The SCP Experience - The Static Television Set | SCP-6083

Episode Date: May 26, 2021

You never want to look at the Static Television Set...  THIS IS A CLASSIFIED SCP NOT AVAILABLE ON THE SCP DATABASE #scp #drscp #scpstories #scpexplained Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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From Binge All Episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. Tell me again what you have to do. I said sternly as I ordered this subject to repeat his task for the hundredth time. We were already standing outside the door to the seemingly harmless, suburban home. The house was a picture-perfect home, taken straight out of the 70s, abandoned and sealed off from the general public, following the first incident in 1975. No sooner did the foundation learn about the building's existence than it was taken over. I have to sit down in front of the television, turn it on, and report everything I see, the subject said. He was a middle-aged man in decent shape,

but broke after placing a few stupid bets on risky stocks. For him, it was as bad as a gambling addiction with a predictable outcome. In the span of five years, he's lost his job, his house, and his family. If not for the foundation, he'd still be living on the street. Exactly. I'd already explained the risks, though it had scared away many a possible subject. The man was too desperate. What if it happens to me too, he asked.

you'll be sedated before you can get hurt. You won't come to any physical harm. He nodded, understandingly. He'd already signed the documents, and a sizable paycheck would be put into his account upon completion of the task. He was the sixth man we'd sent in, but only the second civilian. The first four had all been Class D personnel, each of which suffered severe mental deterioration after only 15 minutes in the room.

If not for my own clearance, I'd enter the room myself to finally understand what all these men had seen. But as the foundation rule stated, no Class C personnel or above was allowed to have any contact with SCP 6083. And following the failure of our prior operations, we'd taken in desperate subjects with no other options. It's time. We'll be observing you through the camera you have mounted to your helmet, I explained. Why didn't you just send in like a robot or something and film the television? he asked. It doesn't work like that, and that's all you need to know. He looked nervous,

and rightfully so. He wasn't a big believer in severe mental illness, thinking most of it could be overcome by sheer willpower, which is why he'd signed up for the project. In many ways, he was the ideal subject, stubborn and ignorant, looking for an easy paycheck. I'd explained the risks, but no matter what kind of details I gave him, he just didn't take it all that serious. Still, The stories had put at least some level of fear into him. I'm ready, he said. And with that, we sent him inside. The house was covered in dust.

Ancient furniture and ugly green wallpaper covered the walls, with pictures of a family that had all died decades earlier. All of them had overdone hairstyles and clothes that had long since gone out of fashion. But in the pictures, they couldn't possibly have foreseen what would happen to them after ordering a then-new television set. A 1974 Sony KV-1920 color had been the device to take the life of their entire family. Their first evening together, sitting down as a family with dinner and a broadcast, excited to finally have their very own window into the rapidly developing entertainment world.

Down the hall, third door on the left, I told the subject through the radio. Yeah, I remember from the briefing, he said back. He needed to enter the living room, where the family had enjoyed, their last supper. As he opened the ancient door, dried out, black blood splatters were still visible on the carpeted floor. It was just fragments of former times, as the building had been sterilized months after the incident. The subject flicked a light switch, but the room remained dark. It's kind of dark in here, he said. Only the television set is still supplied. Just turn your flashlight on, I ordered. He did as commanded, producing a strong beam that illuminated the room.

It didn't have much more than a dining table and a sofa sitting in front of the television. The sofa was still discolored from the blood, long since dried out and harmless, but a constant reminder of the horrors that had taken place. Is that blood? The subject asked. I thought you said I wouldn't get hurt. You won't as long as you're alone in there. What does that mean? he asked, getting agitated.

There is no one else in there to harm you. Don't worry. The family that had lived there, consisted of a father, a mother and their two kids, a daughter and a son. As they turned the television on, they'd seen something that put the entirety of the family into a catatonic state, all except for the father, who silently went to the kitchen to grab a knife. Then he walked back and calmly slid his family's throat, before collapsing on the floor himself for the remainder of his life. He never uttered another word. He just spent his time in the

Foundation Psychiatric Clinic, filling papers with black ink until he died from a heart attack 15 years later. So, I just flick the TV on and sit down? He asked. And describe what you see, I clarified. He did as instructed, switching the old television set on. As it came to life, a storm of static filled the screen. Of course, what the subject himself saw was a different story. But the pictures produced could not be carried through a camera. They would only be visible to those who personally visited the room. What do you see? I asked. He remained silent for a moment, fixated on a secret image hidden from the rest of the world.

Mr. Carlson, I need you to describe the images. Sorry, um, it's a family sitting down for dinner. They're eating a roasted chicken, but... But what? I asked. They're not looking at each other. They all look terrified. It's like they know they're being filmed. Through the radio.

I could hear the subject getting stressed as his breathing got more frequent. They're not swallowing. They're just shoving more food into their mouths and chewing. What the hell is this? he asked. Keep watching. Another minute passed. And according to the subject, the picture didn't change. The screen went dark, he said.

For us, all it displayed was an incomprehensible mess of static. Keep watching. Oh, now it's showing an abandoned inside pool. There's no water in it, but there's still a man walking around with swimming trunks. Wait, he's getting ready to dive in from the 25 feet bored. He paused in anticipation. Oh my God, he jumped. He's fucking dead.

Tell me that wasn't real. Truth be told, none of us knew. Every subject had always seen the same images, but their origin couldn't be determined. In many ways, it was as if the footage existed in a separate reality. The current subject had lasted five minutes that far, a third of the average. No one had ever made it past the 15-minute mark. Now there's just a woman dancing. She's wearing one of those ballet outfits.

She's crying. The room is full of people, but they're all facing away from the dancing woman. They're not blinking. What is this shit? Keep watching. You need to stay in there for 15 minutes. For each scene that passed, the subject kept getting more unsettled. as he described the events that took place.

His voice started to crack, fear finally breaking through the stubborn facade. Now there's a man just sitting on the floor. He's dragging his hand over a rough, concrete wall. He's starting to bleed, but he's so emotionless. Oh no, he's not stopping. Shit, I can see his bones. I already knew where the scene would go.

Though I'd never personally witnessed it, I'd been told the same story by each of the five prior subjects. the man in the footage would keep dragging his hand along the wall until little more than bare bone remained, never showing a single sign of pain. Then the 15-minute mark approached, and the subject had fallen silent. Mr. Carlson, are you still with us? I asked. Yeah, I just, he trailed off. What do you see? I asked. Now there's a child. I don't know if it's a girl or a boy. It's wearing some sort of dark gown, sitting in what I think is a basement. It's whispering something, but I can't hear.

The words got stuck in his throat. Wait, it said my name. How can that be? He said in shock. Keep talking to us, I ordered. The kid is talking to me. It's saying, no, that's not true. That's a lie, he said, raising his voice to a mild scream.

Mr. Carlson, keep describing what you see. It's telling me about my past, but it's not how it happened. It's a twisted version of the truth. Again, he paused. His breathing was getting more labor. It was clear how distressed he'd become. At the 16-minute mark, the subject had survived longer than anyone else. He told me the truth, the subject said.

What truth? I asked. He told me what's going to happen to me when I die. What exactly did he tell you? I asked. But the subject never responded. He just sat quietly and stared at the screen's static, catatonic life. all the rest. Still, we'd made progress. We'd finally learned what the theme of the information had been. But before we could truly end the project, we needed more. Cut the power, bring me the

subject, I told the guards. This one won't give us any more information, but at least he didn't try to kill himself. With a simple, yes sir, the two guards went to retrieve the broken man. He'd fulfilled his part of the deal, but I feared he'd never be healthy enough to reap the benefits. Once the room had been cleared, I returned to the facility to write my report. We were moving forward, but to finally learn the truth, I was going to need more subjects. SCP 6083 is a television set model, 1974, Sony KV-1920, located in a suburban-style home, isolated since 1975 following the first incident. SCP 6083 is located within the living room and remains the only object in the house still connected to any power source. Upon activation, the TV emits a static-like picture as seen by observation through cameras.

The only individuals able to gain any meaning from the pictures are subjects situated directly in front of the television set. Since the death of the family originally living in the house, a total of six subjects have been witnessed to the hidden broadcast, four of which were D-Class-Pers. personnel and two civilians. All remain in a permanent catatonic state. It's never too early to plan your summer story in Europe with WestJet, from rolling countryside to cobblestone streets. Begin your next chapter. Book your seat at westjet.com or call your travel agent.

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