The SCP Experience - The Tunnel of Missing Children Had My Face on the Wall | SCP-4518

Episode Date: May 22, 2026

Two brothers enter a long-abandoned boardwalk tunnel to fulfill their father’s final wish—but the ghost waiting inside knows a truth about their family that was never meant to surface. As the missing children posters begin to reveal impossible faces, they realize their entire lives may have been stolen. Listen ad-free + bonus stories with a 7-day FREE trial of ⁠SCP Premium⁠. Cancel anytime. No commitment. This story is derived from ⁠The SCP Foundation Database⁠ and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0.⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/⁠⁠⁠ Author:  Jake Bible * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

My anxiety ratches up as Reggie fumbles and drops the bolt cutters for the third time. He curses and picks them up again. Dude, let me do it, I say, and yank the bolt cutters out of my little brother's hands. Not that he's so little. At 6'3, he's a hell of a lot taller than me. A fact, folks have pointed out our entire lives. How much bigger than me he is. Like, we aren't even brothers.

I hit 5'10 on a good day, and it has to be a day when I'm not slouching, and also while wearing Doc Martin boots with their thick soles, like I am tonight. Black Docs, black jeans, black long-sleeved shirt and black hat, and I'm miserable. The heat and humidity are stupid right now. San Francisco summers aren't usually bad, but this week has been a bitch and a half. The sweat on my palms makes it hard to get a solid hold on the bolt cutters, but I don't tell Reggie that. Acting like I'm preparing to make the perfect cut, I exaggeratedly wipe my hands on my jeans one at a time, grip the bolt cutters tight, and clip, clip, clip, clip.

Enough links are cut for me to push the opening wide with the soul of one of my docks. After you, I say to my brother. Reggie rolls his eyes and slips through the opening. I take a look around, see no one watching us, and slip in after Reggie. It's the middle of the night, so the odds of being observed are low, but in this town, with the weather so warm, you just never know. Grab the bag! Reggie hissed. I reach back through the opening in the fence and grab the small black duffel with all of our gear.

Not that we have much gear, but there is something bulky we need to keep safe until the night is over. I sling the duffles, straps over my shoulder, and catch up to Reggie, since waiting for me apparently isn't on his agenda. Careful! I call after him, keeping my voice low. These boards are old. No shit, mate. Reggie replies over his shoulder.

He acts all confident, but I know he's ten seconds from pissing his black jeans. The tunnel at the end of the old Holloway Boardwalk is no joke. Reports of spectral sightings and strange disappearances have plagued the place for decades, ever since the whole boardwalk was shut down after that fire. It's a legend around here, but for my brother and me, it's also a family legacy. Boys, I ever tell you about what I saw on that tunnel at the end of the Holloway Boardwalk? Our dad would ask, after he'd had a couple of bourbons. It's a sight I'll never forget.

and one I pray that you'd never witness, but you probably will. We'd sit with him on the couch as he told us of the narrow tunnel, all the missing children posters plastering the walls, and the kid waiting at the end of the tunnel. The story was always the same, except for the kid. Sometimes it'd be a boy, sometimes it'd be a girl, sometimes it'd just be a kid, genderless, haunting, dangerous. Dad never finished the story, though.

He'd trail off after mentioning the kid, and just stare into space until one of us asked him to keep telling the story. He'd give us a sad smile, shake his head, and sip his bourbon. One day, you'll know, he'd mutter. But he'd never finish telling us what he saw or what happened once the kid entered the picture. Tonight, we finish the story. Over here, Reggie says, walking toward the boarded-up entrance to the tunnel. Oh, shit, Reggie, I reply.

It's our thing, the no-shit-razing. Setting the duffel down, I unzip it and pull out a pry bar. Reggie posts up, keeping watch as I jammed the flat end of the pry bar between two of the boards. We good? I ask. We're good. Reggie replies, patting me on the shoulder. I pull with all of my strength, and one of the boards pops loose at the bottom. I move the pry bar up, pull again, and the top part of the board comes loose so fast that I don't have time to step back before it smacks me in the forehead.

Reggie almost laughs, but stops and frowns. Shit, Nate, you really nailed yourself. After he says that, I feel the trickle of blood running down my forehead and onto the bridge of my nose. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, and it comes away red. Clean up, I'll take over. Reggie says as he takes the pry bar from me and nudges the duffel with the toe of his boot. There's a first aid kid in there. Thanks.

I get out of his way as he works on the second board. They're skinny, so we'll need at least three. re-removed before we can squeeze through. Finding the first aid kit, I clean the cut and wrap a small bandage on it. It's not bad, maybe an inch long and not deep, just one of those head wounds that keeps on bleeding. There's a loud crack, and Reggie lets out a... Ha ha! Got it! I tucked the first aid kit back in the duffel and pick up the bag as Reggie shines a flashlight through the gap in the boards. Jesus, it goes on forever, he says. Dad said it was a long tunnel. He wasn't kidding. I can't see the end.

What do you see? Trash, posters up on the walls, mold, lichen, nasty stains everywhere. Reggie waves a hand in front of his face. Damn, smells like mildew and rap piss. Braid. I pull out my own flashlight and step up behind Reggie, duff all over my shoulder again. You first. Gee, thanks, bro.

Dude, don't start with the bro crap. What? You mad at your bro for saying bro, bro, bro? I slapped the back of his head, and he, He whirls around, shining his flashlight directly into my eyes. I was just joking, Dick! Reggie whines. Oh, don't be a baby.

That didn't hurt. You don't know that? Did it hurt? Reggie glares, knowing I've trapped him. He can say it didn't hurt and be forced to agree with me. Or he can say it did hurt and be forced to admit that he's just a big giant baby. I smirk and ask, you gonna keep saying, bro? Jerk.

Reggie mutters, then steps through the gap and into the tunnel. Come on. We can't be here all night. No shit, Reg. He doesn't respond. I really made him mad when I smacked him, then mocked him. Yikes. I guess I was a bit of a jerk. Hey, sorry, dude, I say and Pat Reggie on the shoulder. He shrugs me off, obviously dead set on a full-on pout session.

Okay, never mind. I'm not sorry. You already said it. Can't take it back. I hear the smirk in his voice and roll my eyes. We start walking down the tunnel. The board's beneath us. grown with our weight. The place is old, like really old, and all the moisture from the bay air hasn't exactly helped the structural integrity of the place. Look at these, Reggie says, shining his light on a set of missing children posters.

These are from the 1970s. Look at the hair in the shirts. It's like one of our parents' old photo albums. I study the three posters and the kids on them. I have to agree that it is like looking at photos of our parents' childhoods. Slightly feathered hair, striped, shirts, uh, called rugby shirts? Is that it? I think dad called them that. One kid has a white t-shirt on, and the collar and sleeve cuffs are bright red. There's some image for, I think, a TV show, but I don't know it, so I can't say for sure. The shirt looks so tight on the kid. This boy was 11, Reggie says. And this one was 8. This kid was 10, I say, pointing at the kid in the tight white t-shirt. Brian, Brian Crowder. I bet he was called Chowder Crowder. I bet he was called Chowder

Reggie laughs. I don't. There's something about the look in the kid's eyes that makes me feel off, like he has secrets, but also knows all of mine. It's more than unsettling. Reggie keeps walking, studying the posters. But I remain in front of Brian Crowders. What?

Reggie calls back. Nothing. Stop lagging to get your ass up here. I jogged to Reggie, nudging him with my elbow when I catch up. We only scan the posters now. not stopping to study them anymore. We don't need to. These kids have been missing for a long while,

and there's nothing we can do to help them. Most of these kids would be fully middle-aged by now, if they survived whatever caused them to go missing in the first place. Which, I highly doubt, kids missing this long never turn up. We keep walking. How is this place still standing? I ask.

Reggie shrugs and shakes his head. Well, according to Dad, it's all the evil mojo. Reggie turns and looks at me before I can respond. You feel it, right? He swallows hard. Like you want to just lie down and go to sleep, letting the world outside pass by? Like it's all just too much?

No, not that. I respond and think about exactly what it is I do feel. It ain't good, I know that at least. From the moment we stepped inside this tunnel, it's like I've had a pit in my stomach. I thought it was nerves from having to break in. But as Reggie and I keep walking, I know it's way more than nerves.

It's like ants under my skin, a crawling sensation of dread. All I want to do is keep looking over my shoulder to see who or what is following us. But I don't, because the reality is that there's no one or no thing following us. I can tell without looking. In this tunnel, with these old boards, we'd hear a mouse tiptoe. It's silent except for our own footsteps and our labored breathing as we take in more and more of the stale, foul air. Reggie pauses, then turns and faces one of the posters. Hey, Nate, who does that look like? he asks.

I move in closer, shining my flashlight directly on the missing child's photo. I don't know. Kind of looks like you. I shine my light at Reggie and he bats it away. Then I turned it back to the child's photo. Yeah, dude, it totally looks like you. I think it looks like you, mostly in the eyes. Dad's eyes. Dad always said that what bound us together were our eyes.

Reggie has moms, I have dads. Without hesitation, we both step closer and lean in. Jesus, is that dad? Reggie asks, pulling back like he's been shocked. Look at it. That has to be dad. It can't be. The name is different. And these children all went missing. Dad's not missing.

We know exactly where dad is. Do you? A small somber voice drifts down the tunnel, making my brother and me jump. We shine our flashlights toward the very end, but all I can see is a murky gloom. You heard that right, I whisper. Reggie doesn't answer, only nods, keeping his flashlight pointed in the direction of where it sounded like the voice had come from.

Hello? I call out. Is someone there? A shiver runs down my spine, and I pause as Reggie keeps going. Yeah, I'm not so sure about this anymore, Reg. I say. Reggie stops walking and looks back at me. We promised.

I know we did, but you have to admit the request is kind of crazy. I try to peer into the murky gloom, hoping, or not hoping, as the case may be, to see the source of the voice. Reggie walks back to me. Dude, I admit it 100% that it's completely bad shit to be here. But it's what he wanted. It's the only thing in his will he insisted upon. Yeah, well, he'll never know, will he? He'll know.

Who is that? Who are you? I shout. This isn't cool, okay? Whoever you are, show yourself now. Nay, chill. Reggie warns. You know what Dad's note said. Don't piss it off.

Don't piss what off, Reg? Huh? A ghost? Is that what we're dealing with here? A goddamn ghost? Reggie sighs. You heard the stories. You know what Dad believed?

Yeah, well, Dad's dead. I snap and shake the duffel bag. The duffel bag with our father's cremated remains inside. And apparently what he believed was that eating a shotgun was how we should remember him. He left that note. Reggie's voice is tight, controlled. I know him. He's close to.

to tearing up. Hey, hey, sorry, I say and pat his shoulder. He did. He left the note explaining all of it. Reggie gives me a sad smirk. Not exactly all of it. I smirk back. No, true. Dad never did actually finish anything.

Except his life. Jesus Christ! I shout. Who are you? I shine my flashlight in every direction, but see nothing other than what I've already seen. Warped boards, missing children posters, moldy walls,

A tunnel leading nowhere. You know who I am. Reggie yells. He didn't tell us jack crap about you. He only said there'd be a kid. Could be a boy, could be a girl, could be neither. I shiver again at the memory of reading that part of Dad's note. You do not need to find it.

It will find you. Looks like he was right. As I think this, a shape appears from out of the gloom. Short, child height. It's hard to tell what it's wearing. Clothes, maybe, or the idea of clothes? I keep thinking I see a new. newsboy cap on the top of its head, but then it's a bonnet, then a wild shock of red hair,

then a baseball cap. Steely eyes reflect the light from our flashlights back at us, like a cat, like a predator used to the dark. He was never here, never in person. Those steely eyes shift toward the tunnel's wall. But he has always been here. I follow its gaze and gasp, the poster, the one with the kid who looks like old pictures of dad. It's right there on the wall. I look back the way we came, back where we first saw the poster. Shining my flashlight in that direction, I see that it's still hanging there, plastered to the wall with the hundreds of others that cover nearly every square inch of this tunnel. Didn't tell you? Didn't tell us what? I cry.

Who are you? How do you know our father? The kid walks closer, and it's like looking at one of those old photos. The ones I think they called double-exposed? It's as if the kid isn't here, but obviously right there with us in this tunnel. almost as if he's a separate layer, an image added onto an image, like in some high schooler's bad Photoshop project. The kid's body stutters, and he's suddenly only a couple of feet in front of us. Shit! Reggie yips and backs up into me, but then his back stiffens, and he holds out of hand to me. Give me the bag, he says, snapping his fingers. Now! Reg, I don't know about this. Me neither,

but it's what he wanted. Even though I know he's right, I hesitate. Is it what Dad wanted? Or is it what the disease wanted. Early on set dementia is a bitch and a half of a black hole, and dad was falling deeper and deeper into that black hole every single day. He was still dad in all ways, but he was also someone different, a shadow creeping up behind the man who raised us, a shadow ready to swallow himself whole, turning his mind inside out. Nate, give me the damn bag. Reggie's finger snap over and over until I shove the duffel into his hand. Kneeling, Reggie unzips the duffel and pulls out the simple white pine cube. Dad's insurance would have covered a beautiful urn, or even a box made of redwood or mahogany, but he'd insisted on white pine, the same material used for the poor and destitute,

the same material used for inmates and John Doe's, a paupers box he'd called it in his will. In his suicide note, he explained that we needed to follow his instructions to the letter, especially the white pine box for his ashes. It had to be white pine. Clean, the kid says. Simple. It's like it has a direct line to my mind. And when its steely eyes follow on me, I swear I feel as if the gaze is actually penetrating my skull.

It's not a good feeling, that's for sure. It's also not an unfamiliar feeling, like I've felt it before, like I've always felt it. Images of old dreams slam into me, but I shake them off. Reggie holds the box out. He said the kid would know what to do. Do you? Huh, kid?

Do you know what to do? He never left, so why come back? The kid asks. I have no idea what you're talking about, Reggie says. Again, the steely eyes look at the poster on the wall, the poster of the boy who looks like dad. He talked about this place, the kid says. He told you the stories of all the times he'd come here,

looking for something, looking for himself, yet he never set foot inside this tunnel. The kid reaches up and taps his temple. It grins, and its teeth are black, and outlined with a glowing light. He visited often from inside here. The kid continues, still tapping his temple, still grin, still grin.

We spoke. He asked if he should come back. I said he never left. He asked if he could come back. I said that was up to him. I have a million questions and no questions at the same time. Emotions well up inside of me, and I feel as if I'm going to explode.

At the same time, I feel hollow. If I did explode, it'd be just a massive, blast of air, like a human form of a sad, confused, terrified fart. The kid grins its reflective, flickering grin at us. It took you too much longer, it says. Then it walks off, lost in the gloom. I know I don't want to follow, and I'm fairly certain that Reggie doesn't want to follow either. Yet we each take a step, and another, and another. We are swallowed by the gloom. Our flashlights cut through the darkness only a foot in front of us. The kid is a hint of, A hint of a shape.

You will learn. The kid calls back to us. Its voice reverberating off the walls, off the ceiling, off the inside of my skull. You must learn. The kid disappears entirely. I grab Reggie's arm to stop him, but he's already paused. We should turn back, I say. You're shit, Nate.

Reggie nods, but looks down at the white pine cube still in his hands. His eyes find mine, and I know we aren't turning back. Keep going. The kid says from directly behind us, making us both squeak and jump. Find what you need to. I'm good. Reggie says and holds the cube out to the kid. The kid shakes its head.

Not always for you. The kid shakes its head again. Do you want to see? No. I say instantly. Those steely eyes fix on me. But you should. It is all led to this moment.

You are here now because you are supposed to be. This is where you belong. But you cannot stay any longer. I don't know how to react to that. Reggie sets the cube down on the ground. When he stands back up, he wipes his hands on his black jeans. I'm giving it to you, okay? We gotta go now.

Reggie says, his voice filled with false confidence. Do with him what you need to. I don't need anything. It is you who needs. The kid is suddenly crouching by the box. Its head tilted, ear close to the top. Don't you hear him? Your father?

He has truth to tell. When the kid stands up, he's no longer there. A voice from far, far down the tunnel calls out. That doesn't sound like a good idea, Reggie whispers. No shit, Reg, I'm humble. Our feet move again. I pick up and carry dad's remains. The gloom swirls this way and that,

as if the darkness itself is liquid, a breathing conglomeration of humidity in sea mist and ink. And then the tunnel ends, and plastered to the back wall are two missing children posters, and only two. Eddie. Reggie gasps. I don't even have the breath to gasp with. Do you see it? Reggie asks. Yeah.

And I do. Two children, two boys, one on each poster, missing since the beginning of this century. Why is your face on that poster? Reggie asks. I don't know. I reply and gulp. Why is your face on the other one? Two lives stolen. Two lives lived. Were you happy? The kid asks, standing right next to him. me. I don't jump this time. I think I'm in too much shock to be shocked. Happy? Reggie asks. In your stolen home? The kid replies. A mother without children. A father provides. The implication is

staggering. I can't wrap my head around it. Reggie must be thinking the same thing because he says, What? No, you're wrong. We look like them. My brother turns and stares at me. Tell it, Nate. We have their eyes. We have their eyes. I echo. You have eyes, yes. There's? No. But that is what he looked for,

your father who was not. He looked for boys who would believe, boys who would match, boys who would not be questioned. I take a step, and Reggie tries to hold me back. But this time I shake him off. My fingers go to the face on the poster.

My face. My five-year-old face. Memories, hot and terrifying, come rushing back. Memories of hands, strong and firm, picking me up. Memories of a dark place. A place that smelled of rubber and grease. A car trunk. And another boy in that car trunk. Reggie. My brother steps next to me, his fingers touching the

picture on his poster. Dad was taken too, Reggie says, then frowns. How do I know that? You always have. The kid responds. A grandfather with wrong eyes. A grandmother with eyes like a hawk. A cycle continued over and over and over those that cannot have steel Reggie starts to shake then he lets loose with a rage-filled roar he snatches up the box and slams it against the wall

white pine splinters and a cloud of ash erupts around us I cough trying to get away before I breathe in too much ash a loud moan fills the tunnel it sounds like dad the posters in front of us fade away as if they were never there the kid says from somewhere in the tunnel

I blink, and Reggie and I are standing outside the tunnel, outside the fence. He has bolt cutters in his hands. I have the duffle. We both look at the duffel and I unzip it. No white pine box inside. Sorry, guys, a gruff voice behind us says. We spin and come face to face with a man in tactical gear and a helmet with a dark faceplate. He's holding some sort of pistol. Behind him are six others dressed just like him.

Who the hell are you? Reggie shouts. The cleanup crew. The man says and pulls the trigger four times. A dart sticks from my chest, right next to a second one, turning my head, which is a herculean effort. I see two darts in Reggie's chest. Night night, boys, the guy says.

Lucky for you, neither of you will remember a thing. We'll drop you home, tuck you in, and that's that. As I fall to my knees, I try to understand what he's saying. Thoughts, memories of the night, everything we just went through are stripped away, except for the eyes. I don't think I'll ever forget the eyes. SCP 4518 is an anomalous structure located at the end of the old Holloway Boardwalk

in San Francisco, California. SCP 4518 consists of a narrow tunnel passageway containing 207 posters of missing children, primarily between the ages of 6 to 12, who disappeared from January 1, 1975, to December 31, 1999. Individuals who traverse SCP 4518 have reported inexplicable feelings of dread, somberness, or a sensation likened to falling off the edge of the world.

SCP 4518-1 is a Class 1 spectral entity residing at the end of SCP 4518, resembling a young child of indeterminate age, sex, or ethnicity. SCP 4518 displays symptoms of advanced depersonalization, often providing vague, unusual, or mystifying responses to attempts at interview. SCP-4518-1 is otherwise unremarkable. Thanks for listening. Be sure to click that follow button with all notifications on to get notified every time a new episode is released.