The SCP Experience - We Are Toaster | SCP-426

Episode Date: May 22, 2023

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-426: We Are Toaster This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp. Go to betterhelp.com/scp today to get 10% off your first month! This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-426 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z 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 #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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50-tour-Bus B'Bonanza. DePo Minimimimum of 10 dollars. Veil to pay They are responsible. The conditions apply. This stench of burnt flesh invades my nostrils as I walk into the house. Putting the back of one latex-gluved hand to my nose and mouth, I swallow and get myself together.

It's not the first burnt body I'll smell, and it won't be the last. But I can already tell this scene is shaping up to be a bad one. From outside, I saw that the back corner of the house is scorched from the fire that the firefighters put out before it consumed the entire house. Uniformed officers stand around, looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. Sergeant Reyes steps up as I approach the kitchen. Reyes, I say with a nod. Where are the bodies?

Two in the kitchen and one in an upstairs bedroom, he says. It's the Morrison household. As far as we know, it's James Morrison, his wife, Sasha, and their adult daughter, Melanie. It's not pretty. In fact, it's pretty fucked up, detective. I prop an eyebrow up. It's not often I hear Reyes use what I call cop language. He's a good Catholic man who says fudge and darn and shoot. Not today. I move past him and into the kitchen, watching where I step even though I'm wearing booties over my shoes. Stopping at the

edge of the kitchen, I survey the scene. There's already a couple of crime scene texts inside, doing their thing. It's easy to see where the fire started. At the side of the scorched kitchen, near a wall, there's a fried and blackened body. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman's body because the fire damage is so great. There are charred wires that look as though they've been pulled from the electrical outlet there, and they lead to the body. Nearby, there's a second body lying on the kitchen floor in the fetal position. I can tell this one is a man. because only half of his body has been burned to a crisp. This must be James Morrison.

As I step closer, I noticed something very strange. His body is wrapped around a simple metal toaster, as if he was trying to protect it from the fire. And it looks like he succeeded. The toaster appears undamaged. One thing's clear. This is going to have to be a joint effort between the police and arson investigators. As it is, it looks like someone tried to commit suicide by electricity and ended up taking another guy with them.

But if the guy was alive and conscious enough to wrap himself around the toaster, why didn't he just run? Why didn't he call the police? Instead of leaving it to the neighbor who noticed the smoke? I shake my head. Then I remember what Reyes told me. There are three bodies. Leaving the kitchen, I head upstairs, and I am directly.

directed to a back bedroom by another crime scene tech. Stepping inside, I'm greeted by the strangest thing I've seen in my entire career. There are plastic bread bags strewn all over the room. They're on and around the bed, on the nightstands, and even on the dresser. Lying in the bed, surrounded by these bags, is a woman with a massively swollen stomach, Sasha Morrison. Her t-shirt has been pushed up by her stomach. and the stretch marks are unmistakable.

I move up beside the bed and look at her face. She's middle-aged, with brown hair and hazel eyes, which are staring blankly at the ceiling. Her mouth is wide open, and there are two pieces of bread shoved in there. Her right hand is inside a half-full bread bag, lightly gripping two more slices. Reyes comes into the room, hands on his hips.

He stands next to me, and we both look at the table. woman. You ever seen that movie seven? I ask. That's exactly what I was thinking, Reyes says. Only I don't remember anyone being burned to death in that movie, I say. Or any toasters, Reyes puts in. I nod. Then I say, you have anyone talked to the neighbors yet? Yeah, go see Bear downstairs. I think he just came back. Which one is Bear? I ask. Real name's Bukowski. the one that looks like a bear. Right, of course. I head outside and find Bear, who was a large, hairy man with a kind face. He tells me that the neighbors knew something was up with the Morrisons. The Clarks, the ones who live next door, called 9-1-1, Bear tells me. Mrs. Clark

says that the things only just recently got weird with the Morrisons, says that she saw the mother of the house, Sasha, unloading a bunch of groceries from the car about a week ago. She came over to chat it up, you know, like neighbors do. And she saw that all the bags were filled with bread. I mean, all of them. Mrs. Clark told me she'd never seen so much bread in her life. Bear looks up at the second floor of the house. He must have been inside to see what became of all the bread. Then he continues telling me what he heard from Mrs. Clark. Anyway, Mrs. Clark asks Mrs. Morrison what all the bread's for. And this is where it gets really weird.

Mrs. Morrison says, I'm going to toast it. Mrs. Clark goes, All of it? What for? And Mrs. Morrison says, It's what I do. I let his story sink in for a minute before asking if Mrs. Clark knows what happened in the house. Did she go inside?

No. Bear says. She has no idea what happened in there. She was just recounting that story because she found it so strange. She even told me she didn't think it would have anything to do with the house fire. But I urged her on anyway.

You know how these things are? The littlest piece of information could be the case. I smile. Yes, I know how these things are. I guess you're angling for detective eventually. Hey, Bukowski? Bear goes a little red in his plumbus.

face. Isn't everyone? I thank him and then head back inside. I get the attention of a crime scene tech in the kitchen and pointed the toaster. I want you to be sure to load me up as evidence, okay? Careful as you can. The tech, a woman in her early 30s, looks at me funny. What? I ask her. What's wrong? You just said load me up as evidence. I shake my head. Did I? I meant load me up as evidence, I say, pointing at the toaster again. You did it again, she says. She must be messing with me. Because in my mind, I said, I meant load the toaster up as evidence.

Whatever, I say. You know what I mean, right? Yeah, detective. She says, gesturing at the appliance cradled in the dead man's embrace. You want me to load me up as evidence? I don't know what you're doing, I say to her. But it's not funny. Just do your fucking job, okay?

I don't appreciate jokes in my crime scene. She looks confused and hurt, making me regret my tone. But before she can say anything in her defense, I move back outside to see about reports from other neighbors. I leave to let the text do their thing. There's not a whole lot I can do until the medical examiner does her thing, and I get official causes of death on all three of the Morrisons. Eventually, all the evidence, including the toaster,

is brought back to the station in plastic baggies. After a few days, I get reports from the medical examiner. Cause of death for Melanie and her father James is smoke inhalation. Cause of death for Sasha Morrison is internal bleeding. Her stomach was full of so much bread, it ruptured. And even after it ruptured, she continued eating. According to the ME, it took her many hours to die from the blood loss, hours in which she could have called for an ambulance.

There was no evidence that she was forced to eat all that bread. No evidence that anyone else aside from James and Melanie was even in the house leading up to her death, which happened approximately 24 hours before the fire in the kitchen. After reading these reports, I have only one working hypothesis. Either James or Melanie, or both of them, forced Sasha to eat all that bread.

Then, perhaps overcome with grief for what they'd done. They killed themselves. A week later, I hear from the arson investigator. He calls me while I'm at my desk, eating my bag to lunch. Quintero says to me, someone took the... You there? I say. You kind of trailed off, Quintero says with a sign.

It seems whoever wires up the young... I pause mid-chew, a bite of turkey sandwich in my mouth. You think it was James, the father? I ask after quickly chewing and swallowing. It seems like the most likely story. I don't care what's going on in your life. You don't try to shove live wires up your own ass. Anyway, it's not my job to figure out who did what with those wires.

All I can tell you is that the electrical fire started because of the damage to the wires at the outlet. Okay, I say. Thanks, Inspector. You got it, detective. I'll send my report over now. My sandwich forgotten. I leaned back in my seat.

I guess that wraps things up nicely. I can close the case with the knowledge that whoever did this died in the fire. But I don't like it. It doesn't make any sense. By all accounts, the Morrisons were a nice, normal family. The daughter came home from college to live with them and find a job only a few months before they all died. Their friends and neighbors never heard them exchange harsh words

or even complain about one another. It doesn't make sense. I put the case on the back burner for now, letting it sit so I can think it over. There are other, more pressing cases on my docket anyway. Weeks go by. About five weeks after being called to the crime scene, I fly to Florida to testify against a murderer

who I helped apprehend after he came to Texas. His victims were all in Florida, so we extradited him. But my testimony is important because I caused I caught him in the middle of trying to murder a young woman in a hotel room after someone in an adjacent room called the police. I spend a week in Florida, taking a few vacation days after testifying. I do some fishing, some swimming, and some well-deserved relaxing. But the Morrison case is always there, in the back of my mind.

I fly back home on a Wednesday, almost exactly two months after I got the Morrison case. It's late, but I stopped by the station on my way home to grab me. some things for ongoing cases from the detective who was covering for me while I was gone. The station is quiet. There's no desk sergeant up front, which is strange. I shrug it off and walk back through the office. As I pass the break room, I catch a glimpse of a familiar toaster sitting on the table. I stop and then step inside the room, peering at the toaster. It's the same one. I can tell because its evidence bag is lying next to it. Suddenly, Finally, I noticed Williams, the desk sergeant, standing over near the cabinets, his back to me.

Hey, Williams, what am I doing out? I ask him. Williams turned slowly, holding a slice of bread in each hand. His mouth is full of bread, cheeks bulging. Bear suddenly comes into the room from behind me. Am I done yet? He asks, stepping up to the toaster and peering inside. I can see that there's bread in there, but the toaster isn't plugged in. Rushing over to Williams, I slop the bread out of his hands and grabbed the half-empty bag of bread he was eating.

Moving over to the table, I reach for the toaster, but Bear slaps my hand away. Don't touch me! He shouts. Bukowski, I'm a toaster. I say, trying to reason with him. I'm just a toaster. He narrows his eyes and growls. Don't touch me!

Williams comes up and grabs me around the neck. I drop the bag of bread and backpedal, shoving us both. back and slamming Williams into the kitchen counter. I throw a couple of elbows to his side, forcing him to release me. I spin around and crack him in the face. He goes down hard. Then I turn to see Bear, still staring at the toaster. Rushing forward, I grabbed the toaster and turn to run.

But Bear has long arms, and he yanks me off my feet by the back of my shirt. He kicks me in the ribs and yells, I told you not to touch me. Somehow, I'm still holding onto the toaster. As I'm trying to scramble, up. Bear kicks me in the face. I feel my nose shatter in the world goes gray as I flop down onto my back. The toaster skitters across the floor. Bear goes over to grab it, and I force myself to get up on wobbly legs. While bear is turned around, I move up to him

and punch him in the kidney. He doesn't even register it. He's built more like a bear than I realized. As he turns around, I take a swing at his face. The impact breaks my hand, but does little to bear. head in one meaty paw and slams me down into the kitchen counter. My right arm crashes into the sink there, turning the cold water on. A thought occurs to me, something that just might work. I snatch a mug from the drying rack next to the sink, while Bear moves off with the toaster, held in the crook of one arm. I fill the mug up with my left hand and lurched to my feet, waiting for a moment to see if I'll pass out. When I'm still conscious after a moment, I move after Bear, who's now in the hallway. As I step up to the door,

out, I call, Hey, Toaster! Bear turns around, and I fling the water in the mug at him. It splashes his face and chest. For a long moment, I think it's not going to work. But then Bear starts shaking like he's being electrocuted. He drops the toaster while he falls stiffly to the floor, still shaking. Tossing the mug aside, I grab the toaster and run on wobbly legs out of the station

into my car. I drive the toaster to a cliff overlooking a nearby lake and shove a bunch of rocks into its two bread slots, then I toss it in the water and I watch it sink. Sitting down hard, I take a breath. How could I cause so much chaos? I ask myself, I'm just a little toaster. I am SCP 426. I must be introduced this way in order to prevent ambiguity. I am an ordinary toaster, able to toast bread once supplied with electricity. However, when any human being mentions me, they inadvertently and

unknowingly referred to me in the first person. Despite all attempts, there is yet to be a way to speak or write about me in the third person. When in my continuous presence for over two months, individuals begin to identify themselves as a toaster. Unless forcibly restrained, these people will ultimately harm themselves in their attempts to emulate my standard functions.