The SCP Experience - The Thousand Hand Tree | SCP-2988

Episode Date: April 24, 2025

Beneath a forgotten canopy, an ancient tree with a thousand grasping hands feeds on the minds and limbs of those who taste its fruit—each bite pulling them closer to a fate worse than death. This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2988 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: James Tully * * * 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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s' apply. Long has it been. He could feel the roots digging deep into the dark soil. He could taste the water that they sucked greedily from the earth. He felt a thousand fingers flex at his command and he tried to remember who he was.

The sun was hot and it fed him. He felt the light on his leaves and he tried to remember before. He thought he remembered something sweet. Fruit. His fruit was ripe now, and hung from black branches that spread into the forest like lightning. He clenched his thousand hands, and his branches shuddered. The wind carried the sound deep into the forest, and he thought he remembered for a moment. But what's a moment to an ancient? He ate the sun and drank from deep roots. He thought they called him doctor once, but the thought faded to the moment. in the shadows below him. The hand floated in the clear canister, a twisted claw suspended in

ammonia. This is all they got? Agent Clark said as he turned the cylinder in his hand. He put the floating claw on the gray table in front of him and shoved his hands into the pockets of his black suit. Yep. And the only reason it's here is because it chased him until, until what? I don't know, until it died, I guess. Garibaldi said it just flopped over like this. Florence made a claw with his hand and flipped it home up. Damn, Florence. You must have fucking aced forensics at the Academy. Ah, come on. Go talk to him yourself if you're going to be a prick about it. Where is Garibaldi anyways? Clark said. He took one hand out of its pocket and fished a pack of

cigarettes from inside his jacket. He pulled one out with his teeth and tilted the pack towards Florence. No thanks. He's down in Section 5 still. Still? God damn. Agent Clark sat around his dangling cigarette. He pulled a silver zippo from his pocket and flicked it to life. What's I've been, two days? He said as he touched the flame to the cigarette. Three, they're being thorough. Florence rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the floating hand.

Let's go down and see if we can have a chat. Hey, check this shit out. Agent Clark held the zippo out in the palm of his hand, and Florence looked down to read the engraving. Florence read the engraving out loud. I want to believe. He chuckled and said, You're a regular fucking molder.

Agent Clark laughed through cigarette smoke and put the lighter back in his pocket. I guess that makes you Scully. Ladies first. Clark said as he held his hand out, beckoning Florence to lead the way. Fuck you, man, Florence said. But he stepped out of the room with Clark following behind.

They walked down the featureless, white hallway, and stood in front of the elevator. Clark snuffed his cigarette out in the ashtray, bolted to the trash can outside the doors. He pressed the down arrow. They stood with hands crossed at their belt buckles and looked at the numbers above the doors. So what were they going for anyway?

Clark said, still looking up at the numbers. You didn't read the report? I'm getting to it. Of course you are, Lawrence said. He shook his head, but still looked up at the numbers. Some kind of tree, right? Yeah, some kind of tree, Clark.

Jesus, man, you really have no fucking idea. Clark clicked his tongue by way of response. Right. It's a Euclid. A tree that's covered in limbs like the one you were fondling back there. We don't know much about it. That's what Garibaldi and his team were going to find out. His report isn't released yet. So a freaky tree, huh?

Clark said. Florence rolled his eyes and the elevator bell sounded. They both stepped inside and swiped their ID cards across the reader. A beep sounded and the button for Section 5 changed from red to green. Florence pressed it and the elevator hummed to life, vibrating under their feet. Clark sniffed his nose to break the silence as they descended. So, what did you have for lunch? Grabbed his sandwich at the chauhall.

Hammer tuna. You think I'm eating fish. from this place, man? Ham. Shit, I like the tuna. Of course you do, Florence said. He smirked and shook his head again. The elevator shuddered to a stop, and they stepped into a wood-walled office. Cynthia, how's it hanging?

Clark said to the black-haired secretary that sat behind a thick oak desk. Lower than yours, Clark, she said and smiled. She turned her head to Florence, and her face brightened with a white-toothed smile. How are you, Florence? I'm good. It's good to see you, Synth. Florence said and smiled back at her. We're here to see Garibaldi. Cynthia's smile dropped away, and her eyes fell to her desk.

Right. He's... well, just head down to room seven. Be gentle on him, will you, boys? We will be. Just here for a chat. Clark added. The agents slid their IDs across another sensor, and the heavy door behind Cynthia, clicked as the heavy bolt released. The door swung open and they walked through it

and into another fluorescent-lit, blank hallway. They stopped in front of room seven, and Florence knocked heavily on the door. The door swung open, and a man with gray streaked hair stood in front of Clark and Florence. Hey, Smith, Florence said. How's it going, Doc? Garibaldi in here, Clark asked.

Smith answered. Yeah, he's here. Smith moved aside and the agents stepped into the room. It was a stark contrast to the featureless hallway. Heavy, wooden bookshelves lined the walls and leather-bound volume sat conspicuously on their shelves. A large desk sat away from a wall and papers were spread across its leather padded surface.

A worn leather armchair sat next to the ancient desk. A couch was pushed up against one of the bookshelves and on it laid a man. He looked like shit, Garibaldi. Clark said. Florence smacked him in the arm. How are you, man? Florence said.

His voice was soft and held weight. Nah, Clark's right. I feel like shit. Garibaldi said from the couch. He had one arm slung across his eyes and did not move it. Clark walked to one of the bookshelves and pulled a red book from the shelf. He flipped it open and didn't read it. What the hell happened out there, Baldy?

He said. Still looking down. at the book. I don't know. I just... Garibaldi sat up and rubbed a hand down his face. Dr. Smith pulled two chairs in front of the couch and sat in the old leather armchair. Florence sat and leaned forward toward Garibaldi. Clark stayed standing and put the book back in its place. Just take it easy. This isn't a debrief, Florence said. His voice was still calm. Garibaldi stared across the room at nothing. His eyes were wide and wet. It fucking took him, all those, those goddamn hands, he said.

Who did it take? Florence asked. Garibaldi's eyes dripped tears. Fitzpatrick. Clark said from behind the seated men. Florence shot him a glare. I guess he read the damn report after all. Strung him up like fucking meat, Garibaldi continued.

Like a goddamn, like stretched out on those fucking branches. It's all right. Dr. Smith said. He put a hand on Garibaldi's shoulder. It was fucking feeding him. He was twisted up. Hung up there and the damn thing was feeding him. Garibaldi was sobbing now. You better go, gentlemen, Dr. Smith said. Right, Florence answered.

Clark said nothing, and the two stepped out of the room and into the white hallway. They could hear Garibaldi as they shut the door. I'm sorry, Doc. I just... I left him. I couldn't. I tried. He said through tears. The agents walked in silence back down the hallway. They said goodbye to Cynthia and got on the elevator. Clark broke the silence.

Well, that was fucking useless. You read the damn report. Why the hell do you fuck with me, Clark? Got to keep you on your toes, Scully. You're a child. Ah, come on, man. Yeah, I read the report. So did you.

So why'd you ask him that? I was trying to get him to open up. You know, decent human interaction 101. We need to go find him. Clerk said, his face suddenly hard. Fitzpatrick. Yes. I know.

The elevator stopped, and they stepped into the armory. RBC Training Ground has discovered potential in over 20,000 Canadian athletes and counting. Your story could be next. If you've got the drive, they'll help you find your path to the Olympics. Let's see what you've got. Sign up for free at rBC training ground.ca. The official report came the next day, and the agents studied it closely. It was detailed, but the summary was simple.

So Garibaldi and Fitz went to check this tree out, and only Garibaldi came back. He brought this. Florence held up the dead hand as he spoke. Yep, that's about the gist. The tree was covered in human arms that chased the poor bastard after it snatched the good doctor. Clark pulled back the bolt on an M.K. 18 short-barreled carbine. They were back in the armory looking over the loadouts they had requested the previous day.

Clark looked into the chamber of the rifle before he let the bolt slam home. So we go in, just the two of us, and see if we can find Doc? Florence said as he counted incendiary grenades. Yep. Well, we've done crazier shit than that, Florence mumbled. Yes, we have. They geared up in silence and walked to the motor pool. Looks like we walk from here.

Clark said from the driver's seat as he slowed the truck to a stop. The dirt road they had been following ended in front of a wall of dense forest. They dismounted, put their packs on, and walked to the tree line. The sun was high in the sky and there wasn't a cloud for miles, but the forest was dark as night. Thick vines twisted in the canopy before it could find its way to the earth. Why does everything have to always be so goddamn spooky, man? "'Lorence said. "'Clark packed a wad of Copenhagen into his lip

"'and spit a dark streak of tobacco into the dirt. "'Living the dream,' he said. "'He smirked at Florence "'and flakes of black tobacco covered his teeth. "'Florence shook his head and looked down at the GPS, "'strapped to his wrist. "'Come on,' he said. "'He bent low under thorny vines

"'and into the dark underbrush. "'Clark shrugged his pack higher up his back and followed. "'The agents' went silent as they stepped into the dark undergrowth. The thorned vines gripped their black fatigues as they squeezed through the oppressive bush. The sound of a river flowing over ancient rocks faded into the air, and Florence checked his GPS again.

They were following the path of the river as planned. Rays of harsh sunlight broke through the canopy and sliced across the path that the two were pounding to the forest. Insects floated in the beams, and small shadows scurried around the light. The forest led up its relentless density as they walked deeper into its bowels. They kept distance between each other, walking single file through the loosening woods.

Florence held a fist in the air and stopped. Clark stopped instantly behind him. Florence motioned with his palm down, and the agents sunk to a knee. They made no noise, and the sounds of buzzing insects and shuddering branches filled the void. Florence turned his head back toward Clark and pointed into the grove of oak trees in front of them. Clark squinted and looked. He took one hand off his rifle and shrugged his shoulders. Florence tightened his lips and shook his head.

He pointed again, this time stabbing a knife hand through the air. Clark saw it then, a slanted bunch of palm fronds woven together and leaning against one of the old trees. It was a shelter. He stood up and shuffled to Florence. his gear rattling as he moved. He knelt. What the fuck is it? Garibaldi must have made it.

Somebody did? Well, let's go. Roger that. The pair stood and walked slowly forward. Their rifles low and ready. Clark checked their rear with every few steps, and Florence was the first to look behind the woven shelter. Jesus.

The remains of a fire were laid in the center of the shelter. human limbs were half charred in the long dead ashes. More limbs were scattered on the ground. Clark picked one up in a gloved hand. Are those? Bite marks. Florence finished. Well, that sure his fuck wasn't in the damn report, Clark said.

Florence was squinting next to the tree's trunk. Yeah, no shit. Check this out, he said. Clark squatted next to him. Florence brushed his hand across a section of peeled bark and revealed letters scratched into the bare trunk. He read them out loud. Drip, drip, drip.

He's still talking to me. The fruit. It drip, drip, drip, drips. Not exactly Hemingway, Clark said. Florence ignored him and brushed the leaves at his feet. He reached into the dirt and pinched a small orange orb between his fingers. He lifted it to Clark. Drip, drip, drip, drip, he said.

Fuck, man. Get that shit away from me. Clark said as he stood up. Florence dropped the old fruit. So what now? Clark asked. Florence stood up and knocked dirt from his legs with his hands. Take some pictures and keep pushing.

Doesn't change much really. Yeah, except that Baldi is way more fucked up than we thought. Florence shrugged and pulled his pack from his back. He dropped it between his legs. He pulled a black camera from a front pocket and began taking pictures of the scene. Clark fished the wad of tobacco from his lip with his tongue, spit into the dirt, and packed another pinch in its place. He poked at one of the half-eaten hands with his boot. Why'd you think he ate him?

How the hell would I know, bro? Florence said from behind the camera's viewfinder. I think he was eating the fruit until he couldn't stand whatever the hell it was doing to him. Nothing else to eat after that except these. Clark kicked another hand. Florence looked up from his camera. He hated when Clark had a good idea. Not bad, Mulder, but why'd he stick around at all?

Yeah, Clark said as he looked toward the carved words. All right, let's get the fuck out of here. Florence said as he put the camera back in its pocket and slung his pack onto his back. Solid copy. They pushed past the shelter and back into the grove of trees that had opened the forest. Light seeped in now, and they walked steadily toward the objective indicated on their GPSes. They were silent again. They moved like shadows through the forest.

Florence pointed to the ground and Clark looked. A hand lay still and decaying in the dirt. A trail of dead human limbs lay like breadcrumbs in their path. They said nothing and continued their patrol, following the decaying trail markers toward their grim objective. A cacophony of clashing branches ripped through the forest. Dude! Clark yelled through the noise as he ran to Florence.

Look, Florence said. He did not look at Clark. He stared ahead, and Clark followed his gaze. A massive tree stood in front of them. It's thousands of ancient limbs trembling as hands bent and flexed on black branches. The noise grew louder as the limbs strained against the branches, and they seemingly grew as they reached towards the agents. Florence!

Clark shouted. Branches reached out from the brush and snatched Florence's arms with putrid hands. Clark raised his rifle, and when the red reticle of his sight crossed the branches, he squeezed the trigger. The shot of the rifle echoed through the trees before the sound was swallowed by the frantic branches. As each round smashed into the limbs, the tree shuddered madly. The whole forest vibrated with the power of its ancient form. The hands grabbed Florence and began to pass him through the branches. They shuffled him through their grips, rolling and passing him closer and closer to the trunk of the massive tree.

Florence freed one arm and pulled a knife from a sheath strapped to his chest. He slashed madly at the limbs, but they did not relent. Fuck! Hang on, man! Clark yelled as he ran, trying to keep up as the branches passed Florence overhead. Clark took his hands off his rifle and pulled a strap on its sling, tightening the weapon snug against his body as he ran. He took an incendiary grenade from its pouch and pulled the pin. Close your eyes! He yelled as he hurled a grenade into the mess of limbs.

The first of light let the forest as the phosphorus ignited. The tree's limbs shuddered more violently than ever, as if the entire forest was writhing in pain. The hands that passed Florence spasmed into grotesque shapes and their grip loosened. Florence fell heavily to the forest floor. Clark drew his Glock 19 from a drop holster strapped to his leg and fired controlled shots into the tree as he ran to Florence. The tree was still trembling as Clark holstered his pistol and pulled Florence to his feet. You all right, man. Good to go, bro. Let's get the fuck out of here.

They both shouted over the sound of the thrashing woods. Florence slung his arm over Clark's shoulder, and the pair moved swiftly back towards the shelter. Florence limping, and Clark holding him steady. They made it back to the shelter, and they both dropped their packs into the dirt. Florence limped to the carved tree and collapsed to the ground. He leaned back against the tree and breathed deeply. Clark took his hat off and rubbed his face with his forearm. What? The hell was that, man?

Florence leaned his head back and breathed steadily. I could hear him, he said. His eyes still closed. Yeah, no shit, man. I think they heard that in fucking China. No, I mean Fitz. Yeah, Doc. I heard him.

I mean, he was there at least. I don't know. You're going to start eating this shit next, bro? Clark kicked one of the bite-marked arms toward Florence. Relax, man. Relax! Hell no! That thing was rolling you like a 7-Eleven fucking hot dog. Let's just get out of here and report what we found.

They'll get a team out and clean this shit up. No, Clark, we aren't leaving him. Clark sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. But he pulled the bolt on his rifle and checked for brass. Fuck it, man. Let's do some work. No, we take it slow, smooth. It was stupid of us to get caught like that. Clark nodded toward Florence's leg.

Can't go very fast anyways. I'm fine, Florence said. He stood up and flexed his leg. Clark pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, but he said nothing. Florence pulled a grenade from his pack and handed it to Clark. Clark put the grenade in the empty pouch, and they both swung their packs onto their backs. So what's the plan? Clark asked. I'm going to talk to him.

Clark rolled his eyes and raised his hands. Oh, okay. You're going to talk to him, bro. Are you kidding? Florence reached into the dirt and picked up a piece of old fruit. He held it in front of his face between two fingers. No way, man. No fucking way. How do you know that shit will even work? I just do. Oh, okay. Clark said and raised both hands with thumbs up. Come on. You saw what it did to Garibaldi?

He waved his arms wide. I can't explain it, man. I could feel him. And it'll work. I know it will. Clark shook his head. Well, we've done crazy or shit. Exactly. Florence finished. He tucked the fruit into his cargo pocket. So what's the move? Clark asked. Like I said, we go slow. We stopped just outside where we got contact last time. Then I eat the fruit. See what happens.

We sneak up on the angry tree and you pop zombie acid? Wow, pure brilliance. Absolutely watertight. Florence ignored him. Let's go, he said. They moved back into the forest. The tree was silent now as they followed the same trail of dead hands through the open grove. The insects had stopped their calls and no shadows scurried out of their path.

The sun still ripped down through the canopy of oak, and the only sound was the almost silent patrol of the agents. Florence took point again, and again Clark checked their rear. Clark rotated his tobacco again, spitting out one pinch and cramming another into his lip. He squeezed the wad and spit a stream of brown sludge into the leaves. The sound of the spit was louder than the agent's movement, and when it hit the leaves, the forest shuddered. The pair stopped, and Florence looked over his shoulder at Clark. Clark held up a hand and shrugged.

Florence shook his head. The forest settled, and the pair continued their movement. They came to the spot where they were attacked and stopped before they crossed it. Florence pointed into the trees. They could see the hands in the dark branches. The fingers twitched, but they did not attack. Florence looked at Clark and pulled the fruit from his pocket. Clark raised his eyebrows and tilted his head.

The bear still said nothing. Florence took a sharp breath and bit into the orange fruit. The old husk was filled with lukewarm juice. He swallowed it. and waited. The effects came fast. His head went light, and he stumbled on his feet. Clark grabbed him around his waist.

I'm all right, Florence said. He squeezed his eyes shut and then blinked them open, staring into the forest, following the branches to their home at the massive trunk beyond. He could feel the tree. He could feel Fitzgerald. He's here, he said. All right, man. Lead the way.

Florence walked slowly. He stumbled, but. Clark steadied him. Clark looked at the branches that stretched and twisted over their head. He watched the hands that hung grotesquely. The branches bent toward the pair as they walked. The hands flexed towards them but did not attack. One by one, section by section, the hands reached down, following the agents like overhead lights, turning on one by one in a desolate hallway. He knows we're here, Florence said. His eyes were wide and unblinking. He was walking steadily now.

He moved to the foot of the massive trunk and stopped. What are you doing, man? Clark said, still looking into the canopy. Florence said nothing, but he stretched his arms wide out to his side and tilted his head up. His eyes went white, and the sound of cracking wood broke into the air. The trunk of the tree split open, widening like the jaws of a terrible ancient creature. Shit, Florence, what's going on? Clark said.

Florence still said nothing. He still stood white-eyed and wide-armed. The trunk opened wider, and orange liquid oozed from the gaping wood. Strings of gelatinous orange tendrils stretched across the opening, and then Clark saw it. A human form was spayed out inside the open tree. Arms and legs had melded with the wood of the tree, and the body was suspended in the center of the terrible doorway by the hideous orange strands. Shit, man, come on. Is that him?

Florence's head rolled back down slowly, and his white eyes stared at the hanging body. He gasped, and his eyes flashed back to their normal hazel. That's him, he said. The tree began to tremble, and the hideous, half-wood body shuddered in its chamber. Fuck this, Clark said. He ran to the trunk and pulled his knife from its sheath. He ran to the trunk and began to cut at the orange strands that held Fitzgerald's malformed body. The tree went into a rage.

The earth shook and the branches were. thrived. Florence shook his head and stared at Clark. Clark looked back as he cut strand after strand. Fucking shoot something, Florence! Florence snapped back to reality and raised his rifle. He chose his shots calmly as he breathed steadily. One by one the hands attacked, and one by one Florence put a bullet into them. Clark cut one more strand, and the half-wooded body fell to the floor. Clark grabbed the body by the legs and began to drag him. Florence flipped the selector switch on his rifle as Clark passed with the body. He followed behind and ripped fully automatic fire into the tree, into the canopy, and into the trunk. His magazine emptied and he pressed the release and let it fall to the dirt while he pulled another from a chest pouch.

He slammed at home, hit the bolt release, and kept firing. The two agents moved together like this, Clark dragging what was left to Fitzgerald, and Florence firing streams of rounds into anything and anything. into anything and everything. They said nothing, and they moved fast. They made it back to the shelter, and Florence was still laying rounds down in their path. We're good, Florence!

Clark shouted over the ripping rounds. Florence did not respond. Florence, fuck! Seats fire! Finally, Florence's magazine went dry. He still held the trigger back with his finger as he stared back at where they had come from. Clark put an arm on Florence's shoulder. Florence, it's all right, man.

Florence looked back at Clark and his wide eyes finally softened. He took his finger off his rifle's trigger and let it hang on its sling. Clark looked him in the eyes. You all right, bro? Yeah, no. Yeah, I'm all right, man. Let's get out of here, huh? Yeah, right, let's go.

Clark and Florence stared at the chamber that sat in the center of the white room. Inside, Fitzgerald's body floated in a viscous orange, fluid. His body had been almost entirely consumed by wood, and his eyes stared back at them through rough bark. All right, I'm getting out of here, man. They better be serving tuna today, Clark said. Florence said nothing and stared at the floating wooden body. Lawrence? Hey Florence. Clark said and waved a hand in front of Florence's face. Florence shook his head and blinked his eyes. What? Oh yeah. See you, man. All right, man. See you in the morning, Clark said. He walked to the door and stopped before stepping out of the room.

He looked back at Florence. You sure you're all right, man? Yeah, man. Good to go. Florence said. He was still looking at the floating body. Clark walked out of the room and left his partner alone. Florence stared at Fitzgerald's deformed, floating body and tilted his head. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, dry, orange fruit. He rolled it in his fingertips, and looked at its wrinkled flesh. He looked back up at the body of Fitzgerald. He looked back into the bark-shrouted eyes. He breathed deeply and bit down on the fruit.

SCP 2988 is a 26-meter-tall tree resembling a quaking aspen, located in a secret North American grove, with black leaves, mottled bark, and narcotic fruit labeled SCP-2988-1. This fruit induces hallucinations, nausea, and paralysis in humans. The tree is equipped with both human and animal forelimbs that exhibit full dexterity, allowing it to offer fruit, restrain, or forcibly feed nearby individuals.

If a subject consumes the fruit and becomes incapacitated, SCP 2988 elevates them into its branches and begins a ritualistic dismemberment, integrating their limbs into its own structure while using their bodies as fertilizer. Detached limbs can pursue fleeing subjects independently for short distances, and SCP 2988 has recently exhibited behavior suggesting attempts at reproduction by planting these autonomous limbs, which later sprouted root-like structures. All efforts to cultivate SCP 2988-1 independently have failed, and its reproductive mechanisms remain under study.