The SCP Experience - You WILL Worship the Rotten God | SCP-4892

Episode Date: October 4, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-4892 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-4892 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

Journal entry one. This was Dad's idea. I wanted drugs, but of course, he won't give me any. Not even a damn Ambien. I know Mom has them. I've seen the bottle. Come on, Dad! I said, doing my best withdrawing junkie impression. I just want a pill. Just one pill.

Joking about taking drugs isn't funny, Dad said. Anyway, Dad wouldn't give me anything stronger than melatonin. And those didn't help with the weird dreams at all. I'm not sure, but the melatonin could be making them worse and more vivid. Maybe not. Because I didn't take a pill last night, and I still had an awful dream. They're verging toward piss your pants nightmare territory at this point.

I bet an Ambien would help. Maybe I'll sneak one. Probably not. Dad would kill me, especially since he just told me I wasn't allowed. Whatever. He doesn't understand. but at least he's trying. When I told him about last night's nightmare, he gave me this journal.

He said it was a dream journal. He said that writing my dreams down could help me determine what's going on in my subconscious to cause them. Then again, he also said that sometimes dreams are just dreams, and they don't mean anything. Great Dad, very helpful. But since I don't have any alternative, I'm giving this a shot. I do feel a little guilty because I've been lying to dad about the content of my dreams. I made some stuff up about these weird monsters, like the xenomorphs and facehuggers from that new alien movie. But really, my dreams have been about dad.

Well, dad and some weird rotting corpse. I'm just afraid that if I told him what I've been seeing in my mind's eye while unconscious, he would look at me differently because these dreams are crazy. So crazy, I've been looking at myself in the mirror in the mornings, and wondering if there's something broken inside me. Maybe if they keep up, they'll let me see a therapist. I don't really want to, but I'm getting to the point where I'll do anything to stop having these awful damn dreams.

Journal Entry 2. Last night's dream started just the same as all the others. I just woke up, so it's still fresh in my mind. Maybe that's why I feel like vomiting. The corpse was too decomposed to tell exactly what it was, but I'm guessing it was a cow. I'll have to Google it later. Anyway, that's how the dream starts. I'm standing over this rotting cow corpse, just staring at it.

And this weird voice drones on and on in my head, saying words I don't understand. I feel the words slither under my skin, infecting me like some kind of parasite. I can't move in the dream. I'm stuck, looking down at this corpse, with flies crawling across its shriveled eyes and maggots squirming around and its spilled out guts. The thing reeks so bad, I can still smell it now. It seems like I stand there for hours, but it's probably just a few minutes in real-world time. I have no escape, and I can't turn around to see who's talking to me. When the dreams first started, that's what I thought was happening. I thought there was a

man standing behind me, speaking those strange words, those infectious words, I have this weird feeling that the cow corpse is talking to me. I must be going crazy to think that, right? That's not even the worst part of last night's dream. In fact, I'm kind of used to that part by now, even though it makes me feel all gross inside, like I need to rip off my skin and scrub my insides clean just to get those words out of me. No, the worst part of last night's dream was about dad. That's how it always is. After the whole thing with the corpse, I find myself following behind my dad as he walks into an office building. Only it's not really me following, you know? It's not like I'm really there, because if I was, he would turn around and see me and tell

me to go home or something. It's like I'm an invisible spirit, following my dad to where I'm not supposed to go. But it's weird, because my dad goes into his office building. And I know it's his office building because I've been there for a holiday party before. I recognize it in the dream. But instead of going up to his office on the third floor so he can do insurance actuary stuff, whatever that is, he gets into the elevator and swipes a special key card. This opens a compartment below the buttons in the elevator.

Inside the little hidden compartment is a keypad with a little oval thing next to it. He punches a code in and then presses his thumb on the little oval thing. Once that's done, he shuts the little door and selects the floor he wants to go to, which in every dream is the fifth floor. Instead of going up to the fifth floor, the elevator goes down, like there's a whole other building underground. When he gets to the fifth floor, he steps off. the elevator. Of course, I'm still following behind him, like I'm watching someone else play

a video game. As soon as he gets off the elevator, a man attacks him with a bludgeon that looks like an axe handle without the blade. One hit, and my dad goes down like he's got a glass jaw. I guess a glass skull in this case. His attacker doesn't stop there. He stands over my dad, bashing his head in and getting blood all over the place while caving in his skull. It's at this point that I'm able to look around in the dream, seeing that there are other dead people in the hallway and other attackers roaming around with various kinds of weapons. The attackers all wear dark-colored hooded sweatshirts.

And in perfect dream logic, it's impossible for me to focus on their faces. Once the guy is done killing Dad, he walks down the hall. The other hooded attackers join him, and so do I. floating along behind the dozen or so murderers. The office hallway, before it was so recently decorated with blood, was nothing more than a generic, no frills place of work, off-white walls and acoustic tile ceilings held over well-buffed tile floors. The strange stuff doesn't appear until we turn a corner

and head into another wing of the fifth floor. There are heavy-duty doors here, and big warning signs on the doors detailing who is and isn't allowed inside. We stop at one of these doors. The man who killed my father uses a blood-stained keycard to unlock the door. They all walk inside, and I follow along behind them. There's another room within the room.

A cell, really, with a big viewing window where I imagine scientists would often stand with clipboards or cameras, taking notes and recording footage. When I cross the threshold into the room, approaching the cell, a sense of excitement swells up in me. I want nothing more than to see what's in the cell. It seems to be my purpose. And there's no doubt that all the hooded figures are here for the same thing. But every time, in each dream, no matter the little variations, I always wake up before I can see what's inside that damn cell.

So yeah, that was last night's dream. It's really not all that different from all the previous dreams. Each night, for the past two weeks, I've been watching my dad die in my sleep. If I don't deserve an ambient for that, I don't know what the hell will, but I should probably get some therapy. That's probably the way to go.

Because seeing my dad murdered every night is getting less and less impactful. Now, as I write this, I find that I wouldn't much care if I went downstairs and found dear old dad dead with his head bashed in. Jesus, General, I just re-read that last paragraph. I really do need fucking help. Lazzang sur-gillet, puissance-moyance-moyance-moyant for 15 minutes.

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The conditions apply. General Entry 3. I'm not so sure this was a dream, but I have no way to tell for sure. I feel in my gut like it was real. But I don't see how that would be possible. After skipping the melatonin again and still not getting any ambient

from mom or dad, I fell asleep around two in the morning. Of course, I had the dream again. It started off as usual, with me staring at the rotting corpse. Somehow, my revulsion wasn't so great this time. I mean, there were still flies and maggots, and I could still smell the thing in all its rotting glory, but it seemed, I don't know, peaceful almost.

Maybe I'm just getting used to the dreams. They're just dreams, after all. Anyway, I was staring for hours at the corpse in my dream, and listening to that voice that I'm positive now is coming from the corpse. But instead of the dream shifting to my dad going into his office building, I found myself at my bedroom window. Down in the street were three people wearing dark hoodies, just like the people on the killing spree in my dream.

They were all facing my window, but I couldn't see their faces because of the hoods. I was sure they were looking up at me, though. And the cow corpse was still talking to me. That's why I think it was a dream. The whole thing was dreamlike. You know the way you feel things in dreams? Like no one has to explain certain things to you, and you don't have to see them, you just know them?

Well, in the dream, I knew that those three people down on the street were hearing the cow corpse, too. I stayed at the window, looking down at those people on the street, listening to the cow corps talk for what seemed like a very long time. I'm pretty sure I slept, walked to the window and stood there, still asleep,

because when the boy stopped, I woke up and found that I was standing at the window. There was no one in the street, though. Well, I thought I saw a figure darting around the neighbor's fence, but that was probably my imagination. For some reason, my hands hurt. I turned on my bedside lamp and looked at my palms, seeing these little crescents where my fingernails had dented the skin.

I guess I had been making really tight fists as I stood there at the window, but I don't remember that sensation from my dream. After I went pee, I got back in bed and went back to sleep. Then I had the rest of the dream, where I followed Dad down into his underground office and watch him get killed again. I really must be getting used to the dreams, because when I woke up this morning, about 10 minutes ago now, I was in a great mood. The dreams are kind of soothing now. It's strange, but I think I would miss them if they went away.

In fact, I just want to go back to sleep now so I can dream some more of those dreams, but I can't. I have to go to stupid school. Such is the life of a teenager, Journal Entry 4. I haven't been writing lately because I no longer want to be rid of my dreams. There's something I look forward to at night. I guess it has been a little over a week since my last entry. I was feeling normal again. Well, normal-ish.

The dreams hadn't been bothering me, and I thought everything was fine. But mom and dad just sat me down to have a talk with me. At first, I thought that maybe they'd read my journal. But I know that's not the case because I always bring it to school. with me. Mom and Dad sat together on the love seat while I sat on the couch nearby. We're worried about you, Dad said. Are you still having those dreams? No. I lied. I don't know why I did that. Just seemed like the right thing to do. Are you having any kind of strange dreams? Dad asked. No. Since I started the dream journal, they stopped. It looked too good, mom said. You don't look like you've been

sleeping, and you haven't been eating much at all. When she said the word eating, a vision of the rotting cow corpse flashed in my mind, which was strange. Then again, maybe not so strange when you consider that I've been thinking about that corpse a lot lately. I'm fine, guys, I said. Really? I'm sleeping well.

Maybe I haven't been as hungry as usual lately, but I feel fine. Mom and dad looked doubtful. You're not doing drugs, are you? Mom asked. I laughed at that. No, Mom. I promise I'm not doing drugs. I didn't like the way dad was studying me, and his next question really knocked me off balance. Have you been dreaming about me?

He asked. About my job? I really need you to be honest with me, Russ. You won't be in trouble. I just need to know, okay? Suddenly my mouth was full of saliva, and I could think of nothing else but swallowing. but I resisted the urge, knowing that a loud gulping swallow would give me away.

Give what a way? I honestly couldn't say. It's the weirdest thing. But I barked out a harsh laugh and said, What? Dad, what's going on here? Why would I be dreaming about you and your work? I finally swallowed, hoping it appeared to Dad as a normal swallow and not a nervous one. It's just something I had to ask, Dad said. He and Mom were holding hands. Thank you for your honesty, son. But I think I'm going to have someone I know. A sleep therapist.

Come over tomorrow and talk to you. Dad, I just told you I'm sleeping fine. I'm not having any strange dreams. What is going on? I feigned ignorance. But something deep inside me knew exactly what was going on. We just want to make sure you're doing okay, honey. Mom said.

Really? It will be fine. we've already asked him to come over. And if he says everything looks good, then that will be the end of it. The end of what? I cried. What are you talking about? There's no need to raise your voice, Dad said.

This is for your own good. I'm telling you I'm fine. I don't know why you won't believe me. I snatched my backpack up and stormed upstairs. Then I started this entry. As I've been writing this, I can't help but think about what great parents. I've had. I really have. Mom and I would often go to the botanical gardens and have a picnic when I was younger. Dad and I would go to the movies and eat too much candy. They always tell me

they love me every night. They've provided for me, been patient with me, and steered me in the right direction whenever I strayed. I really do love them. I do. It's a shame, really. General Entry 5. I had the dream again. And I woke up after getting out of bed and stepping to the window. This time, there were eight figures out there, eight-cooded figures, looking up at me. I stood at the window for a long time, listening to the voice we could all hear.

Then I moved downstairs, still wearing only my boxer shorts. Quietly, I opened the front door to see that all eight of them had gathered on the porch. I let them inside, and they formed two lines in the entryway. I could see their faces now. I didn't know any of them.

Five men and three women. Most of them in their 30s or 40s, I guessed. Although I saw one older man with a white beard. I was the youngest. The man with the white beard stepped forward and gave me an axe handle, just like the one in my dream. I took it, and without a word, headed back upstairs. The door to my parents' room was closed but unlocked.

unlocked. I eased it open a few inches and listened. The sound of rhythmic breathing came from inside the dark room. There was no other sound. I eased the door open enough for me to step inside, bare feet, adding silently across the carpet as I moved to Dad's side of the bed. He lay on his back, eyes lightly closed, mouth partly open. I glanced over at Mom, who slept on her side back to Dad. After stepping back to the proper distance, I raised the finely polished and finished axe handle over my head in both hands. I aimed for the center of my dad's forehead. Using all the strength at my disposal, I sithed the handle down.

The first blow resonated loudly in the room. The sharp corners where the axe blade would fit into busted open his skin. Blood flowed as mom stirred, gasping out surprised. Sleep slurred words as she rolled over. Dad's eyes were open, but I didn't think they saw anything. I smashed the handle down into his head again, and he let out a choking wheeze. Mom, having seen what was happening, opened her mouth to scream. She got the first note of a manic, murderous shriek out before I hit her in the head with a wooden weapon,

silencing her. Well, that's not quite right. She still made pitiful, wounded sounds that bashed her head in. When I finished with her, Dad was still alive, twitching. spewing blood as he tried to say something incomprehensible to me. I hit him twice more with the weapon, and he finally stilled. Looking down at myself, I suddenly knew that I wasn't dressed yet. I was covered in blood.

As I walked out of the room, I saw a bearded man and a young woman walking up the stairs. The woman carried a hacksaw. They moved into my parents' bedroom as I went to get dressed. I leaned the axe handle against my bed, while I wiped my parents' blood off of me with an old t-shirt. The blood on the wooden handle trickled down and soaked into the carpet. By the time I was dressed and ready to go, a bloodstain the shape of Greenland had formed on the carpet.

I took the axe handle with me, ducking back into the bedroom to see that the bearded man and the young woman were nearly done, cutting my father's hand off. In my parents' walk-in closet, I searched through my father's briefcase and found his ID tag. The three of us walked down the stairs

and joined the others outside the garage. I grabbed a grocery bag and gave it to the bearded man who put Dad's hand in it. We drove to the office building. The nine of us crammed into my mom's SUV. As we approached the office building on foot, a security guard stepped through the doors

and stared at us. After a long moment, he nodded and stepped aside, letting us through. We passed another security guard with a bullet hole in his head lying on the floor. Once inside the elevator, I swiped Dad's key card to open the compartment door. Then I punched in the code to get the elevator to work. I'd seen my dad punch in the code so many times in my dreams. There was no way I could forget it.

The bearded man took Dad's hand out of the bag and pressed the thumb to the fingerprint pad. A green light came on to show it had worked. I pressed the button for the fifth floor. The elevator started down, all ten of us inside. The nine from my house and the one security guard. Unlike in my dreams, there weren't many people working on the fifth floor in the middle of the night. Those that were didn't slow us down much. I helped kill one of them with my axe handle.

The others had other implements, like crowbars, tire irons, hammers, knives, and box cutters. They worked fine. When we finally stepped into the room I'd seen in my dreams, the one containing the cell with the wide viewing window, I felt a sense of such utter joy that I cried silently. The tears streamed down my face as I looked through that window, seeing the rotting cow corpse I had come to know so well. I'm so grateful to be a part of this and so grateful to have been chosen.

I can't explain the sense of purpose I feel as I write these words. This is my last entry. I've had to force myself to slow down so you'll be able to read this, whoever you are. All the others are waiting for me to finish, so we can go into that cell and finally come face to face with God. But it's important that I leave this journal behind. It's important because you need to know there's no containing it. The rotten God is uncontainable. You've been able to hold it for a little while only because it has allowed you to do so.

But now that time is about to come. to an end and swift punishment will soon follow. I don't know what kind of place this is or what was done here, but I know it's futile to try to contain the rotten god again. Read these words and know that it cannot be done. Because there is only one true God, and it is rotten. No matter who you are, you will worship the rotten God. This journal was recovered approximately one month after SCP 4829's containment breach, which

which resulted in over 150 million deaths across the world, with approximately 90% of casualties happening on the eastern coasts of America, Canada, and Mexico. It seems the entity targeted foundation employees in addition to the violent destruction of civilians. How it managed this is still unknown. 4892's whereabouts are currently unknown, but reports from across the globe cite rising numbers of cults devoted to its worship. The O5 Council has deemed it necessary to seek containment again. But since 75% of total foundation personnel were wiped out in the cataclysmic containment breach,

this mission will have to wait until recruitment and training have progressed enough to bring the foundation back up to at least half its former strength. This is estimated to take between 10 and 15 years. Until then, all we can do is hope that SCP 4892 does not decide to decept the rest of humanity. SCP 4892 is a bovine carcass and a state of advanced decomposition, which is host to an incorporeal extradimensional entity capable of exerting significant mental influence over extremely large distances. The potential range of SCP 4892's mental influence is currently unknown.

But it is believed to encompass the entirety of the planet. Mental interference from the entity comes in the form of extremely vivid and disturbing dreams which the victim will experience over an extended period, with known durations ranging from one week to six months. Despite the disturbing nature of these dreams, victims of the entity's mental influence will invariably come to see it as a benevolent figure,

commonly adopting the view that its current physical host must be destroyed in order to free the extra-dimensional entity. Although compromised individuals believe that this will then allow said extra-dimensional entity to recreate the physical world into a more ideal state, it is the belief of foundation analysts that this could instead become the trigger for an XK class end-of-the-world scenario.