The SCP Experience - You Have Been Found Guilty | SCP-6061

Episode Date: September 11, 2023

SCP Foundation ESOTERIC class object, SCP-6061: You Have Been Found Guilty This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-6061 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

It's something else here now. Something new. From. Exclusively on Paramount Plus. It's the series Stephen King calls scary as hell. Everything here is impossible, but it's also real. Sci-fi Vision calls it the best show streaming right now. We're running out of time and we still don't know the rules.

Don't miss what the movie blog calls something you need to watch. Saving those children is how we all go home. From binge all episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. I scowled as I brought the now empty flask from my lips, the liquor burning my throat as it moved down to my warm belly. The darkening city swept by outside my window as I steered through traffic with one hand. The grimy concrete sidewalks and stone buildings had once felt like home to me. Now they seemed as foreign as Baghdad or Johannesburg or some other city on the other side of the globe. Spotting a liquor store on the right, I swerved, cutting off someone coming up behind me.

They honked angrily, but I paid them no mind as I pulled to the curb, putting my hazards on. As I stepped out of my unmarked, the car I'd cut off stopped next to me, the guy rolling down the passenger window. Hey, asshole! he shouted. I peered at him, lifting my blue suit jacket to reveal the pistol in my shoulder holster and the badge at my belt. What? I said. The guy scowled and pulled away without another word. I moved into the liquor store, thinking about guilt.

Driving while under the influence. Guilty. Driving recklessly. Guilty. Wanting to pull my gun out and stick it in that civilian's face. Guilty. Once again, I silently dared the killer, tormenting my city to come for me. I wanted him to.

I needed him to. The faces of his victims flashed in my head as I selected a bottle of whiskey from the shelf in the too bright store. The buzz of the overhead bulbs drilling into my skull. I thought about Wendy Lathrop, found dead in her locked apartment, executed with a gunshot at the back of her head. Her face had been ruined, like many of the others, which was why it stuck so easily in my mind. I thought about Linwood Roush, found dead in an alley next to the mural he was spray. painting on the wall. An eyewitness had heard the gunshot and looked into the alley not two seconds later, but Rauch was the only one there. Brains added to the mural, turning it into something altogether

different and far less beautiful than what the talented artist had been working on. There were half a dozen others like them, all shot with the same caliber weapon, and all found with a piece of paper nearby that said their name and what they were guilty of, if anything. And that was what I couldn't understand. Some of the pieces of paper, like the one found in Wendy Lathrop's apartment, said, not guilty. I could almost understand someone going around killing criminals, almost, but this was something altogether different. Why were some of these law-abiding citizens being killed, along with common criminals and murderers? There was no rhyme or reason to it, none that I could see, which was what drove me crazy. I stood in line, two people ahead of me as the store clerk

checked people out. The people chattered, speaking English, but I was somehow unable to hear them clearly, unable to understand what they were trying to say. Stepping out of line, I moved to the front door, bottles still in my hand. The clerk yelled at me, but I ignored him. Shoplifting, guilty. Come on, asshole. Come and find me. I thought. I got into my unmarked and punched it, heading toward the latest crime scene. With the whiskey bottle between my legs, I unscrewed the cap. Then I pulled it up and took a long swig. I'd never so much as jaywalked before, but now I was making up for lost time. I was breaking the law left and right, which didn't make me much different from many other cops I knew. But at the

back of my mind, I worried about hurting other people. What if I got in an accident? and killed someone because I was driving drunk. Could I live with myself then? No, I didn't think I could. I pushed the thoughts away. It didn't matter. But when I pulled up to the crime scene, a brownstone off of Grayson Avenue,

I spotted a homeless woman with a shopping cart full of junk. She was standing at the edge of the crime scene tape, peering toward the home. I got out of my car with the bottle and walked up to her, the uniformed officers around watching me in confusion. You drink? I asked. The lady nodded suspiciously. I held out the bottle. It's not poisoned or anything. Take it. She took the bottle, and I turned and headed toward the brownstone. As I went, my phone rang. I pulled it out and saw that the number belonged to Cedar Grove Medical Center. It was their

third call today. I silenced the phone and walked up the steps to the home. What was that about? Lieutenant Riggily asked. He'd been standing at the door waiting for me and had seen me give the bottle to the woman. Just keeping the eyes on the streets happy, I said, pushing past the lieutenant. Never know when you'll need them.

I moved among the crime scene techs who were waiting to get started, waiting so I could get a look at the scene before they started doing their stuff. They knew how I liked to work. The body was in the back of the house in a makeshift studio. There were paintings on the walls and on easels. The man's body was on the floor,

lying in a position much like all the others. The murderer made them kneel before killing them. It didn't take much to realize that this was another one. Pulling my gloves on, I looked around for the piece of paper I knew would be there. When I found it, I took note of its position on a stool nearby before picking it up and reading it. Mr. A. Ramirez, guilty?

That was all it said. And I knew that when we researched this guy, he would have some sort of crime on his record. Maybe just a parking ticket, maybe something more, maybe manslaughter or sexual assault. They would be something. I felt my muscles stiffen as the anger swelled again. I also knew that Mr. A. Ramirez wouldn't have any ties to any of the other victims. The only thing they'd have in common was that they were all painters of some kind. Whether amateur or professional or simply dabbling,

all the victims had that in common. Breathing out to get myself under control, I set the piece of paper back on the stool and turned to Wrigley, who was studying me with raised eyebrows. You okay? He asked. Smells like you had some of that bottle

before you gave it to that lady. Who else was here? I asked. Wife, kids? Riggily stuck his jaw out in frustration before answering. Yeah, wife. No, kids. She was upstairs when she heard the shot, came running.

didn't see anyone. But what else is new? Everything was locked up. Riggily nodded, just like the others. Where's the wife? I want to talk to her. She's pretty upset, Ross, Riggily said. We've got her statement.

Why don't you give her some time? Maybe wait until you've sobered up a little bit. I glared at my lieutenant. You don't want me on this case? Fine. Put someone else on it. See if Owens or Johnson can do any better with this cluster fuck. But don't start that.

that passive-aggressive shit with me. Not now, not today. Wrigley looked at me in disbelief. You're right. You need to take some time off, he said softly. Get yourself right, Ross. Go home. I'll give the case to someone else for now. I laughed without humor, drawing stairs from the other city employees. Good fucking luck, I said, ripping my latex gloves off.

I stormed out of the house and got into my unmarked, pulling away with revving engine. and squealing tires. The stripes of color on the canvas looked like something a kindergartner would draw on finger painting day. Still, I dipped my brush in the puddle of green paint and tried to make the shape of a tree. I'd never had the talent or inclination to be an artist. The last time I painted I'd been in school, not in kindergarten, but probably elementary school or art class in middle school. That was until I got this case. Once I realized the common theme among the victims, I visited every art store in the city, asking the employees if they'd seen any of the victims. But it seemed that all the victims either got their supplies online or shopped at different stores.

Not long after the fourth murder, I bought myself painting supplies and started going through the motions at night, hoping he would come for me. Now, as I tried to paint a tree, Tears sprung from my eyes and dropped onto the cheap plastic pallet, mixing with the paint. Yelling, I threw the pallet and brush, splattering the paint all over the white wall. Dropping my head into my hands, I fell to sobbing. Then something viciously cold pressed against the back of my head. I knew it was a gun. His gun.

He'd come for me. Finally. I dropped my hands, suddenly overcome with relief. What did it? I asked. Was it the laws I broke? Is it because I'm guilty? The man spoke in a ghostly voice.

His words, anything but English. Anything but any language I'd ever heard. But somehow, I understood him. It was as though the words morphed as they reached my ears, fitting themselves into the right sounds for me to understand. I don't know, he said. But I think it's because of your art. I tilted my head to look up at the sloppy canvas,

surprised. Not that one, he said. The one you just made. I turned my head slightly to look at the paint splattered wall. He shifted his gun with the movement, keeping it glued to the back of my head. Art is about emotion, he said. And that's the first time in your life you've painted with emotion. So why all the others?

Why did you kill them? There was nothing but silence from behind me. I couldn't even hear him breathing. And then his earlier words came to me, the first words he spoke. You don't know, I said in a gasp. You don't know why you killed them, do you? You're just following orders, aren't you? More silence. I laughed raggedly. Of course you don't know. Why would you? No one knows anything. Not a fucking thing.

I like to think of myself as an artist of sorts, he said. But I paint with people's lives. I laughed louder. Sounds like the same self-important bullshit. Everyone else spouts to try and give their lives meaning. When he made no reply, I continued. Well, are you going to do it? Neil, he said.

He kept the pistol glued to my skull as I got up from the stool in front of the easel. I knelt on the floor and waited. Your punishment, Mr. J. Ross, is levied by Max Judge after considered tributation. This reinforcement is allowable by the laws that govern all living things and stand above all other laws of man

in any jurisdiction. He paused. Now, Mr. J. Ross, are you guilty or not guilty? I smiled. Guilty, I said. I'm guilty. The gun pressed harder against the back of my head,

so cold it burned. Then it was gone. It was gone, and it hadn't finished the job. You're sentenced by Max Judge to live out the remainder of your miserable life while cancer eats you from the inside. That is your punishment, Mr. J. Ross.

No, I said, panic building. No, please. I'm guilty. I'm guilty. I spun around, but there was no one there. Nothing but a piece of paper on the floor. A piece of paper that said, Mr. J. Ross, guilty. I reached up to the shoulder holster I still wore and yanked my pistol out. I disengaged to the safety. and pointed the barrel at my head.

I put my finger on the trigger and thought about my stage four cancer diagnosis. But I couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger. Just like I couldn't bring myself to swallow the pills or jump off the 9th Street bridge or run my car into a brick wall. I dropped the gun to the floor and screamed at the ceiling. Then I collapsed onto my side and lost myself in grief and self-pity. But after a few minutes of this, as I started to come back to myself,

A funny thing happened. I was staring at the wall splashed with paint, and the random collage of colors gave me a feeling of peace. It was small at first, but as I stared at that wall for longer and longer, I started to see the beauty there. And soon, the beauty overwhelmed me. Lazzang sur-gillet,

puissance-moyane for 15 minutes. We're like it's their dojo. Prere to play the pleasure with the Ojo. The casino in line that proposes the most recent machine and some of the money-ass-a-sou-d-d-d-d-dict. Profite of 50 tours-grat-sour-grat on Big Bas-Bananza. Without exigance-de-mise-Ban-A. Hey, I've gained!

Woo-hoo! Sonture the pleasure! Play-O-Joe! 10-8-N-E-Po! 50-tour-Germintuptuio-Terminanza. Depos minimum of $10. Veighi and pay-to-be-d-desponsive. Seapu-Septi-P Sixty-Sy-Eanmonmonininininus entity,

currently affecting an unknown number of people across the globe and capable of beginning SCP 6061-C events. During these events, victims are reportedly compelled to kneel on the ground in front of them, before immediately suffering a fatal gunshot wound to the back of the head from an unknown entity. Following the death of the victim, a paper containing the victim's name followed by the word guilty, spontaneously manifests beside the victim's body. Soon after, the entity reportedly disappears.

According to the information, the foundation, the foundation, has procured from eyewitness testimonies, the entity has been reported to be invisible to all means of detection. Furthermore, during times when an event is witnessed or captured on camera, the scene is almost immediately changed following the presumed disappearance of the entity. The cause of these events is unknown, but a common link has surfaced between victims indicating that a background related to art may increase the odds of being chosen by SCP 6061. At the time of writing, occurrences of these events have resulted in the deaths of at least 105 separate individuals across 30 countries.