They Tried to Sell an SCP… Big Mistake | SCP-303

Want to hear brand new horror stories brought to life? Live? Join me every Sunday at 7pm Eastern Time on the Doctor No Sleep Podcast YouTube channel, where I narrate fresh, never-before-heard stories in real time. Just search Doctor No Sleep Podcast on YouTube, and make sure you're subscribed with notifications on so you don't miss it. The puddle of piss staining the orange jumpsuit that D-6245 wears makes Council Member 6 chuckle to himself. The files had said the anomaly was basically pure terror, but he hadn't believed it until he saw it. When the woman, D-6245, fell to the floor and curled in on herself, rocking like she was having some fit, Six assumed she was faking. After all, the observation room is empty. There isn't a piece of furniture or even a stray throat pillow. Blank walls, blank floor, blank ceiling, except for the mesh-covered, recessed fluorescent lights that flicker constantly, despite the amount of funds that the Foundation pours into the place. And that is what Council Member 6 is here for, to obtain future funding for the site that has seemed to have been co-opted by anomaly SCP-303. One of the men seated behind Six asks, Six smiles at the name. The four men seated in the row behind him know nothing about who he really is. They barely know what the Foundation is. That isn't stopping Six from taking their money. Not that outside funding like theirs is allowed. Now, Six is walking a razor-thin line by inviting non-Foundation personnel into a restricted site. Technically, Six could be kicked off the Council at best, disappeared at worst. Although with what Six knows about the Foundation and the various nightmares they have under lock and key, being disappeared would be far from the worst that could happen to him. The fear is not yours to feel, Mr. Cobble. Six responds after letting the comment sit in the air for a moment. But I can arrange a personal demonstration if you would so like. Mr. Six, with all of the various creatures and items and objects and mysterious discoveries that the Foundation is responsible for, why show us this one in particular? Mr. Gresh asks, Mr. Six sighs and turns in his seat to regard the four men. Cobble is portly, with a perpetually flushed face. Gresh is average in all ways except for his age. He is pushing 90, yet surprisingly alert and agile for his age. Khan has an impressive head of silver hair, which is what Six always fixates on. It is magnificent. And Solari is a sickly-looking gentleman of indiscriminate age. Some say he's in his late 30s and suffers from multiple ailments, while others say he's in his early 70s and suffers from multiple ailments. Six is certain that the Foundation has an object that can verify the man's age. He has to try to find it when he has a chance. Four very different men. Yet, the one common thread that connects the four men is the fact that within their vast empires they have holdings in various private armies that are always in need of new weapons and armaments. And Six would very much like to supply those weapons and armaments. For a price, of course. Even if it goes against everything the Foundation was built upon and stands for, it makes him sick to think of the wasted opportunities that pass the Foundation by every damn day. To his mind, secure, contain, protect makes no difference without the protect part. Why go to all the expense of securing an anomaly, containing it, when you can't use it to protect the general population? Or enrich a hard-working, very dedicated council member? As Six studies the four men, making each of them slightly uncomfortable under his gaze, the curled-up woman in the observation room begins to convulse. What's wrong with her now? Mr. Kahn asks. Six, I believe your prisoner is defective. Six shifts his gaze to the man in sneers. The Foundation does not keep prisoners, Mr. Kahn. Only volunteers. Kahn and Salari scoff at the answer. The other two merely look bored. Six keeps his gaze on all four, ignoring the woman's distress behind him. What's she doing now? Mr. Grash asks, leaning forward. What is she doing to herself? Curious, Six turns back to the observation room's one-way glass. D-6245 is actively trying to rip her own ears off. Six grins. She is more than lying there like a lump now, wouldn't you say, Mr. Kabul? Six asks, is smug tone evident for all to hear? Make her stop, Six. This is grotesque. Mr. Kabul replies. She's a slight woman. I doubt she even has the strength to tear her own. Well, color me mistaken. She does have the strength after all. Mr. Kahn begins to retch. I need some fresh air. He says, gasping as he stumbles toward the door. He grabs the handle, but it's locked. Six, open the door. I need out. D-6245's crying has turned into shrieking as she tears her right ear completely off and begins to work on the left ear. Six. Mr. Kahn shouts, if you are going to vomit, there is a waste bucket in the far corner over there. Six says, pointing past the end of the rows of seats that the Observation Room Theater is equipped with. Six had balked at the expense of building the Theater for Observers, saying that non-foundation personnel would never be allowed onto a site anyway. But the rest of the council had approved the funds, stating that there should be at least one space where demonstrations could be held in each site. Six is glad to be wrong. He just wishes that the room had an en suite restroom attached, especially in cases like this. Oh, sit down, Kahn. Solari says, stop being such a baby. Are you going to just let her mutilate herself like that, Six? Mr. Gresh asks. Of course not. Six says, even though he 100% intended to let her mutilate herself. He sighs and taps the intercom button on his seat. Sergeant Proust, please remove D-6245 before she inflicts further harm to herself. Copy that, sir. A man replies. In less than a second, one of the two doors in the Observation Room bursts open, and three Foundation Security Guards step inside. One stands to the side, watching over the other two as they hurry to the curled-up woman and grab her hands, trying to stop her from ripping her left ear from her head. The guard standing off to the side, Sergeant Proust, shouts at them to hurry up. Can't get a firm grip on her. One of the other guards yells. Too much blood! Damn it! Do I have to do everything? Sergeant Proust barks. He removes a sprayed canister from his belt and stomps over to the woman. Move it, both of you. The two guards scramble out of the way, as Proust presses the button on the canister, sending a stream of liquid directly into D-6245's face. The woman gasps and begins screaming her head off, but she does stop trying to take her left ear off. Then her eyes roll up into her head, and she passes out, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps, as blood streams down the sides of her head. Get her out of here. Proust orders. One of the guards grabs the unconscious woman under her armpits. Get her legs, Lowens! He says to the second guard, but Lowens isn't paying attention to anyone in the room. His entire focus seems to be on the door opposite the one they'd come in through. What is it? He whispers. Lowens? Lowens! Hal Payworth, remove D-6245 now. Proust barks. I can see it, Sarge! Lowens replies in a voice filled with half curiosity and half pure terror. He lifts a hand and points at the door. It's right there, waiting with a smile on its face. He cocks his head and gives it a little shake. Then he slaps his right ear, like he's trying to get out water that's trapped in there. He shakes his head again, slaps once more, and lets out a low groan. I can hear it breathing! Lowens whispers. He wants! The man falls to his knees and puts his face in his hands as he starts to weep. Jesus! Proust says and moves to help Payworth carry D-6245 out of the observation room. Just take put, Lowens. We'll be back for you. What's going on, Six? Mr. Cobble asks, his voice filled with unrestrained interest. I'm not sure. This is an impromptu moment, unexpected. I'm as curious as you to see what transpires. Six says. As soon as Proust and Payworth leave the observation room with D-6245, Lowens, weeping, turns into open sobbing, deep, racking sobs that shake his entire body. Lowens, let's go! Proust says as he reenters the observation room. We have another D-class subject to bring in. Lowens doesn't move and just keeps sobbing. Proust walks over and grabs his shoulder. Oh, for fuck's sake, Lowens, pull yourself! Proust stops talking, his eyes going to the door. Oh, lord! Without warning, Lowens removes his sidearm from its holster, places the barrel under his own chin, and pulls the trigger. Brain, blood, and bits of his helmet spray up into Proust's face, shocking him out of his semi-stupor. Christ! Proust shouts, stumbling away from the headless corpse as he tries to wipe Lowens off his face. Payworth hurries into the observation room, grabs Proust by the arms, and pulls him out. The door slam shut and locks behind them. Only Lowens's headless body remains in the room. Six and his guests stare, stunned as bits of Lowens's brain drip down from the ceiling. Then six smiles. Do I have your attention now, gentlemen? He asks without looking back at the four. If not, I can have you escorted to the helicopter so you may be returned to your normal, boring lives. No, Salari says. We'll stay. All of you? Six asks, finally turning to look at the men. The others nod, their eyes locked onto the gory scene before them. Excellent, Six says, and presses the intercom button again. Sergeant Proust, have you recovered from your fright? There's a long pause, but Six waits patiently. As much as he would like all personnel to be automations, he knows they are not. They, unfortunately, are human beings, and human beings need time to process events. Especially when those events include seeing one of your men blow his own head off. Yes, sir. Proust responds, his voice sounding shaky yet sure. Two D-Clubs are here to remove Lowens's body. May I send them in? Please do. Copy that. On day three of leftovers for lunch, have a day off. Switch it up with a double cheeseburger for 249 under McDonald's Savor menu. Leftovers left the chat. Talk about Savor satisfaction. Served from 11 a.m., price and participation may vary. Fees apply to delivery orders, subject to availability. A moment later, the door opens, and two Orange-clad D-Class personnel walk in. The men pause a few feet into the room, stare at the headless body for a moment, look around, check out the one-way glass that they cannot see through, then both shrug and walk toward the mess. One has D-3199 stenciled on the back of his orange jumpsuit. While the other has D-8511 stenciled on his. They are both of average height and weight. But D-3199 is a little older and has a lean, mean look about him, while D-8511 has a twitchy, furative vibe. When they reach the headless body, D-8511 pauses. His attention wavers, then goes straight to the opposite door. He mumbles something. What'd he say, Six? Mr. Cobble asks. Turn up the damn volume. I couldn't hear him. Of course. Six says and adjusts the theater sound system volume so that everything can be heard from the observation room. How's that? Do you hear it, man? D-8511 asks D-3199. That breathing? It's right there. He lets out a low moan. Oh man, I don't like this. I don't like this at all. I can, I can. D-8511's upper lip begins to tremble. I can see it, Mac. He mumbles, closing his eyes. It's right there. Shut the hell up, Carl. D-3199 replies. Wait, me and a baby, help me get this body out of here. Then you can mop the floor while I mop the ceiling. He laughs. Never thought I'd say that. Six presses a different button on his chair and a speaker squawks inside the observation room. No names, please. Refer to each other by your D-class number, where there will be consequences. Aren't you the mean warden? Mr. Gresh says with a laugh. D-class have to be kept in line. Give them an inch and their deviant minds will take a mile. And, for the record, the foundation is not in the business of handing out inches or miles. What's the replacement rate for D-class personnel, Six? Mr. Cobble asks. Is it cost-effective to even use them instead of actual paid employees? That is proprietary information, Mr. Cobble. If I were to tell you, I'd have to kill you. Six truckles. Not personally. I'd have you killed, is what I mean. The mood in the room turns to ice. That's not funny, Six. Mr. Cobble says. You know that you cannot touch any of us, right? The repercussions would be astronomical. Far outside even the foundation's ability to stop. Six doesn't reply. Inside the observation room, D-8511 is slowly backing away from the door, while D-3199 stands up to face him. Get your shit together, Pat. D-8511. I want to get this job done so we don't miss bingo. D-3199 stands there, trying to stare D-8511 down. But the other man is in his own world of pure fear. D-3199's shoulders slump. Fine. I'll do it myself. D-3199 says. He turns, bends down, and grabs Lowen's corpse by the collar, spinning it about so he can drag it to the door they came in from. D-8511 is in the way. Move it. D-3199 barks. Dude, I said move it. D-8511 does not move it. Instead, he slaps his hands to his face, and starts screaming at the top of his lungs like a possessed Kevin McAllister from Home Alone. If Home Alone were a B-grade horror movie. I see it. D-8511 screams. I see it. Oh, God. It's looking directly at me. Make it stop smiling. Make it stop. How can he see it, Six? Mr. Khan asks. It's on the other side of that door, yes? It's hidden. Which is why a demonstration was in order. Six replies. So you know what you would be leasing. Leasing? No one said anything about leasing. Mr. Solari says. I am here for an outright purchase only, Six. Anomaly SCP-303 is Foundation property. It is not for sale, but it can be leased. And shall we say, studied privately. Our funds are so tied up in securing, containing and protecting that we have nothing left over for research and development. That is what you men are here for today. To bid on which one of you gets to take SCP-303 home and fiddle about until you can replicate it. At which point, we will discuss licensing fees. Oh, that is rich, Six. Mr. Kabul says. You want us to foot the bill, so you and your precious foundation don't have to. Yet you still keep ownership? I think not. Mr. Kabul stands up and walks toward the door. Sit down, Kabul. Six says. You haven't seen everything. Do you believe these two men in there were chosen at random? No. I had prowst procure them from the general D-class population, specifically. Of course, I didn't know what would happen to the security guard. But sometimes happy accidents make for great demonstrations. Mr. Kabul keeps walking toward the door. I said, sit down. Six says in a voice that makes the other men tense up instantly. You promised me your time. Do not find out what happens to those who break promises they make to me. Your threats are empty, Six. Mr. Kabul says. Far from it, Kabul. But you are welcome to find out the hard way if you'd like. By all means, open that door. As his hand reaches for the handle, Mr. Kabul hesitates. You're bluffing. You know what happens if one of us doesn't return. Yes, yes. We've been through this already. Scorched earth and all of that. Six laughs. I am slightly curious as to what your version of scorched earth looks like, though. Would anyone care to venture a guess at what happens when the foundation goes scorched earth on a target? Six points at the observation room where D-8511 is still screaming, and D-3199 is yelling at him to stop. He mutes the noise. It makes that look like a children's birthday party. There are no guns or bombs or poisons involved. Just a noise inside your closet. A breath on the back of your neck. A shadow out of the corner of your eye. Or out of the corner of your loved one's eye. Perhaps that sweet granddaughter of yours will meet the boogeyman for real one evening. Mr. Kabul grumbles under his breath and returns to his seat. What was that, Kabul? Six asks, amused. I said you were overplaying your hand. Mr. Kabul replies. Your confidence will be in downfall. Possibly. But until then, just relax and enjoy the show. We'll talk terms later. Six regards the other three men. Would any of you care to leave? He is met with blank stares. Wonderful. Six un-mutes the audio from the observation room, and D-8511's screams fill the space. D-3199 has dragged Lowens' corpse to the exit door, leaving it there off to the side. He is now shaking D-8511 by the shoulders. Shut the hell up, Carl. Just shut up. D-8511 does not shut up. In fact, his eyes widen along with his mouth, and his screams only increase in volume. No names. Six says, calling through the intercom. It's shit, suit. D-3199 shouts at the one-way glass. How about you come in here and make me not use his name, huh? Let's see you do that. Six does not reply. He shrugs and relaxes into his seat. D-8511's screams keep increasing in volume until there is a sharp, violent screech that abruptly cuts off. D-8511 coughs, and a spray of blood explodes from between his lips, coating D-3199's face. Motherfucker! D-3199 shouts. He throws D-8511 to the floor. You got that on me, Carl? As he wipes the blood from his face, D-3199 kneels down next to a choking and gagging D-8511, who is still trying to scream through his shredded vocal cords, creating a high-pitched keening. Instead, like a wet balloon is being squeezed of all of its air. I said, shut up. D-3199 growls. He raises a fist and brings it down hard and fast, shattering D-8511's nose. Shut up! D-8511 continues to cough blood, but he doesn't even bother to fight off D-3199. He only swivels his head, his eyes so wide that the lids may tear, and stares directly at the opposite door. Just shut up! D-3199 punches D-8511 in the face again, and again, and again. The man isn't even screaming anymore, Mr. Khan says. Why is he still hitting him? The wet thunks of D-3199's fists on D-8511's face echo through the room, making Khan and Kabul wince, while Solari and Gresh only stare at the bloody, horrid scene unfolding before them. Because he is afraid, Mr. Khan, six answers. So very afraid. Just imagine what would happen if SCP-303 were unleashed at the right summit at the right time. Those politicians would either rip themselves or each other to shreds. Fear makes us do horrible things, right, gentlemen? No one replies. Even the squeamish are now watching as D-3199 brutally beats D-8511 to death. With each powerful blow, a large spout of blood erupts into the air around D-3199. The man's face and neck and chest are coated with it. The four men and six watch, transfixed by D-3199's determination. What percentage react violently instead of going catatonic with fear? Mr. Gresh asks. The first smart question of the day. Six says. The truth is that we do not know. We haven't had enough test subjects to get a proper sampling. Of course you haven't. Mr. Gresh replies. You're leaving that up to us. Which I have been completely transparent about, gentlemen. Six says. He presses the intercom button. Proust? I think that is enough. We don't want D-3199 to kill his friend now, do we? There is no response. But the door to the observation room's exit opens, and a visibly still shaken sergeant Proust walks in. D-3199, seize what you are doing now. You will not be asked again. Proust roars. Seize what you are doing? That's an interesting way to word that request. He's killing a man, not being in a doorway. Mr. Gresh says. D-3199 continues to pulverize D-8511's face. Sergeant Proust, true to his word, does not ask D-3199 to stop again. Instead, he pulls a stunned baton from his belt and jams it into the man's neck. D-3199's body goes rigid, and he opens his mouth in a silent scream, then collapses across D-8511. Proust keeps the stunned baton at the ready as he steps closer and nudges D-3199 with the toe of his boot. The man doesn't move. Proust then kicks him hard in the side. D-3199 moans, but still doesn't move. Kneeling quickly and shoving D-3199 off, Proust reaches down and checks D-8511's pulse. He looks toward the one-way glass and shakes his head. Jesus. Mr. Cobble says. The man just killed his friend because he was terrified. Incredible. Isn't it? Six replies. He taps the intercom button. Sergeant, if you could remove the men promptly and bring in two new test subjects, that would be great. Proust nods, then rolls D-3199 onto his front, yanks his arms behind his back, and zip ties the man's wrists together. Heyworth. He shouts. Come get D-8511 while I take D-3199 back to medical for examination. Heyworth walks back into the observation room, his own stunned baton out and at the ready. Proust slaps D-3199 around a few times until the man startles awake. Calm the hell down, D-3199. Proust snarls at the man. At least you're still alive. Can't say the same for your friend. What? D-3199 asks. His voice slurred. What happened to Carl? I didn't. Did I do that? Yeah. Proust says with zero sympathy as he pulls D-3199 to his feet. And you'll answer for it, don't you worry. Answer for it? D-3199 protests. But, but, but, but. Proust mocks. Shut up, D-3199. Start walking. Sarge. Heyworth asks. Um, you notice that? Notice what? Proust asks as he gets to the exit door with D-3199. Silence from the other side of the door. Heyworth says. I don't hear the anomaly breathing anymore. Proust cocks his head, then shakes it. No, I don't either. D-3199, do you hear it? Like I'm going to help you assholes. D-3199 mutters. Proust smashes the man's face into the doorframe. Answer the damn question. Proust growls in his ear. Damn, um, no. I don't hear a shit. Proust and Heyworth turn and stare directly at the one-way glass. Mr. Six, I am going to have to call and end your demonstration until we locate anomaly SCP-303. I'm sorry, but did he say that they need to locate the anomaly? Mr. Gobble asks. What does that mean, Six? Mr. Conn asks. What happened to the containment part of SCP? Mr. Gresh asks. We should leave immediately. Mr. Solari says. Six, get us out of here. Now. Gentlemen, relax. Six says. Although he doesn't look like he's taking his own advice as he stands up, his hands out in a placating gesture. Our security teams are the best in the business. Nothing will be able to harm you. I promise. Six, Mr. Six. Proust calls from the observation room. Did you hear me? I am shutting this down now. No, you are not. Six shouts, whirling around to face the observation room window, despite Proust being unable to see him. You will continue as scheduled, Sergeant. You didn't press the button, Six? Mr. Gresh says. He can't hear you. Of course. Right. Six says. He leans down to press the intercom button then freezes. He tilts his head toward the theater door, only a few feet away from him. What is that noise? Mr. Gobble asks. A tremor in his voice. Is that breathing? Mr. Conn asks, sounding just afraid as Cobble. Call your men, Six. Mr. Gresh shouts. It's at the door. It's going to get in. Mr. Solari doesn't say a word. Instead, he slips from his seat, collapsing onto the floor in a fetal position. He utters small cries of distress as he proceeds to place his thumb in his mouth and suck it vigorously. What the hell have you gotten us into, Six? Mr. Gobble shouts. His eyes swim in his head as he pulls at his hair. You've killed us all. Calm down. Six whispers. It's the loudest he can make his voice. He'll come for us. Security will save us. But the look in his eyes and on his face says that he believes otherwise. No, no, no, no. Mr. Gresh says. I need out of here. I need out now. He races to the observation room window and throws himself against the one-way glass. Proust and Hayworth recoil from the impact. Mr. Six, can you hear me? Do you need assistance? Proust asks. Yes. Mr. Gresh screams as he throws himself against the window again and again. Help us. Get us out of here. I think I hear shouting. Hayworth says. Proust puts a finger to his ear. All security personnel report to Observation Room 9's theater immediately. Then he looks directly at the one-way glass. We have help on the way, Mr. Six. They won't get here in time. Six mutters. He collapses onto his ass and hangs his head in his hands. Oh, God. Make it go away. Make it stop. Make it stop. Mr. Gobble parrots at a considerably louder volume with chunks of his own bloody hair and scalp in his hands. Mr. Solari just lies there, his thumb firmly in his mouth, his eyes closed tight. Mr. Gresh makes a pained noise after the 10th time he throws himself at the window. He falls to the floor, his left arm at a very bad angle. When he tries to get up again, he cries out in agony and falls back to the floor. Then blood begins to trickle down from his scalp. The trickle turns into a stream. The stream into a torrent. He rolls his head to the side and mumbles something about regrets. Then Mr. Gresh's eyes glaze over and he goes still. I see it now, Six whispers. I see it standing there, outside the door. I see it's skin and it's limbs and it's smile. Oh, God. That smile. It's taking up its entire face. Make that smile go away. Make it go away. Six reaches up and jams his fingers into his eyes. He curls them back, then yanks with all of his strength. His eyes rip from his face. Six looks down at the bloody orbs in his hands, even though he can't see them anymore. I still see the smile. Kill me. Someone kill me please. Yes. Mr. Khan cries as he throws himself over the seats, tackling Six around the neck. Then he straddles the man and brings his fists up, then down, up, then down, like an enraged chimpanzee destroying its rival. Thank you. Six gurgles around the massive amount of blood that threatens to choke him to death. Kill me. Khan destroys the man's face, the man's head, and when that is pulp, he stands up and begins stomping Six's body. Mr. Solari whimpers. Khan stops his attack on Six and clambers over the seats to get to Solari. When the door to the observation theater opens and security guards stream inside, only Mr. Khan is left standing. His suit, his body, covered in dark red blood from head to toe. I stopped the breathing. He says to a horrified prowst. I stopped all the breathing. It can go away now. It can make that grin go away now, right? Right? Prowsed sighs and takes Mr. Khan by the elbow. That's right, sir. You stopped all the breathing. The grin is gone now. He says. Then he speaks into his comms. Control. We'll need a living quarter set up for Mr. Khan. I doubt amnestics will work. He's going to need to stay with us for a while, a very long while. You keep it away from me, right? Mr. Khan asks as he's led from the theater. Yes, Mr. Khan. We'll keep it away from you. Oh, good. Otherwise, I'll just have to kill myself. Don't worry, Mr. Khan. If it comes to that, we'll handle the work for you. Oh, how wonderful. SCP-303 is a humanoid entity with a gaunt, reddish brown body and a head, dominated by a massive mouth, filled with oversized human teeth, constantly emitting a loud wheezing sound. It anomalously manifests behind closed doors or barriers opposite a person, remaining there for an unknown duration, while inducing overwhelming instinctive fear in anyone who attempts to open the door. Despite no evidence, it intentionally causes this reaction. No one has ever fully seen it. SCP-303 actively avoids direct visual contact, ensuring that no more than 10% of its body is visible at any time, even obscuring transparent surfaces or dematerializing if necessary. It does not communicate or physically interact with observers, but its presence temporarily disables nearby electronic and mechanical devices, and individuals can still fully describe it even without directly seeing it. Time a new episode is released.