The SCP Experience - There's a Killer on the Loose | SCP-7413

Episode Date: September 6, 2024

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-7413 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-7413 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt D. * * * 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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I can see my drumsticks bouncing off the finely tuned heads and crashing into the symbols in the hi-hat. My bandmates are rocking up with their instruments ahead, into my right and left. Beyond them is the roaring sea of fans, hands raised, jumping in the air as I provide the beat to the rock and roll symphony. When I'm in the zone, I'm Danny Carey. I'm Keith Moon. I'm Dave Grohl. I'm fucking John Bonham. When I'm in the zone, the real world fades.

Unfortunately, I often get into the zone at work. Even though years have passed without so much as a paper cut in the low security facility, I really should have known better. I really should have been more careful. At the very least, I should not have turned my headphones up so loud. If I had kept them at a reasonable volume, I would have heard the alarm when it went off, instead of now, as the song ends.

In that split second between songs, I hear the alarms insistent, beep, beep, beep, I open my eyes, my heart beating in my throat. The drum set is gone, and I'm sitting at my desk, a pen in each hand. As I toss the pens down and wrench my earbuds out, my eyes go to the middle screen on my desk, which shows the containment cell where the alarm has been tripped. As I see who it is and what they're doing, my heart inches back down my esophagus,

but it doesn't go back to where it belongs. Not yet anyway. You damn idiots, I say, staring at the two dumb-is-dirt, D-class janitors in the containment cell. Buchanan, a scarecrow of a man with the IQ of a table lamp and a mean streak as wide as the Atlantic, stands near the cell's door,

leaning on a mop handle. I hit a button on my keyboard that allows sound through from the cell, and Buchanan's raspy cackle comes through the speakers. Yeah, my! He says, laughing. Get some! As I pull a microphone from the far side of my desk, knocking over an empty paper coffee cup,

I look at the other D-Class idiot. Marsh, a greasy-haired, backwards creep with tattoos of his various murder victims, covering nearly every square inch of his body, is dancing with a naked mannequin in the middle of the cell. I shut the alarm off and pressed the transmit button on the microphone. Knock it off, Marsh, I say. This startles the two men who look up at the camera in the corner.

Buchanan suddenly swipes the mop across the floor, trying to look as though he's just been cleaning the whole time. But Marsh, after his momentary start, goes back to dancing with the bad manigan. He flips the camera off with his other hand. Don't make me come down there, I say into the microphone. Buchanan, who has clearly gained some confidence from his buddy's insolence, throws the mop down and says, I shake my head and get to my feet.

I'm not sure why the mannequin is even under SCP custody, but in the five years I've worked here, it hasn't so much as released a fart. It hasn't moved or made a noise or done anything to make me think it's dangerous. Then again, this is a minimum security facility. So apparently the higher-ups also consider the thing relatively harmless. But that doesn't mean these two bird-brained assholes

are allowed to touch it. They're only supposed to clean around the thing, but the moment they touched it, they tripped the alarm. Now, I'm going to have to go down there and show them who's boss. But, as I'm hitching my utility belt up and making sure I have everything, gun, mace, telescoping baton, skeleton key card, flex cuffs and portable radio, I glance at the screen. And freeze.

Marsh, who's still dancing with the mannequin, has leaned in for a kiss. That's not the surprising part. The guy's a backwoods creep, like I said. No, the surprising part is that the mannequin's eyes are blinking, and its mouth is opening. A moment later, blood sprays from between their two mouths. Marsh stumbles back, and the now limber mannequin lets him go.

The man screams, as blood pours out of his mouth and travels down his chin. It's only when the mannequin turns and spits a piece of bloody meat out of his head. its mouth that I realize what he's saying. My tongue! My tongue! Buchanan stares dumbly from nearby as the mannequin darts toward a retreating marsh. The mannequin reaches out and snaps the four fingers of Marsh's right hand with one quick movement before pinning him against the wall.

Its hands reach up, with fingers that can move just fine, and jams them into Marsh's mouth, pulling his jaw open. Then the thing bends over and tries to shove its bald head inside Marsh's mouth. I'm so shocked. All I can do is stare at the screen, thinking, this sort of thing isn't supposed to happen here. But it is happening here. Of course, the mannequin's life-size head can't fit inside Marsh's mouth. Not at first, anyway.

But the mannequin is strong. It keeps prying Marsh's jaws apart. The sound of ligaments and muscles tearing comes clearly through the speakers. Then the head is partway inside his mouth. His teeth demolished and his cheeks stretching so much they're ripping. Buchanan, meanwhile, drifts toward the discarded mop on the floor. I turn away from the screen and run out of the security office, going as fast as I can.

The containment cell isn't far, but by the time I reach it, the mannequin is already finished with Marsh, who's on the floor with his jaw hanging loose and a puddle of blood expanding out from his skull. Buchanan, however, is a different story. He has the mop in both hands, held near the still-damped mophead. I can see all this through the reinforced view window in the hallway. I get to the door and use my key card to open it. As I do, Buchanan swings the mop stick at the blood splattered mannequin.

It's the wrong move. Then again, I doubt Buchanan has ever made a right move in his life. The mannequinane yanks the mop out of his hands, like Buchanan just gave it to him. Stop! I say, pulling my pistol out of its holster and pointing it at the manor. Buchanan whips around and says, Me? Before I can say anything, I'm blinking on reflex as blood splatters my face.

I reach up with my free hand and wipe the warm liquid away. Buchanan has been impaled with the mop stick, which now juts from his chest. I look over his shoulder, but I don't see the mannequin. Then there's a voice right behind me, a voice that is neither discernibly male nor female. It says, There is a killer on the loose, in an almost sensual whisper. I whipped my head that way, my gun hand following too slowly, and the mannequin is right there, inches away, grinning at me.

It's cold, hard hands grab me on either side of my head as it stares into my face. It's painted on green eyes, somehow both lifelike and plastic. I finally point the gun at the thing's chest and fire three times before it uses one lightning quick hand to knock the weapon away. Then its hand is back on the side of my head. And the thing shoves me back against the wall. And it's looking into my eyes. And it's speaking, speaking inside my head.

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after a night of blackout drinking and debauchery. They come at just the wrong times, and they make my head hurt with confusion and regret at things past and therefore unchangeable. The first flash is of Buchanan on the floor with mops shoved through his torso. I'm seeing him from a strange angle. At first, I can't determine why that is,

but at the tail end of the flash, I look down and see the backs of the mannequin's legs. It's carrying me over its shoulder. like a firefighter rescuing someone from a burning building. The next flash starts with people yelling. People I know. Other security guards. Bright lights shine on me, on us,

as the mannequin runs toward a fence. The smell of nearby farmland sails on the late-night breeze. These yelling people, my coworkers, are commanding the thing to stop. They don't fire because of me. It's holding me hostage. And the next thing I know, it's scails. I know, it's scaling the fence with all the ease of a professional cat burglar. There's another brief flash of the thing running through a cornfield.

Me still slung over its shoulder. The sound of sirens is fading in the distance as if our pursuers are going in the wrong direction. The last flash before consciousness hits me in the face with an icy fist is one of a farmhouse, and a breaking window, and an old couple inside. I shoot up from a lying position, only to slam my head into the underside of a kitchen table. Growning and cursing, I let my upper body fall back down, and the back of my head smacks the linoleum. My right hand falls into something wet, and I bring it up to sea. It doesn't take me long to realize it's blood. At first, I think it's mine. But after scrambling out from under

the table and checking myself over, it's not. I stand up from my knees and turn around to see whose blood it is. There's a figure on the table, obscured by an old white sheet fixed over it like a cheap ghost costume. I see age-narled feet sticking out from underneath the sheet's hem. An old man's feet. But what really draws my attention are the features scrawled on the sheet over the man's head. There are two large eyes and a small, smiling mouth drawn in permanent marker. Gulping, I reach out and lift the sheet to see the old man sprawled on the table, unlabeled

cans of mystery food bulging from his torn open stomach. I'm fairly certain the mannequin found the stash of home-canned goods and jammed them into his stomach, causing massive hemorrhaging and eventual death. Dropping the hem and turning away from the gruesome sight, I stumble through a dining room and into the farmhouse's sitting room. It's daylight now. Morning sun streamed through the windows to illuminate another sheet shrouded figure sitting on a couch. The eyes and mouth drawn on the head portion give the illusion that this is a smiling sheet ghost. But the blood stains farther down on the sheet make me certain that whoever is underneath, an old woman by the looks of her feet, is not smiling. I don't lift the sheet to see what horrible thing the mannequin has done to her.

Instead, I lurch sloppily through the house, searching for a way out. When I finally find an exterior your door, I stumble outside and into the morning light, bending over and inhaling great gulps of air as pre-vommit saliva fills my mouth. I need to puke. I need to find help. I need to call the foundation to get a task force involved. I swallow down the urge to vomit, closing my eyes and pressing play on the music service in my mind. Song for the Dead by Queens of Stone Age starts playing in my head. The drum track loud, driving, rhythmic. My arm twitch along with the beat as I get myself under control again. The song continues to play in my head as I open my eyes and search for my phone.

It's gone. So is my portable radio. I look over my shoulder at the house, realizing with dread that I have to go back inside for a phone. But what will I tell the foundation? I don't know how long the mannequin has been gone. I'm sure it's gone without searching the house. I can feel it somehow. I don't know where I am or how far I am from the facility.

I look around for a street sign, but the dirt driveway stretches out into the distance, and I see no evidence of a sign anywhere. I'll have to go to the end of the driveway, and maybe even farther, to find a road sign. There's a killer on the loose! I jump and cry out at the whispered words, looking for their source and freezing when I see two ghostly eyes

floating in the air to my right. They're at once lifelike and clearly plastic, like a pair of real green eyes overlaying a pair of painted mannequin eyes by some Hollywood trickery. I feel ghostly hands grabbing either side of my head and find myself unable to look away from those eyes. Images fill my mind's eye.

The outside of a mall. A mall I recognize. One I drive past every day on my way to work. I went shopping for a pair of pants there once, and walking through the place was a depressing. endeavor. Only a couple of giant chain stores remain. The rest of the space is up for rent. The empty stores, sitting behind security doors like haunted memories of a better time. Another image flashes like a slide in my mind. Inside the mall, there are screams coming from one of

the abandoned stores. That's where it is. The mannequin is there right now, or we'll be soon. I know it as certainly as I know John Bonham was the greatest drummer to ever live. ever live. Why or how I know, it is a different story. But it doesn't matter. Not now. Not when there are lives at stake. I think of all the old folks I saw when I was at the Chapel Hills Mall, getting their days exercise in as they made laps around the comfortable air-conditioned space. I think of the mothers and their two young for-school children who were making use of the still-open indoor playground. I run back into the house and find a landline. But when I pick up the phone, There's no dial tone.

Next to the phone, on a wooden rack that says, keys, there are two sets of car keys hanging from brass hooks. Knowing there's no time to waste, I take both sets and head outside to find a vehicle. According to the truck's clock, it's 15 till 10 a.m. When I pull up outside the mall and kill the engine. I look out the windshield at the entrance to a store that sells everything from tools and grills to beds and lingerie. I stopped at a gas station and called my boss.

After the... Thank God you're alive! And the... We got down to business. He said there's a task force already on it. I asked him where they were, and he named a place nearly a hundred miles from here. Have they made contact?

I asked. Wondering if I was wrong about the mannequin being at the mall. I didn't think I was. Why are they going there? It's not there. It's at the Chapel Hills Mall. He wanted to know if I had proof. I said I didn't. Just a number of strange visions.

Your intel is wrong. The thing is fucking with you. It's at the mall. I'm telling you. You say you're close. Go check it out. But be careful, god damn it. I muttered and hung up on him. It would take too long for the task force to get here. I was going to have to deal with this myself, or die trying. But now that I'm here outside the mall, I'm thinking that my boss was right. Maybe I shouldn't try to stop the thing myself. Maybe that's a good way to get myself killed. I think about the old folks back at the farmhouse,

and all the people who frequent this dying mall, barely keeping what's left of it alive. And I think about John Bonham dying at a young age and robbing the world of his talent. Maybe the next Bonham is in that mall right now, playing on the indoor playground, or working at one of the stores. Or maybe it's more important than just a drummer.

Maybe the person who will cure Alzheimer's is in there. Even if not, even if they're just normal people who won't create amazing music or do groundbreaking things in science and medicine, they still deserve a chance to live, don't they? Of course they do. I jump out of the truck and run into the department store, not looking back once. I step inside, finding that I'm in the tool section. That's good.

After scanning around for any customers and employees but finding none, I head over and find a couple of hatchets. Their rubber grips feel good in my hands. I wrench off my boots so I can move quietly and then rush around the store, sock feet barely making a noise. After checking both floors of the store, I head out into the mall. Muzak plays from the speakers, immediately giving me a headache. Otherwise, the mall is silent.

I see no one around. The walkways are empty. There's no sound of laughter and childish chatter from the indoor playground. Moving through the place, hatchets swinging with my arms. I search for any sign of the people or the mannequin. Finally, I come across an empty store with the security gate still down. But a huge hole has been broken into the gate. A hole big enough for a large man to walk through.

It's dark inside the store, but the lights from the walkway outside provide enough illumination for me to see the first 30 feet of the store. I gripped the hatchets tightly with suddenly sweaty hands. as I see all the human-shaped figures standing inside the store. Figures with white sheets draped over them. Each one of the ghost sheet figures has two eyes and a mouth drawn on them with black marker, and they all stare toward me. There are dozens of them arrayed all throughout the mostly empty store

between abandoned shelves and displays that have yet to be broken down and removed. Some of the figures are small, child-sized, while most are adult-sized. At first, as I peer through the whole, in the security door, I think they're all mannequins. But as I look closer, I see that some of them are moving, just slightly, as if whatever is underneath is shaking with fear. It suddenly makes sense. I found the people. They're standing there under the sheets, because it made them. At least they haven't been slaughtered. Not yet, at least. Not most of them. I stepped through

the hole in the door and stop, waiting, watching the white-clad figures. Any one of them could be the mannequin. So I look at their feet. Most of their feet are visible, but not all. I soon realize looking at the feet isn't going to matter. The mannequin could be wearing clothes and shoes. Moving up to one of the nearer figures, I shove one of my hatchets into my empty gun holster. It sticks up too far, but it's not going to fall out, which is all I need for now. I reach out with my free hand and yank the sheet off, revealing a man in his late 60s, He shouts at me and grabs for the sheet to pull it back over him. A blur of movement streaks toward us,

and before I know what has happened, another sheet-clad figure has crashed into us. I land hard on the ground, my holstered hatchet falling out and sliding across the floor. The man, who grips the sheet in both hands, sinks to his knees, a jagged cut in his throat spewing blood all over the floor. I stare at him with wide eyes

until movement from my right catches my attention. A young woman screamed, as she throws her sheet off and runs toward me. Help! She screams. Help! A sheet-clad figure whips past her and disappears back into the forest of people. The woman runs a few more paces while gripping her neck, blood spouting from between her fingers.

She stumbles and falls and goes still. Meanwhile, the old man is now lying face down in a puddle of blood, unmoving. Jesus Christ, I say, turning and scrambling along the floor and grabbing my other hatchet. Armed with both weapons, I get slowly to my feet and look around. I can hear people sobbing and mothers whispering to their children not to move, not to take off their sheets. I realize I've just gotten the man killed. I killed him by taking the sheet off.

I just don't understand why the mannequin hasn't attacked me yet. I keep scanning the figures in the dark store, looking for any sign of the thing. Although it was moving fast, I think I saw dark blue pants and dark shoes, black or dark brown, but I can't be sure. If I go find a sheet-covered figure with dark blue pants and dark shoes, I risk getting someone else killed if it's not the mannequin.

As I scan the figures, I think about finding a phone and calling my boss to get the task force here. But how long would that take? How long can these people continue standing still under these sheets without making a run for it or collapsing to the floor? No, I need to end this now. The mannequin has left me alive for a real. And while there's no guarantee, it will continue to let me live. I have to take what I can get.

I have to try. Hatch is held ready. I creep deeper into the store, watching for movement, looking at shoes and feet, eliminating the figures who are clearly children from the possibilities. I reach a series of counters arranged into a rectangle, what was once a checkout counter, and something catches my eye.

There's a radio sitting there, plugged into an outlet behind the counter. outlet behind the counter. And below the radio, on a shelf, is an old PA system complete with a microphone for making announcements throughout the store. Something like hope beats in my chest as a plan comes to mind. I think about what time the truck's clock said when I parked outside the mall. Fifteen until ten.

Has it been fifteen minutes? No fucking way, I say, knowing it would be too much of a coincidence. No way. But even as I speak, I move over to the the radio, turn the volume all the way down, and then hit the power button. The display lights up. It works. I don't listen to the radio much. Mostly, I stick to Spotify these days, but I used to listen to the radio often. Back when we weren't allowed to bring our phones into the facility, it was the only way I could get my music fix while it worked. And in those days,

there was something a local radio station did every weekday at 10 a.m. called Get the Let Out. They would play three Led Zeppelin songs in a row. No commercials. No annoying DJ interruptions. Just three back-to-back-to-back-zep songs. I put one of my hatchets down and tune the radio to the station, glancing around as I do. Looking for movement and seeing none. Then I turn the volume up just a little.

And the sound that comes to my ears is one I'm intimately familiar with. It's the song Rock and Roll from the album Led Zeppelin 4, and it just started. A warm feeling, suddenly battling the coldness in my stomach. I hit the power button on the PA system and then grab the microphone. I move the mic up and set my other hatchet down, reaching back to grab one of the flex cuffs that are still on my utility belt. I use one of these cuffs around the mic to keep the transmit button pressed down. With one hand, I place the mic next to one of the radio speakers.

The sound of the mic hitting the counter resonates throughout the store. Moving with the confidence I didn't feel too much, I cranked the radio volume to 11 and then grab both hatchets from the counter as Led Zeppelin pours through the speakers. The driving beat vibrates my lungs and comes up through the floor. I race out into the store, hoping my plan will work. The drums fill my ears as I scan for movement amid the ghostly statues. When I see none, I know what I have to do.

I stop in front of a figure that, by size and stature, is probably a man. I close my eyes, listening to the music, letting it float. through me. The hatchets in my hands twitch along with the beat. They're the heaviest drumsticks I've ever held, but with the reinforced fiberglass handles and carbon steel blades, they can't be more than two pounds each. My imagination takes hold, and I'm on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans. A small smile forms as I see my bandmates in my mind's eye. There's Robert Plant, long curly hair whipping around as he struts, singing into his microphone. Jimmy Page is to my left, fingers moving with precision as he plays his guitar.

John Paul Jones is to my right, fingers dancing up and down his bass. I hold the vision in my mind as I reach out to the figure in front of me, grabbing a piece of white sheet between the thumb and finger on my left hand while still holding the hatchet. And I yanked the sheet off. Even before the sheet is settled on the floor, I'm air drumming like I've never air drummed before. The elderly man standing at arm's length in front of me

looks like he's about to scream, but I barely see him. My focus is on the music and the movement coming from my left. I whip my left hand out like I'm hitting the crash symbol. But instead, I feel the hatchet slam into something else. I keep my head forward, eyes facing the old guy standing there, but I'm using my peripheral vision. And in it, I see a severed mannequin hand come to rest on the floor. Nearby, a second white sheet flutters down,

and I realize with pride that I've ripped the sheet off the mannequin and cut one of its hands off in one fell swoop. There's movement from my right side. The mannequin is coming back. I whip my right hand out like I'm hitting the ride symbol. I feel the blade connect, but I also feel something slash along my right side. I flinch against the pain and the feeling of fresh blood trickling down my ribs,

but I keep drumming. As it darts off, I see the mannequin is wearing blue jeans and dark shoes, just like I thought. But its upper body is still naked. Second pass. The old man stares at me, terrified. I continue drumming, feeling the music, getting even further into the zone. The mannequin returns again, this time from directly behind the old man.

I step forward, arms moving with bottom-like precision as I wheeled the hatchets over the old man's shoulders. I slice into the mannequin's face, ripping one of its eyes open and gashing into its cheek. It moves off, but not before cutting me across the arm with an old-timey straight razor from its one remaining hand. As it disappears amid the ghostly human statues, I step back from the man, but keep drumming. The song ends, and immigrant song starts up. Despite the blood I'm flinging around from the cut on my arm and the pain in my ribs, I manage a grim smile that shows my teeth. This is one of my favorite songs of all time.

I'm aware of the old man's eyes, even though I'm using my peripheral vision. His eyes go wide as he looks over my shoulder. It's coming up behind me. It's time to end this. I spin around and throw one hatchet at the mannequin like I'm tossing a drumstick into the audience. It spins through the air and sinks into the thing's face. The mannequin loses its feet and falls back, and I'm on it in a moment. Rinching the hatchet out and then doing a drum solo on its face, chest and arms.

Bits of plastic fly as I chop and chop and chop. Pretty soon, there's nothing left of the thing's face but its lips. The rest of it has been chopped away. Its arms are both gone now, severed at the shoulders. Its chest is a gaping maw with an uneven edge of gash marks. I pivot off the thing and chop both its legs off at the knees, just to make sure. But the thing hasn't moved in a while. The straight razor it had is still in its hand, but its hand is several feet away on the floor.

Immigrant song ends, and the radio station goes to commercial. I guess I missed the first of the three songs. standing up and breathing like I've just played an hour-long set I look around at the hostages in their white sheets It's okay I shout over a commercial for a used car dealer Everyone get out of here go wait outside The police will be here shortly Several people rip their sheets off and go running

Others are more hesitant Eventually everyone is filing out They glance at me and the ruined mannequin I know a lot of amnestics are in their future They won't remember this, not a bit, not after the foundation gets to them. Once everyone is out, I go over and shut the radio off. Silence drops like an anvil. Still holding the hatchets, I move back to the mannequin and stand over it.

I can see its lips move as it says, The killer has been eliminated. I flinch at the sound of its androgynous voice, but the words bring me something approaching comfort. You're goddamn right, I say, to the thing. Apparently, it's done speaking. I sit down next to it and wait for the task force to get there. And I think about my drum set at home in my soundproofed garage. I can't wait to get home to it. I've got an idea for a new song. It's called The Mannequin Murder. It's going to rock.

SCP 7413 is a plastic full body mannequin standing at six feet, eight inches. It is hollow, with the exception of its posable joints. SCP 7413 is capable of locomoting and verbalizing, but it generally refuses to interact with personnel. Following a containment breach in which eight people were killed, the O5 Council has determined that SCP 7413's containment class is no longer safe. It is now officially a Euclid class anomaly, and it should be treated as such from this point forward.

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