The SCP Experience - The Wicker Witch | SCP-3998

Episode Date: May 9, 2025

After years of quiet resentment and moral compromise, one Foundation researcher finds redemption—and vengeance—by unleashing a vengeful, flame-wreathed entity that incinerates abusers from the inside out. This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-3998 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett * * * 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

There's something to be said for boredom. In some instances, boredom can bring fresh ideas, good ideas, ideas that can help people. That's why I joined the foundation in the first place, to help people, to protect them. But after so many years doing the same thing, you start to yearn for more. To help you give, in an indirect sort of way, day in and day out, becomes commonplace, ordinary. And if you're like me, ordinary is not enough. It's never enough. As time passed and my boredom grew, boredom with my job and my life in general,

I started thinking of ways I could be an extraordinary help to people. And right around that time, I was assigned to SCP 3998, also known as the Wicker Witch. I don't believe in God, but I couldn't shrug this off as coincidence. When I learned of the Wicker Witch's anomalous powers, I realized that my chance to be an extraordinary help to people had arrived, and damned if I wasn't going to take that opportunity by the throat. Standing outside the containment chamber, I studied the Wicker Witch. She was little more than a scarecrow now.

What remained of her body was badly burnt, almost beyond recognition. In addition, the ravages of time had not been kind to her corpse. Her burnt and mangled arms were affixed with wicker and wire to a wooden cross made of two branches. The crucifixion pose seemed fitting to me as I peered through the thick glass. Her skin, burned to a black crisp hundreds of years ago, was mummified. Her fingers, although intact, pointed in all different directions on either end of the horizontal crossbeam. Her head hung down, skeletal face barely visible behind a threadbare curtain. of tangled black hair. The skin of her face was badly burnt, as was the rest of her corpse,

and she no longer had eyeballs in her sockets. Yellow and brown teeth, visible thanks to the pained grimace she always wore, shone dimly in the LED lights and the ceiling. The wicker witch's ribs protruded from under her hardened torso skin, her flat breasts more closely resembling sun-rotted leather pouches than anything that belonged on a human. She had no legs. No one knew where they were. She had been discovered without them, so her body ended at a highly visible pelvis, the hip sockets yawning like animal burrows and rocky ground. I checked the time on my watch, just after 11 p.m. Then I shifted, stepping to the side so I could bring one of the two D-class men into view. He sat in the corner of the room, by the

chamber's only door, staring sullenly at the woman's corpse. His name, I knew from his file, was Richard Desmond. He had quite the list of criminal charges, but I was only interested in a few of them, the ones that infuriated me, filling my body with righteous, buzzing rage when I read the police reports. Sensing my gaze, Desmond glanced up at me and sneered, showing me his middle fingers. With his athletic build, strong jaw, and handsome face, I figured he'd had no problem attracting women before he winded up in prison, and eventually the SCP Foundation. He even managed to look good in the unflattering orange jumpsuit. I smiled faintly at his childish display of anger, and then shifted my gaze to the opposite corner. I had to nearly

press my forehead to the glass to get a glimpse of the other D-class man I had brought in. This one name was Jean Primo. He stood with his back to the corner and his hands in his orange jumpsuit pockets, looking down at his slippers. I'd read his police report as well, but what interested me more was his trial. A large man, Primo looked right at home in the jumpsuit. He had a bulky forehead, knobby hands, and dark tattoos creeping up his neck and out of his sleeves. Either he didn't notice me looking at him or he didn't care. He kept his gaze on his feet. I checked my watch again, hoping we could get things done early this evening. It always happened between 11 p.m. and 4 a.m.

But I was tired and I wanted to go home. I didn't want to wait around for five hours. The truth was, the cameras in the cell were recording the whole thing. I could have gone home and then reviewed the footage the next day. But that seemed disrespectful to the two men in the chamber with the Wicker Witch. If I was going to be instrumental in their deaths, the least I could do was stick around. Sying, I turned around and headed away from the viewing window toward my desk. I flipped a switch so that any noise from inside the containment cell would come through the speakers on the desk.

I sat down in my high-backed leather chair and looked at the live footage playing on my three computer screens. Desmond and Primo hadn't moved from their respective corners. I leaned back, dropped my crossed legs on the edge of my desk, and rubbed my hands over my face, thinking about my renowned and trusted colleague, Dr. Patrick Morland. He'd been assigned as assistant site director just two months ago, promoted and transferred from Site 19, where he had impressed anyone with an opinion that mattered. I had to admit that, even though I didn't really want the Assistant Site Director role, I preferred research over politics and management.

It still would have been nice to have been offered the role. But that little twinge of jealousy wasn't what this was about. It was about a dinner party Dr. Morland had thrown at his humble abode a month after he'd arrived, or rather, what I'd noticed at that dinner party. It had been a fairly intimate affair. Our sight was not a big one, and there were only a dozen senior researchers, myself included. Dr. Morland had invited the 12 of us over, along with site director Schuster on a Saturday night. He lived in a two-story plantation-style home on five acres at the edge of the city limits.

The large white columns and expansive porch made my little one-story ranch-style home seem like a shack. Morland greeted me at the door with what I took for a genuine smile and a hearty handshake. A gregarious and charming man with average looks but a rare energy. energy. Morland clearly liked hosting. He regaled us with stories from his time at Site 19, along with anecdotes from his college days. I had heard a little about his wife at work, which was why I found it odd that she wasn't immediately present, co-hosting the gathering. I didn't see her until I had already been there for half an hour. She came out of the kitchen and into the dining room where everyone was drinking wine at a long table,

carrying a platter of various appetizers. There she is! Orland said from his place at the head of the table. Everyone, this is my wonderful better have, Gillian. The chorus of hallows greeted the woman, who wore an apron over a long-sleeve navy blue dress. She smiled, lighting up the room for a brief moment as her brilliant green eyes sparkled.

She had long, Auburn hair pulled into a tasteful and elaborate bun, and she was very trim, clearly a woman who was, exercised regularly. Why don't you join us? I said. Have a drink. Jillian Morland glanced at her husband before answering. No, I've got more dinner preparations to do.

Thank you, though. It was that glance that first clued me into something. That quick glance at her husband before answering. Dr. Sherry Mehta spoke up, asking if Jillian needed any help. Mrs. Morland waved her away as she headed back into the kitchen to keep preparing our meal. After that, my curiosity peaked. I paid close attention to Jillian whenever we saw her for the rest of the night, which wasn't much.

She didn't even eat with us, insisting that she'd been snacking while making dinner, and that she still had dessert to worry about. I waited until Dr. Patrick Morland was engrossed in another of his stories before excusing myself and stepping into the kitchen. Hello, Jillian, I said, extending a hand. I'm Leon Bazaara. Jillian turned from her place at the sink,

her eyes bouncing from me to the door I'd just come through. When I saw that her hands were wet with water from the sink, I smiled and lowered my hand. You need some help? I don't mind. Oh, no. She said, looking nervous and distracted. No, that's okay. I don't mind doing all this.

She had sweat on her forehead and upper lip. I noticed that she hadn't pulled her. sleeves up, despite the fact that she was doing dishes. I gazed at the dishes piled up next to the sink. The dishwasher was open but packed. Are you sure? It's a lot to do. The door to the dining room opened, and Dr. Patrick Morland came in, wine sloshing around in his glass. Leon! he said jovially. Are you lost? Looking for the bathroom? I shook my head. I know where the bathroom is. You showed me earlier, remember? I'm just a offering to help your wife clean up the mess we all made.

Gillian looked at her husband like a frightened dog. But as soon as Patrick's eyes moved from me to her, she pasted a rigid smile on her face. She doesn't need any help, do you, dear? She doesn't mind. It gives her a sense of purpose. That's right, Gillian said stiffly, still smiling. It's kind of relaxing, actually. Patrick grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward the door.

You see, she's all right, Leon. I appreciate you asking, though. That's very thoughtful of you. He guided me back into the dining room, where my tipsy colleagues were chatting and laughing. But instead of joining me, Patrick went back into the kitchen. I stepped toward the door and aimed my ear at the kitchen. I couldn't make out the words,

but Patrick's tone was unmistakable. He was berating her, but she didn't make a sound, not at first. Not until a little pained squeal escaped her. Then I did make out the words Patrick said, Oh, shut up you little bitch. I didn't hurt you. A buzz started deep inside my chest, like a wasps nest, coming violently to life after being jostled. It spread through me, feeling as though it was burning my temperature up several degrees.

It was a feeling I was all too familiar with, but one, I hadn't experienced in a long time. Not since I was a teenager. listening to my father abused my mother in the kitchen or their bedroom. He never did anything to her in front of me, and that made it all the worse. It always happened in the next room, or when I was away at school. But I saw the effects of it. I saw the bruises that she tried to cover with sunglasses and long sleeves. I saw the changes to her personality as she became more miserable and lesser self.

I witnessed her morph into a shell of a woman, only concerned about what she was would and wouldn't set my father off. I knew it was happening, and I never did a fucking thing about it. I was too scared of my father, too timid, too much of a coward. Now, with Patrick's words echoing in my head, shut up you little bitch, I didn't hurt you. I wanted to barge into the kitchen and take him by his throat. I wanted to shove his head into the dishwasher until he stopped moving. I wanted to take one of the dirty knives from the dishwasher and carve him up like a Christmas turkey. But I did none of those things. Instead, still raging inside, I went back to my seat and sat down. And I thought about the Wicker Witch. Lazzangue sur-gillet, puissance-molyne,

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I'm doing so much more than the conditions apply. When you were little, you've been braced, always in trying to negotiate, exchange these cards of hockey, the bonhom, these bracelets,

even of the collation. You know that each thing has a value, well, to have seen. And, before, the things have not really changed.

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mensual, you're made for negotiate for you know, and the appellee Negotiate Titre T-D right now. The unmistakable whoosh of a fire coming suddenly

to life caught my attention, bringing me back from the dinner party and depositing me firmly back in the present. Instead of looking at the monitors, I yanked my feet off the desk and stood up,

rushing to the observation window and peering at the Wicker Witch, now engulfed in flames. That was when the screaming started. I cut my eyes over to Richard Desmond. He was no longer sitting in the corner because he was covered in flames. He lurched up from his sitting position, screaming and waving his arms around. His hair disappeared quickly in the violent flames. His skin bubbled and his teeth blackened.

He ran around the room, toward Jean Primo, who was staring at Desmond with the eyes of a man who had never seen someone burned to death in real time. As the flaming Desmond closed in on him, Primo dodged away, yelling for me to get him out of there. The wicker witch in the middle of the room burned proudly. The vent fans in the ceiling sucked the smoke out of the room, preventing Primo from suffocating. After screaming and chasing Primo around the room for a few long moments, Desmond seemed to recall that old saying about what to do when you catch on fire.

He dropped to the floor and rolled around, trying to smother the flames. I knew it wouldn't work, but he didn't. He stopped screaming, perhaps because the flames were sucking all his oxygen away. But he kept rolling on the floor, leaving strips of charred skin behind. The flames never slowed. The rolling did nothing to hinder the process. After rolling around for about 30 seconds, Desmond stopped on all fours and vomited flammable liquid onto the floor between his hands.

This liquid caught fire immediately and added to the combustion. Then he exploded. His abdomen ruptured and split him in half, bits of blackened flesh flying around the room. His top and bottom halves ended up six feet apart, while other pieces of him came to rest all around the chamber. Then, all at once, the flames on both the Wicker Witch and Desmond went out

like they were candle flames on a blown-out birthday cake. Unlike Desmond, the Wicker Witch looked exactly as she had before being on fire. Not a thing had changed. Huffing, his back pressed against the wall at the right side of the chamber. Primo looked at me through the window. What the fuck? The particulars of Primo's case, and the way his incompetent public defender screwed him over,

flashed through my mind. As I'd suspected, he was innocent of the charges. Maybe he was guilty of something else. I had no way of knowing. but the charges that got him landed in prison were bogus. The Wicker Witch had just proved it. I had a detailed report to write to the O-5 Council about this, but not now. Not until after I invited Dr. Patrick Morland down to see what I'd been working on.

Smiling, I turned away from the window, confident that I'd done my good deed for the day. I had no regrets about Desmond's violent death. It was no less than he deserved. Using my radio, I called for a guard to escort Prima back to his holding cell. If I had any say in the matter, he would be a free man in the next two months. But for now, I had other things to think about, things that made me buzz with anger. Dr. Morland, I said, catching the good doctor as he headed toward the exit at the end of the day. Bizarra!

He said amiably. How are you? Actually, I was looking for you. I could really use your advice. It only takes a few minutes. Morland, with his jacket slung over one arm and his briefcase held at one thigh. Stopped. Okay, shoot.

What's the issue? I made an apologetic face. I really need to show you. Down in my lab. I swear, it will only take a few minutes. Morland checked his watch. Gillian will be upset if dinner gets cold. Right, I thought.

I'm sure she will. I'm sure it's not the other way around. I'm stuck on something, I said. I'm getting ready to tear my hair out, and I think you're the only one who can help me. If Morland didn't agree to come down to my lab with me, I would have to find another way to do this, a more risky way.

There was a chance that he had read up on exactly what I was working on, and he knew to stay away. But there were much more dangerous SCPs for him to oversee. SCPs that could help further his career with the foundation. My plan hinged on the assumption. that he was such a careerist. He focused all his attention on those projects that would provide him the biggest chance for advancement. As he considered, I held my breath and tried to keep the buzzing from changing my outward appearance. If I appeared tense, or let my true

feelings about this man show on my face, the whole thing could be over. Just a few minutes, you say? I nodded hopefully. That's right. No more than five. Morland sighed but smiled wanly. Okay, let's go. When we reached my lab, I shut the door and locked it. The only cameras in the lab were those in the containment cell, which was currently empty except for the Wickerwich in the middle. Morland walked immediately over to the viewing window

and stared in at the macabre scarecrow with the missing legs. That's quite a sight, isn't it? I'm afraid I'm not familiar with this particular project. I'm still going through all the files. Can you give me the cliff notes? As I stepped up behind him, I pulled a syringe out of my pocket and took the cap off. I'll do you one better, I said. You're going to get to know the Wicker Witch intimately tonight.

I thrust the syringe toward his neck, only at the last moment noticing in the window's reflection that his eyes were wide. He'd seen me coming. He ducked away from the syringe and whipped his briefcase at me, knocking the syringe away. It clattered along the floor, and Morland was making a run for the door. I raced after him, tacked him to the floor. He cracked me in the eye with an elbow, knocking me back so he could scramble for the door, leaving both his suitcase and his jacket behind. He grabbed the door handle, but it wouldn't turn because I had locked it.

As he shifted to unlock it, I jumped on him and slammed his head against the door. He went momentarily limp, dazed by the blow. It wasn't enough, so I grabbed his head in both hands and smashed it into the door again. This second blow knocked him out. I raced over and retrieved the syringe. As I picked it up, an urgent knock came from the door. Dr. Bezara? A familiar voice came from outside.

You okay? It was one of the security guards. A sincere and courteous man named Bruybaker. He tried to open the locked door, rattling the handle. I'm okay, I said, racing back over and sticking the syringe into Morland's neck, injecting the sedative into his bloodstream. Can you open the door, please? I put the syringe in my lab coat pocket and stepped to the door,

hoping the blow to the eye wasn't developing into a bruise just yet. I opened the door a crack and then stepped out into the hall. Sorry, I said. It's a D-class, but I've got it handled. He's in the containment chamber now. Brewbaker studied me with his boyish brown eyes, which then flicked to the closed door behind me. You sure? You look a little ragged?

Yeah, well, I thought I could handle it in myself. instead of bothering one of you guys but he turned out to be a handful who is it can I see he's a new arrival I said digging my hole even deeper believe me you don't want to see it's not pretty this was all going to shit and now I didn't think there was a possibility of me getting away with it after the smoke cleared they would surely check my story and see that I never had a D class in my lab they would wonder why I lied to Brubaker they would figure it out Pretty soon, I would be wearing an orange jumpsuit, but there was no turning back now. I had to finish what I started.

If I didn't, the consequences would still be the same. It just would have been for nothing. Brubaker studied me for a moment that dragged on, with disbelief in his eyes. How's your wife doing? I asked to change the subject. I'd never met the woman, but I'd seen her picture taped to the security station desk. Bruebaker's face softened. She's good. Thanks.

What about you, still single? I laugh. Absolutely. Just the way I like it. Sometimes I wish I lived like you, Doc. Sounds like a good life. I smiled. Well, I better get back to it. I'll let you know if I need any help tonight.

I'll be working late. Okay. Sounds good. I'll be around. I slipped back into my lab, locked the door, and sank to a crouch. I put my head in my hands and tried to keep from getting sick. Then I thought of my mom, and how she had killed herself when I was 18, and how that gave me the courage I needed to get the hell away from my father.

I hadn't spoken to him since, although he'd tried to reach out many times over the years. Looking down at Moreland, lying unconscious on the floor, I superimposed my father's face over his. Just like that, the sick feeling in my stomach went away, replaced by that furious buzz. I stood up and got to work. There were three problems with my plan. One was timing, and another was the fact that I wanted Morland to be awake when it happened.

The final issue was that I couldn't tie Morland up. If I tied him up, the investigators would surely find evidence of that when all was said and done. Part of me said it didn't matter. since there was no way I would get away with this, thanks to that interaction with Brubaker. But another part of me was still hopeful that I could make it through the ordeal unscathed. I didn't know how that would be possible.

It would take a miracle, but I clung to that possibility. In the end, I settled on taking the chance with Moreland Free. I got him into my office chair next to my desk, facing the containment cell window. On the desk was a new syringe and a box cutter with the, three inches of sharp razor blade sticking out of it. Checking my watch, I saw that it was two minutes until 11 p.m. I'd already used his phone, unlocking it with his face to text his wife.

I'll be working late tonight. Don't wait up for me. Now, gripping the collar of Morland's button-up shirt with one hand, I grabbed the syringe with the other. After injecting him with the contents of the syringe, I quickly traded the device for the box cutter. standing behind the chair, reaching around the high back, I pressed the blade against the right side of his neck. A moment later, he stirred and stiffened. Don't move or I'll cut your throat. He stopped moving but remained stiff.

Azara? What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy? Keep your voice down, I said, pressing the blade into his skin just hard enough to draw blood. You feel that? It's a box cutter. one cut and you'll bleed out in no time. And you'll go to prison for murder. That's a chance I'm willing to take, obviously. A chance? It's a certainty. You will go to prison no matter what. Right. So I don't have anything to lose, do I?

That shut him up for a moment. But I waited patiently for him to ask me the inevitable question. What is this about? Do you beat your wife, Patrick? There was a pause. which gave the game away. Of course not. What are you talking about?

I love my wife. If you don't beat your wife, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. If that's the case, then you will walk out of here no worse for where, just after four in the morning at the latest. You can call the police and have me arrested. I won't put up a fight.

I'll even plead guilty. Again, he paused. This time it was a longer silence. Marriages are complicated, he said. Sometimes things get a little out of hand. If that's the case, what does that mean for me? So you do beat your wife. That's not what I said.

I'm just trying to figure out what the hell is going on here. Look into the containment chamber. You see what's left of that woman hanging from that wooden cross? She was once alive. Back in the 17th century, she lived in Salem, Massachusetts. And her husband beat her. He abused her day in and day out from just after they were married. but she found a friend in the woods, a friend that only she knew about, a friend who'd traded in souls.

That woman, Candace Hayes, sold her soul just before she was accused of witchcraft and burned alive. But her friend had come to love Candace in its own way. So her friend gave Candice a way to reach beyond the grave, a way to punish those guilty of a very specific crime, the crime of domestic abuse. So I ask you again, Dr. Mr. Patrick Morland, do you beat your wife? Standing behind him, I couldn't see his face, and so I wanted to. I wanted to see the look of despair I never got to see in my father's eyes.

His shoulders slumped, but then his chest expanded, and he screamed. Help! I shifted, clamping my left hand over his mouth to shut him up. A moment later, the Wicker Witch erupted in flames. A moment after that, Morland got fire. The flames engulfed my arms and my face, which was positioned next to his. But they didn't burn. Still, I jerked away from him in surprise, not realizing for a long moment that the flames had no effect on me.

I dropped the box cutter as Morland jumped up from my office chair and threw himself to the floor to roll around. He was screaming now, but I didn't want to shut him up, not at this point. Knowing I would have company any minute, I grabbed the syringe off my desk and stuck it in my my pocket with the other one. I picked the box cutter up and shoved it into a desk drawer. As I stepped back and watched Morland burn while he rolled around on the floor screaming, I rehashed what I was going to say to the guard. I asked Morland for advice on a D-class name Jean-Primo, who had been accused of beating and murdering his wife. But in the middle of our discussion, Morland burst into flames. I had no idea that he would. I mean, how could I have known

that he was an abuser. I couldn't have known. It was maybe a little melodramatic, but I thought it would work. The only problem was what Brubaker would say, but I couldn't worry about that now. I had to make it look like I was trying to help Morland. I rushed to the office door, unlocked it, and opened it. Help! I screamed. Help! Bring a fire extinguisher! Ducking back into my office, I grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall and sprayed the powder at Morland. I knew full well it wouldn't go out, not unless I put the Wickerwich out first.

But I could say I'd panic. I could say I wasn't thinking. Morland had stopped rolling around. His screams had become little more than ragged gasps. I heard footsteps rushing down the hall and turned to see Brubaker coming into the room with a fire extinguisher in hand. As soon as he stepped across the threshold,

he burst into flames. My mouth fell open as Brubaker shouted and then turned his extinguisher on himself. He shot powder onto his legs, but the flames remained violent, covering his entire body. I thought about the picture of his wife at the security station, about how he seemed like such a nice guy. Behind me, Morland pute. I turned in time to see him vomit flaming liquid into the air. Then he exploded, ripping in half at the torso from the force of the blast,

which pelted me with little burning bits of him. Brewbaker dropped his extinguisher and ran out into the hall, throwing himself to the floor and rolling around. I thought about going into the containment chamber and putting the Wickerwitch out. But I decided against it after only a moment's deliberation. Let him burn, I thought. Let the motherfucker burn.

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It's in my report. He was advising me on what to do about D3998-4. Real name, Jean Primo. He's a wrongly convicted felon, according to my research. Schuster, a portly man with a bulbous red nose and pig's eyes behind thick glasses, raised a hand to stop me. I read the report. What I'm telling you is that I don't believe a word of it.

Not a word. I should ask how you got that black eye, but let's focus on one question at a time. So I ask you again, how is it that Dr. Morland was in your lab so late last night? I leaned back in the guest chair across the expansive desk from Schuster. Interlacing my fingers,

I had a moment to appreciate the boredom. In some instances, boredom can bring fresh ideas. ideas, good ideas, ideas that can help people. It's why I joined the foundation in the first place, to help people, to protect them. But after so many years doing the same thing, you start to yearn for more. To help you give, day in and day out, becomes commonplace, ordinary. And if you're like me, ordinary is not enough, it's never enough.

But here I was, having dispatched not one, but two wife-beats. in a single night, with the help of the Wickerwich, of course, my conscience was clean, clean enough to eat off of. It had been several hours since those two men burned to death. I hadn't been allowed to leave during those hours. I hadn't been allowed to do anything, but sit in my boredom. Several hours was plenty of time to think, so I chose my words carefully, suspecting that this meeting with Schuster would come. director schuster i said amiably i think the real question is how is it that a man who beats his wife managed to get such a prominent position at this site isn't that a little concerning aren't background checks your prerogative would not be a security risk that the council would balk at red creeped into the

capillaries of schuster's face making him appear even more swine-like but then he seemed to realize what i was saying and his face paled. He leaned back, his eyes never leaving my face. I took his silence as my cue to go on. I think this is an unfortunate accident, but one that can be remedied fairly easily with the use of amnestics, don't you think? A minor accident, Schuster said. Not even a containment breach technically.

I nodded. That's right. Which would mean there's no need to involve the council and the dirty detail. But? But what? Schuster snapped. There's still the matter of Jean Primo, an innocent man in the clutches of the foundation.

We can't in good conscience let that stand, can we? After a moment's deliberation, Schuster shook his head. I suppose we can't. I smiled. Good. I'm glad we're in agreement on this thing. Get out of my office. I stood up, still smiling.

Gladly. As I stepped towards. the door, Schuster said. "'Bazaara, I don't want any more minor accidents involving you or that SCP. Do you understand me?' Without looking at the site director, I said. "'Don't hire any more abusers, and we won't have to worry about that, will we?' I left and headed back to my lab, a spring in my step, and a happy tune playing in my mind.

Maybe I would reach out to dear old dad after all. Maybe I would invite him to meet the Wicker Witch. It sounded like a fine idea to me. SCP 3998 is a human cadaver, which expired in the late 17th century. It lacks any legs and is covered in extensive fourth-degree burns. Sometime after its death, its remains were collected and fashioned into a scarecrow, held together by wicker, nails, and wire.

Each night, between 11 p.m. and 4 a.m., the entity ignites and is engulfed in flames. However, despite being highly flammable, it does not suffer any structural damage. When SCP 3998 is on fire, and when not contained properly, the nearest person who meets certain criteria will also spontaneously ignite. The entity targets those who have killed or physically abused a romantic partner. As targets burn, large quantities of boiled ethanol will appear in their stomach. This large influx of alcohol typically induces vomiting, which causes further external burns, and will often cause permanent nerve and organ damage if they survive the initial burning.

Eventually, their body fat, particularly in the stomach region, will begin to melt. The process is extremely rapid, often causing massive internal damage if the target is successfully extinguished before they die of fourth degree burns. left to burn, the combination of melted fat and ethanol will cause the stomach to violently rupture, often bisecting the victim in the process.