The SCP Experience - The Tunnel Monster | SCP-3663

Episode Date: September 16, 2021

SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-3663: The Tunnel Monster This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-3663, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drscp #scp #scpfoundation #doctorscp #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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50 tours on the machine-a-Bass Bonanza. Depos Minimimimimum of 10 dollars. Veillet jewell in a fashion responsible. The conditions apply. When his car pulled up, I was practically vibrating. All the little metal bits of equipment on my backpack were clinking and jingling. The car a beaner vibrated against my water bottle.

In an attempt to look a little cooler than I was, I took a couple of deep breaths to curb the jitters. Thankfully, it was dark out, and he probably didn't see anything. As soon as he'd come to a full stop, I braved stepping out into the headlights. I was barely able to make my way down the path from the porch to the driveway. I shielded my eyes with one arm and gave a weak wave with the other. When I reached the passenger's side, the door opened in front of me,

and I saw him sitting in the driver's seat, leaning over the console to let me in. Welcome aboard, he said. A polite smile spread across his sharp, pointed face. Hey, glad to meet you, I extended my hand. Uh, prima is it? He extended his, and we shook. Richter, he corrected me. Richter, I repeated back.

We met on the forums. the Parawatch forums, to be specific. He started a thread offering up his hometown to see if there was anybody nearby. I know you're not supposed to give out that information to strangers, but the opportunity was simply too good to pass up. My name's Harold. Get it? How old?

Harold? Came up with that when I was 12. He chuckled. But I think it was more out of sympathy than genuine amusement. All right, go sling that backpack in the truck bed and we'll be off. I followed his instructions and climbed into his big rusty truck. As soon as I was situated, we took off without another word. The truck smelled like dirt and old newspaper, reeked of being inherited instead of bought.

Still, anything was better than nothing. And I had nothing, which was why he was driving. After some awkward minutes of silence, he spoke. I should have told you, he warned. But that backpack's probably not going to fit where we're going. You're going to have to choose what to take and leave behind. What? I gave him a look, but it was lost in the darkness.

Well, dang, uh, the EMF reader can fit in my pocket. Flashlight is a must. Waki-talkies are portable, and we can keep the channel open without saying anything to catch it speaking. It doesn't communicate that way, he interrupted me. Huh? I asked. For a moment, the only sound was the truck's tires on the asphalt, crackling over the unkept road. Plus, we're not going to be splitting up, he continued. Don't need the radio. Well, all right, then. I guess we can take some of the bars and put them in our pockets, but the fruit will stay behind. The notebook is a bit bulky. It'll be fine, he replied. I rolled my eyes. Hey, I thought you were supposed to be the expert here. I did my homework, and you should appreciate that, I said. Yeah, well, I do. Thanks, but I am the expert.

I've done this before, and I can tell you, none of that stuff does anything. So go get your flashlight and some power bars, and we'll go in. We're here, he said. Richard Part in a small turnout. The pitch black night was crowded with trees that blotted out the stars, the only possible source of illumination. We were essentially in the middle of nowhere. A slight breeze pushed leaves and pine needles up against one another, and I thought I might have heard the sounds of some critters scurrying away when we first parked, but it was otherwise still. I hopped out of the car as Ricker did the same, begrudgingly snagging only the bare necessities for my carefully assembled pack and leaving the rest in the truck bed. So, where is it? I asked.

Down here, Richter waved me over. I followed him down the hill, over dead leaves and underbrush, waving a flashlight around to find my way. This is more secluded than I expected, I observed. If ghosts were okay with publicity, they'd come out in the day, too. Can't argue with that, I mumbled. Look, there, Richter said. He pointed with his flashlight to a concrete pipe, jutting out of the steep incline.

It was nested in a small dip, and there was brown discoloration at its rim and along its bottom. Richter gracefully skidded down the hill, landed on his feet just in front of it. This is the stormdream you were talking about, I proposed. Yes, he confirmed. It's haunted. Wow. He flashed me a quick smile.

You want to lead the way? You seem excited. Nervous more like, I replied. That stillness returned again. I found myself standing at the top of the incline, not yet brave enough to join him in the mini canyon that preceded the pipe. I looked down at him, the dead leaves, the fallen pine needles, the dust and dirt, and the storm drain that dug itself into the earth.

Guess that means I'll take the lead? Come down here. It's a storm drain, so there's only one way to go. If something scary happens, you just turn the other way and run. I wasn't quick to comply, but I eventually conceded. I steadily lowered myself down and ended up standing right next to him. The entrance was even more foreboding from this angle, a large gaping maw. I had a pit form in my stomach and a knot form in my chest.

I had to remind myself that ghosts were scary but non-lethal. Richter wasted no time. He crouched down and stepped into the tunnel with confidence and just kept going. I made sure to follow a couple steps behind. The sound of wind quickly became non-existent. I shivered as the temperature dropped some degrees, and I found my single jacket uncomfortable. Run, you say? I muttered.

Looks more like crawl really fast. Sure, but that doesn't inspire confidence, he said. It really doesn't, I replied. For a moment, the only sound was the friction our shoes made with the damp concrete. So, will talking keep it from appearing? I asked. Not in my experience, Richter said. Have you seen it? I asked. He stopped walking for just a second. He turned back to look at me. Yes. Then he turned around and kept walking. Wow. How often? I asked. I hear it more than I see it. Well, how often do you hear it? Every time, he replied. I stopped.

moving. It was getting really cold. He only stopped when he noticed I wasn't following. Getting cold feet? Rector asked. Sorry. I thought ghosts were hard to find. That's why, you know, we're all trying to prove their existence or something, I said. Not if you know where to look, Richter replied. He let me have my moment for a second, but waved me forward, and I slowly but steadily got back up to pace, crouching low to keep my back from scraping the rough ceiling. How often do you come down here? asked, once a week. To do what? Just to make sure it's still here. And you've never gotten a picture? I asked. Well, that's why you're here, right? I was about to respond, but Richter seemed to come

across something. Look here, Harold. Richter moved his flashlight to show an opening in the concrete wall. It looked like something had burst through the pipe, and there was a tiny earthen cubby, just big enough that when Richter waved me in, we could both sit down as long as we kept our heads low. I paused for him to explain himself, but there was a only thing. only silence instead. So I asked him, what do we do now? Wait, he said. Wait, for what? I asked. Wait for it. The ghost. What do we do when it gets here? I asked Richter. Rikter didn't respond. I asked another question. How, how do you even know it's here? Richter finally responded. I've always sort of known it was here. A friend and I were playing when we were really little.

We were playing pretend, and we were pretending that one of us was this monster, right? We called it the tunnel monster. Well, the tunnel monster would hang out in these tunnels. One of us would try to escape, and the other would try to drag us in. I nearly jumped out of my skin. That sound. There was a sound coming from the storm drain, something painful and loud, a wailing. Is that it? Richter held a finger up to his lips to shush me, and then powered on with his story as that far away wailing continued to echo through the pipe. We had gotten into a kind of argument, though, about who won the game. It was so stupid because there wasn't ever supposed to be a winner. It was just supposed to go on forever, except that kids' games can't go on forever.

The wailing grew louder. It was torturous, overwhelming. I'd never heard anything like it in my life. And that's when we found it. Here? I asked. Well, not here. Not exactly, he replied. The specter shrieked.

What do we do? What do we do when it gets close? We're stuck in a hole. Should we run? Should we? shh, he held his finger to his lips again, and then looked to his right as if listening only for the proximity of the thing. It doesn't usually get this close. I spoke at a lower volume. If you've already seen it and you've known it was here, then why? Why am I here?

I just wanted to show someone. Another screech came from the tunnel. It doesn't like me, Richter said. Doesn't like you? I asked. He shook his head. It won't get close to me anymore. Any more? I questioned. What's a ghost? Richter questioned back. What? I asked. What's a ghost to you? Richter continued to ask. I was struggling to think straight. The only thing's keeping me in place were how difficult it was to move

and the thought that I might actually prove the existence of the supernatural, but my resolve was waning fast. Uh, um, it's someone who has died. It's their spirit. Hmm, close. Not quite. It's the spirit of someone who doesn't exist anymore, he replied. What's the difference? I asked. Well, are you the same herald from four years ago? Haven't a lot of things happened between now and then?

So, if you're a different herald, then where'd the last one go? What remains of it? I could hear footsteps. I could hear the heavy wet footsteps of something coming down the tunnel. Something coming towards Richter and I. Something lumbering and screaming and awful. This spirit? It's my ghost, and we're here to exercise it.

You want to run, right? I barely even processed the insanity of his last statement. Instead, I frantically nodded my head. Okay, good, Richter said. He's forcefully grabbed me by the shoulders and wrestled, kicking and yelling, out into the tunnel. Run! Richter yelled. I moved my flashlight to the right and ran down the tunnel in the other direction, out the way I came, going as fast as I could on my hands and feet, the adrenaline sometimes interfering with my coordination, hitting my head into the ceiling, scraping my arms along the concrete, doing everything I possibly could to put as much distance between me and the thing. The thing. The

thing that was screaming, wailing, closing the distance faster than anything of its size should be able to in a tunnel this cramped. A stench of mold and wet paper was slowly suffocating me as it got closer, so strong as to make me cough and gag. But I couldn't look back. I couldn't do anything that wasn't scampering towards the exit, one step at a time, one foot in front of the other, sweat barreling down my forehead, my breaths quick and shallow and loud.

I screamed as I felt it. It grabbed my cap and dragged me backwards, my knees scraping on the pipe floor. I tried to kick it to get it on, but it redoubled its grip, grabbing my left leg with its other hand. And it wailed and yelled, and I wailed and yelled with it. As it pulled me closer to it, its head making it up to my stomach. I began to bash it with my flashlight. It didn't resist. In fact, its head nearly came apart.

Mold and soiled paper crumbled out of one corner of its cardboard box head, spilling foul-smelling water onto the ground. But that didn't stop it. It kept pulling and groping and yelling until it was completely on top of me. My light illuminated the vague impression of a face drawn in Sharpie that had been warped by time, water, mold, and rot. It screamed. I screamed. And then it got pulled off of me. I skittered backwards as Richter plunged the box cutter into the thing's chest over and over and over again. Flailing limbs and geysers of water emanated from the soaked cardboard entity.

And there I was, frozen in place, watching as Richter exercised the ghost. I regained my senses and went to his aid when it. plunged a hand through his chest. I screamed again, and halfway through the scream, the reason changed. At first, I was watching someone die, but then I noticed the texture of it. Richter's chest separated into sheafs, blood-soaked stacks of paper, of newspaper. His chest cavity opened, and outspilled print instead of organs. I twisted my body around and retreated. I had no cohesive thoughts. I just knew I needed to escape, the tunnel, the ghost, Richter, all of it. I had to I had to get out of here. I had to go. I made it to the exit of the tunnel, launched myself from the storm drain, and rolled into the dead leaves and pine needles. I shot to a standing position and froze while my horrified psyche tried to remember how to get back to the car through the layers of stress and fear. And in that moment of stillness, the blood rushing in my ears somehow didn't block me from noticing that it was silent. Other than the wind and the leaves, there was nothing. No wailing, no yelling, no screaming, nothing. Just me, the wind,

my heartbeat, and my heavy breathing. I moved my flashlight to the tunnel. It didn't extend far, and it revealed nothing. I thought for a moment whether I should get a closer look. I took one cautious step towards the storm drain, then another, and then... No, no, no, I climbed up the hill. No, I didn't care. There was nothing that could make me go back.

I made it up into the turnout on the road and saw the truck. I grabbed my backpack and started down the road. My adrenaline would keep me awake for the hours it took to walk back, That week, I didn't sleep. I barely ate. I almost went back to the forums, almost, a couple times, but I didn't. What happened that night? Was that really a ghost? What was it, if not? Was Richter human? Was Richter a ghost? What was he if not? What was the thing about to do to me? What was Richter about to do to it? I don't know. I don't know any of these things. And now, I don't want to know. I haven't ever gone back to the forums. I haven't ever looked him up.

I haven't ever gone back and I never will. I used to ghost hunt in pursuit of knowledge, but if that's what there is to know, then I can say with confidence that life is better in the dark. SCP 3663 is a humanoid entity, constructed primarily from cardboard in the form of boxes and tubes, adhesive tape, and twine. SCP 3663 is fully capable of movement and vocalization via an unknown mechanism

and has proven to be semi-sapient, responding to questions and reacting to its immediate environment. The interior of SCP 3663 contains crude cardboard and paper models of all major human organs, with colored wool representing blood vessels and the nervous system. SCP 3663 does not require these components to function, and their purpose within the entity is unknown. Thanks for listening. To get notified every time a new episode is released,

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