carrie had hated that I owned a gun, but I was glad I had it now. The sounds were coming from below me, so I ventured out from under my covers. I tiptoed to my dresser and put on the pair of socks I wore around the house.

They had batted souls, so I knew they'd both muffle my approach, and I wouldn't slip as I walked around the hardwood floors downstairs. Padding down the stairs, I tried to keep my breathing light, both so I could hear whoever or whatever was here, and also so they couldn't hear me. Gun still firmly in hand. I waited at the bottom of the stairs for a clue as to where the intruder was. I heard some noises coming to my left, so I crept that way.

The gun led the way, even though I felt like I was play-acting, an FBI agent. I was careful to peer around the corners and behind the couches to make sure I wasn't missing someone hiding in my house. There was another bang, and I was close enough that its location was unmistakable. It came from the basement. Whatever it was, it had to be coming from there. The logical half of my brain told me it was probably a confused squirrel that had somehow gotten into the house and was now knocking things over in its panic to escape.

The other half of my brain, the part that was making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, said differently. Something terrible was down there. Something I didn't want to see. But still, I pressed on. As I approached the door, I had a crazy thought. Maybe it was Detective Latimer. Maybe he'd figured it out and had come back to continue a search. If it was, I'd have to shoot him.

I mean, he'd have broken into my house after all. It would be self-defense, and I couldn't let him get proof of what I'd done. I opened the door as carefully as I could, wincing when it creaked. The shuffling sound stopped. I angled the gun down and flicked on the basement lights that I'd installed just recently. My view into the basement was obscured by the overhanging ceiling. It took me a moment to process what I was seeing. Two bare, human feet, with nails painted in a chipped yellow, stood on the floor, both pointing straight at me.

Whoever this person was, they were facing my direction. Although the feet were bare, the person wore jeans. At least, I thought they wore jeans. They were so caked in dirt, it was hard to say for sure. Detective Latimer? I called, even though I knew it wasn't him. The pit in my stomach grew as I took another few shaky steps down. More and more of the intruder was revealed.

It was definitely a woman. She wore a simple white t-shirt that was also streaked with mud. I was shivering, but not from the cold. One more step. One more step and I'd see the face. of the person standing there, silent and unmoving. I swallowed thickly and took that final step. Carrie? Her skin was pale, almost blue. Her eyes were sunken and no longer brown. Instead, only white showed. Her hair had turned flaxen and dull. And her neck, I tried not to look at it.

But it was her. Impossibly, my wife stood there. I glanced at the floor where, I glanced at the floor. I knew she would be, where she had to be, but the wood floor was undisturbed, as if the specter of my wife had suddenly appeared, fully formed, and didn't claw her way out of the earth through the floor. Carrie, is that you? I said, even though I could see quite clearly it was her, impossibly returned to me. Returned. That word sparked something in my memory.

An old ghost story someone had told me. All thoughts of ghosts and stories flew out of my head when the thing that looked like Carrie stepped towards me. This was no ghost. I heard the soft sound of her foot, coming into contact with the floor. Stay back! I shouted, pointing the gun at her. She looked up at me. Her neck still bent at that sickening angle from the last time I'd seen her.

I couldn't tell if she'd heard me, or if her milky white eyes could see me. But she didn't heed my warning and took another step. I tried to fire. I wanted so badly to pull the trigger. I was terrified of this shambling thing that couldn't be my wife. My wife was dead, but I couldn't pull the trigger. No matter how much of a monster I was for what I'd done, I couldn't shoot my wife intentionally,

even if it was only a thing that looked like her. Instead, I backed away, tripping over one of the wood panel stairs, which was still unfinished. It ripped through my sock and tore open my heel. Pushing through the pain, I stood back up and fled both the creature and my guilt, sprinting up the stairs and slamming the door closed behind me. Breathing in wild, ragged pants, I backed up and kept the gun trained on the door.

In the quiet of that early hour, I could hear them. The soft steps of Carrie walking up the stairs. The doorknob turned, but I didn't stand around and wait for her to approach me. Instead, I turned and ran, smashing into a coffee table as I did, knocking a cup and vase to the ground, shattering them both. I ran up the stairs, pausing for breath at the top. My fingers curled around the gun, and I tried to take comfort in its presence, but it did nothing. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.

I was having a nightmare, a lucid dream. Carrie was dead. I'd seen her die. But my thundering heart and cold sweat told me it was real. people returning. Grandma Jane had said something about that, right? Damn it, that was more than two decades ago. What else had she said?

Was there a way to get rid of them? I couldn't remember. My brain was moving too fast, my thoughts too frantic. I heard the crunch of glass coming from below. Carrie was walking right over the shards. God, they must have been cutting her feet to ribbons. I couldn't let her catch up to me. With nowhere else to go, I ran into my bedroom.

Our bedroom. Carrie followed me. Of course she did. She wanted me to suffer for what I'd done, to pay the price for my mistake. I wished she would scream, cry, and accuse me. That would have been better than having her broken, reanimated body shamble after me. I locked the door behind me and crumpled to the floor. I dropped the gun and held my hands over my ears, trying to block everything out. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. My shoulders shook as something banged against the door. It wasn't a knock. More like Carrie had thrown her whole weight against it.

I was sobbing now, unable to hold my tears back. The damn burst, and my emotions overwhelmed me. I tried to keep them in check ever since the accident. I knew I had to, or I'd go to jail, probably for life, and I couldn't face that. But now with Carrie here, her ghost or whatever she was now, demanding revenge. I couldn't push away my guilt, my regret, or my fear away. The banging at the door continued, and the door groaned louder with each slam.

It would give way soon. Carrie, I'm sorry. It was an accident. I half yelled, half sobbed. I didn't mean to. If she heard my desperate apology, it had no effect on her. The slamming continued, unrelenting. I saw the gun lying there on the floor.

In a daze, I picked it up. The door was cracking. I could hear something giving way. I put the gun under my chin, pointed up, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger. A file slapped down on my desk, and I glanced up to see my colleague, Detective Grace Fielding, hovering above me. Her face slightly smug. There was a sticky note attached to the cover with my name on it. For Detective John Latimer.

Autopsy report? I asked. Hot off the presses, she said. And? I asked. Already digging through the file to read the coroner's conclusions. Suicide, no doubt about it, she said. Only one bullet fired, and he had gunshot residue all over his hand. He had some minor injuries, but none that would have been enough to knock him unconscious. So your phantom intruder couldn't have manipulated him into shooting himself while he was knocked out.

I leaned back into my chair and put my hands behind my head. After we'd been called to Forrest's place because of the gunshot, we'd done a survey of the house and had discovered a gravesite under the new basement floorboards, although no body had been recovered. From what we could figure, the Forrest's had an argument in Derrick had, probably accidentally, killed her. Unless we found Carrie's body, we'd never know the full details of what happened between them.

He later moved her body, but, racked by guilt, and with the police, zeroing in on him as a suspect, Derek Forrest had taken his own life. It fit, nice and neat. Still, why was Derek's house trashed? He tripped over the basement stairs. We had the blood test to confirm it. Then he knocked over a table and destroyed his own bedroom,

door. And now the autopsy report findings I just read had confirmed that no alcohol or drugs were in his system. So why? There was one other strange thing. I knew forensics had taken a photo of it. I began to rummage through my desk for the picture. Grace sat at her desk, which was opposite of mine. She saw what I was doing inside. You know, John, you're a great detective. You're a great detective. You often see things that others miss, but... I glanced at her, but didn't stop what I was doing. Sometimes I feel like you see things that aren't really there. Sometimes, a suicide is just a suicide, you know?

And an unusual crime scene is just that. Unusual. No greater mystery. She had a point. There had been times where I'd seen a piece of evidence that didn't quite fit the simple narrative. simple narrative and become obsessed with it. Often, that piece of evidence was what cracked the case wide open. Other times I just wasted weeks of my life picking at that thread, only for it to go nowhere. Maybe this was one of those times. Still. My gut told me there was something more, and so did the evidence. I finally found the crime scene photo I'd been looking for. Maybe you're right. I

said. But then what's the explanation for this? I showed her the photo. In it, you could see the overturned table, along with the glass shards from a vase, and something else that had been on the table, probably a cup. What's interesting wasn't that the table was overturned, even though no one seemed to have a good answer for why Derek Forrest would trash his own house before committing suicide. The interesting bit was the arrangement of the glass shards. And there, Amid the flurry of broken glassware, there was an odd but unmistakable shape, a human footprint, as if someone had stepped directly into the center of the shards, with no regard for their foot. That wasn't Derek's footprint. It was too small for one.

Second, he was wearing socks when we found him. Third, whoever had stepped on the glass would have cut their foot to ribbons. If Grace had read the autopsy report, then she knew just as well as I did that Derek Forrest's only foot injury was his bloodied heel, smashed against the basement steps. Coincidence? Grace said. The glass just happened to land that way? I scoffed, and she didn't sound so sure herself. No, this was no coincidence. Someone else had been in that house that night. Derek had found them in the basement and fled from them, crashing into the table before running upstairs. The person had followed him, stepping through the glass and then almost breaking down the door. Cornered and terrified out of his mind, Derek Forrest had taken his own life. That fit. And there was only one person I could think of who could have provoked Derek into killing himself.

Grace wasn't from here. She'd grown up in Chicago. She didn't know the Blue Ridge Mountains like I did, like we all did. She couldn't know or understand the secret nod the forensics tech had given me. The way the chief had paled when he'd heard my theory. The way that rumors in town had already begun to spread. In the Blue Ridge Mountains, the dead weren't really dead.

SCP 1102 is a phenomenon localized in the Blue Ridge Mountains. mountain range, extending potentially to mid-Georgia and Alabama. It manifests only at night during rain or snow, targeting deceased bodies in a randomly selected area. These bodies reanimate with minor differences from their original form, such as altered skin tone, deformities, or missing facial features. The entities retain their clothing and modifications, but exhibit a dominant urge to rejoin groups of their species, instinctively locating the nearest gathering. Notably, at rare intervals, the phenomenon occurs on a larger scale, spanning many square

kilometers. Entities vanish before sunrise, leaving no trace except footprints and damaged vegetation. A 2006 investigation involving 100 foundation operatives at graveyards resulted in the capture of one entity, revealing that these beings are corporeal, have mass, and can, die. They are linked to the original corpses, which also vanish upon the entity's disappearance. SCP 1102 has been observed through local stories dating back centuries, and its unpredictable nature continues to challenge researchers.