The SCP Experience - We're All the Same Down Here | SCP-2375

Episode Date: August 5, 2024

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-2375 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2375 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Cyrus S. * * * 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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Viaray, the voice that we love that we love. The woman standing on Phil's doorstep was as cute as she could be. She had a big, infectious smile and long blonde hair that she wore up in a high ponytail like a cheerleader. She was probably one of the few people on the planet who could make a white polo and a long black skirt look good. She was certainly a hundred times more adorable than the guy standing behind her with his taped up glasses and dusty slacks. Phil had thought they were Mormons at first, but the books they were clutching were not labeled in any way. They were just nondescript gray blocks, and there were no bicycles or anything in sight. Not that all Mormons rode bicycles.

He tried to scrub that thought away as if they could somehow read his mind. He didn't want the observation to slip out as a question either. He didn't want them to think he was stereotyping. The woman made a motion of tucking a stray hair behind her ear, even though he did not see any loose strands, and her smile widened, any bigger, and her face was going to split in half. Do you mind if we come in for just a minute?

She asked. He had already forgotten why they were there. He assumed it had something to do with the book she was clutching so tightly in her hands that her nails had lost their color. The guy behind her groaned. It was a weird sound, like he was stroking himself off. Phil tried to stay focused on the blonde. Uh, Phil said.

I'm actually on my lunch break. I have to be back at work in like 15 minutes. The lines at the corners of her eyes deepened in a squint. Like she could tell he was lying. But her smile didn't waver. Oh, well, that's fine, she said. Our message won't take long. We just like to spread it around.

Even if he wanted to shut the door, he couldn't. Her practical black shoe was wedged against the bottom. He briefly thought about slamming it shut. just to discourage her from being pushy in strangers' doorways, but ultimately decided against it. That wasn't helpful to anyone. Okay. He hoped he didn't sound as defeated as he felt.

What's this message all about? He watched the guy behind her scratch his arm. He had an ugly black and purple bruise blossoming over the inside of his elbow. The skin around it looked gray and broken, almost necrotic. Phil had to slide his hand down his mouth to cover his grimace. Well... She started in on a script that felt grossly rehearsed.

Have you ever felt a little too pressured to be an individual? A little too much like society wants you to set yourself apart from everyone else? Do you long for the comfort of the fold, or where you can dissolve your anxiety with the support of a ready and waiting community? Well? She pressed in closer. Do you? Phil wiped his mouth again and tried to take a step back.

She stuck her book against the doorframe to stop him from shutting her out. He managed to get a better look at her arm and saw the same gray, necrotic-looking skin crawling up her forearm. The skin across it looked wrinkled, like a soft scab ready to peel up. Phil's stomach did a flip. I don't, really, he said. I like who I am as a person well enough. He looked past her shoulder at the guy behind her.

He was scrubbing viciously at his arm, tearing long runs into the skin that were deep enough that they should have been bloody, but they just looked ragged and crusty. I don't think that you do, she said. But don't worry, you don't have to hide your misery from us. We can see past that veneer. We were all you once.

He didn't like that at all. Phil looked down at the book that was jammed up against the doorframe, its corner bent against the brass plate. He thought about slamming the door shut anyway, or maybe kicking her out of the way. The only reason he didn't was because she looked like the type of person who might kick back. Thank you for your time, he said. But I really have to get back to work.

He wondered if it was worth keeping up the lie, even though at this point, they both knew it was bullshit. The guy behind her scratched at his arm again and let out another long, unsettling moan. Phil wanted to suggest that maybe the woman on his doorstep get her friend over to the hospital, rather than standing there trying to sell him on some kind of cult. Whatever was going on with that guy,

the woman didn't seem to care. Her mile-long stare had become unblinking, while her smile was starting to droop in the corners. It was creeping fill the fuck out. I'll just ask you to think about it, the girl finally said. I think you underestimate the comfort of being one. The inherent peace in knowing that we are all the same.

She kept her book, pressed against the doorframe, as she let it fall open. Its onion skin pages fluttered, and a white brochure fell out into her hand. She held it up and offered it. to him. And at this point, Phil was willing to do or say almost anything to get her to leave. Sure, okay, he said. He reached out and took the brochure from her. As quick as lightning, her hand slid up the crease in the paper, and her fingers brushed over the back of his hand,

lingering in the spaces between his knuckles. Her hands were clammy in a way he had not expected. Phil recoiled, and her smile disappeared. She pulled the book away from the frame and took a step back, while her companion stared over her shoulder, still digging his nails into his beastly infection. Thank you for your time. She was cut off when Phil slammed the door in her face and locked it. His stomach rolled with the sudden release of tension,

and he felt like he was going to throw up. Phil leaned against the door and waited. He didn't hear anything. No retreating footsteps or muttering. Yet when he looked through the peephole, they were both gone. Phil rubbed his face and looked down at the brochure he had been handed. His hands were shaking, almost as sweaty as hers had been when she dragged her slimy fingertips over his knuckles. He frowned at the recollection.

The face of the brochure was blank. He flipped it over and opened it up to see if there was anything printed on it at all. Nothing, just a white, shiny sheet of paper. Phil rolled his eyes and tore the paper in half. He jammed it down into his trash can on his way back to his bedroom. The middle of his chest itched, and he scratched it. The inside of his arm itched, and he scratched that too. Days later, Phil was late clocking into the gas station.

He had slept through all of his alarms after not being able to fall asleep until well past midnight. When he did sleep, he dreamt about Barbie doll-looking women with big, white smiles blasted on their faces, rotting from the torso down. Dude, what happened to you? His coworker asked. John was his least favorite person to open with, mostly because he always stuck around an hour after his shift to sip on soda and harassed the women who walked in to put money on their pumps. What are you talking about? Phil asked. He was. too tired for this shit. That nasty bruise!

John leaned over the counter until he was close to falling off and jabbed his finger against Phil's arm. Does that hurt? Phil looked down and twisted his arm around to try and see what his co-worker was talking about. This? There was a nasty looking bruise towards the back of his arm. He had been in such a rush that morning. It was no wonder he hadn't seen it. No, it doesn't hurt.

I was wrestling demons last night. Apparently. John slithered back behind the register. My cousin gets bruises like that. She has an iron deficiency. I bet she does. Phil tried to make it obvious that he couldn't be less interested. Do you eat your vegetables?

John called after him as he made a bee line for the break room to set his things down. Broccoli is good for iron. Oh, wow. What happened to your arm? The girl on the other side of the counter sounded concerned. But Phil was too busy trying to ring up her three separate coffee-based energy drinks to look at where she was pointing. He assumed it was the same bruise from earlier,

although he didn't know how she could see it. I don't know, he said. He tried to play it off like a joke. The look on her face irritated him more than it should. She looked genuinely worried, and maybe a little disgusted. He didn't see what the big deal was. It really didn't even look that bad. He held up one of her coffees, and her face crunched up even more.

Do you want a bag? he asked. She nodded silently, and he dropped the three slim cans into a red plastic bag. He pulled it up by the handles to pass it over to her, and that was when he caught a glimpse of his own arm. He almost dropped the bag. A new bruise had a beard. this time on the opposite arm from the first. It rested right in the crook of his elbow, like a blown vein and spread in both directions.

With dark purple lines heading for his wrist and his heart, Phil was only vaguely aware of the plastic sliding off his fingers. When he looked back up, the girl was gone. Phil touched the edge of the bruise, bracing himself for it to hurt. He didn't feel anything. The whole area was numb. He kept touching the skin tenderly, creeping his way closer and closer towards the center. He thought it would be hot and swollen, but if anything, the skin sank underneath his touch.

When he reached the inside of his elbow, a jolt of pleasure shot through him. So sweeping and sudden that he thought it was pain at first, Phil's hand shook. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. Every alarm bell in his head told him to go to the doctor. But that was easier said than done when he didn't have insurance. He touched the bruise again, pressing down a little harder. The purple lines puffed up just a little bit, and the spongy skin made a soft, squelching sound.

Another shockwave of pleasure swept over him, striking him all the way down in his groin. It was a sharp, intense pang that was on the verge of being painful, but it just made him want to grind his back teeth together and rub himself against the counter. Phil let out a hard pant and went to load up on hand sanitizer. He grabbed his jacket from underneath the counter and slipped it on, zipping up the front self-consciously.

He wasn't cold, but he would hide the ugly bruise from customers. He would figure out what he wanted to do when he got home. It just needed some neosporin, probably, and to be wrapped up for a little while. There wasn't any broken skin that he could see. but he would inspect it closer once he was in his own bathroom. Likely, it wasn't a bruise at all. He had seen spider bites puff up and get really bad just like that.

He didn't remember getting bitten. But anything could have happened while he was tossing and turning and sweating in his bed the night before. Maybe that bitch who had kept yammering in his doorframe let something nasty like a brown recluse in. He wouldn't doubt it. It's never too early to plan your summer story in Europe. with WestJet, from rolling countryside to cobblestone streets.

Begin your next chapter. Book your seat at westjet.com or call your travel agent. WestJet, where your story takes off. Phil's arm was too numb to bend by the time he got home. He thought about picking up dinner on his way back, but his mind was too preoccupied with the thought of checking out his arm and seeing what the deal was. As soon as he got back to his place,

he made a bee line for the bathroom and stripped off his jacket. The one sleeve was damp. It was stuck to his arm, and he had to peel it off. It should have hurt, for at the very least, he ought to have felt something. But he didn't.

He tossed the jacket into his bathtub, and a hideous smell smacked him in the face. Phil gagged and held his arm up over the sink. His skin around the affected area had gone completely gray. The very center of the wound, looked just like that blonde woman's arm. The skin was wrinkled to the point where it looked like waterlogged cardboard. He pressed his finger against the brownest part of the patch, and the skin moved easily underneath his touch. His stomach churned with revulsion, but he could not stop

touching it. He moved the skin around and watched it ripple with grotesque fascination. There was a bucker at the very edge where it looked like some of it was trying to peel up, and Phil hooked his his nail underneath it. He pinched the very edge of the turned-up skin and began to pull it back. The skin came up in a wet sheet, and all he could see underneath was a raw patch of flesh that was festering green and quickly turning black. Phil swallowed down a surge of vomit that rammed its way up his throat. He let the displaced skin fall back down over the wound. He ran it under some water, and all he could feel was a pleasant tingle-like fingernail scratching at the back of his scalp.

The water ran cloudy and pink down his arm, and then disappeared down the drain. After a few minutes, he tiled it off and squeezed out all the neosporin he had left onto the wound. He wrapped it up in a white cotton bandage and then tucked it all into place. He didn't even have enough bandage to wrap the entire affected area, but the important bits were covered. The wound was already weeping and turning the white bandage brown. Phil stumbled into the kitchen and opened his fridge to grab a bottle of water. He chugged it within seconds, crunching the sides, and then reached in to grab a beer. He wished he had something stronger, like vodka, but beer would have to do.

He just hoped that his arm wouldn't fall off. He didn't know at what point he should say, fuck it, and go to the emergency room. They couldn't turn him away if he didn't have insurance, right? Not if he was dying. And he probably was. Lines towards the heart meant something. He had read about that on a Reddit thread about bug bites. But it didn't hurt, and he had managed to work his entire shift.

So really, he was probably overreacting. There was a knock on his door. Phil popped the tab on his beer as he walked over to look through the pee-p-hole. That blonde in the preppy polo was back. She was standing on his doorstep, and staring right at him through the peephole with those wide, unsettling eyes. eyes. Phil set his jaw. He unbolted the door and ripped it open, thrusting the beer can in her face before she could get a word out. Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying, he snarled. He stuck out his injured arm, and he could have sworn his wrist looked puffier than it had minutes before.

What did you give me? What is this? Some kind of gonorrhea? The blonde did not say anything at first. She held up her arm so that he could see where it had spread. It went, all the way up towards her elbow and her fingers had started to turn some kind of greenish yellow. She could not even bend them very well. They sort of just dangled in the air like spider legs. There is no getting rid of it once you have it, she finally said. Her voice sounded flatter than he remembered. But you are not alone.

There are many of us, and we are all the same. He stared at her arm and chugged down half his beer. What am I supposed to do? he asked. I can't live like this. He could only imagine what his job would have to say. Customers wouldn't tolerate him having an open, weeping wound at the register for the rest of his life. And if it continued to get none, and he started to lose mobility, he kept looking back down at her hand.

It looked mangled. His stomach twisted and he took another sip of beer. Come with me, she said. There is a whole community of us. You can't get rid of it, but you can spread it around. Then you won't be alone. Spread it around? He swallowed hard.

Is it going to kill me? She just gave him a long, steady look, and held out her hand. He hesitated before he took it, and her fingers felt as stiff as twigs. That's all it takes, she said. One touch is all it takes for you to never be alone again. Fuck. Phil finished off his beer and crushed the sides of the can. I don't know if I can do this.

It's easy, the blonde told him. I will show you how. SCP 2375 is a necrotic skin condition in its beginning stages, capable of spreading through physical contact. Initial symptoms of SCP 2375 include mild decay of the skin on the chest, increased senses of euphoria and pleasure, and a decreased ability to feel pain. Within one week, this skin damage grows in size and intensity until the affected part of the body begins to resemble severely necrotic skin.

Although those infected with SCP 2375 report no unusual feelings. The bodies of individuals infected with SCP 2375 display no permanent damage to the insides of the body. appearing to suffer only physical decay. Approximately two weeks after the individual is first infected with SCP 2375, the infection will spread to the individual's limbs, if available, and lower torso. Individuals who reach this point of infection are designated instances of SCP 2375-1. The subject will then attempt to convince bystanders to initiate physical contact with the subject in order to spread SCP 2375.

Humans with antisocial personality disorders are particularly susceptible to SCP 2375-1's influence. SCP 2375-1 instances have been shown to engage in standard fundraising activities, such as door-to-door recruiting, distribution of male leaflets, see transcript of 2375-1 distributed flyer, social events, and group therapy programs to gain opportunities to spread SCP 2375 to humans who participate in these events.

Participants in these events report a strong compulsion to interact with instances of SCP 2375-1 that remains for approximately three hours after the conclusion of the event. Aside from containing instances of SCP 2375-1, usually dressed in elaborate copy, costumes or long clothing. No anomalous activity or atypical spread of SCP 2375 has been reported during these events.