Key of the Kill | SCP-1016

British Gas have this thing. We call it home care. We'll fix all sorts and its unlimited repairs. Expert engineers will solve the upset of boilers not boilering or taps that won't wet. Electric's playing tricks or a pipe that's broke. We're there for everyone. Even blue furry folk. Your home won't feel booby trapped. It'll feel just like new. British Gas taking care of things and looking after you. T-Sensee supply excess options available per repair. The door is wide open when they arrive. Directly in front of them lies a carpeted staircase covered in blood with more pooled under the bottom step. Detective Crowe is careful to walk around it as he enters the house. He follows the blood trail down the hall and into the living room. Here he pauses to take in the scene. A gas sounds behind him, followed by fading footsteps as the officer runs outside to be sick. Crowe narrows his eyes. Half of the little girl lies on the couch. The rest of her body is on the floor beside it. She's been torn in two like a piece of paper, albeit much messier. Blood and guts soak into the couch cushions. The smell of death nearly unbearable. Her mother lies on the other side of the room. Her head is split open and half her brain is missing, leaving a crater in the skull. Her body is so bloodied, it's hard to tell what part of her is what. There is a little boy nearby in a similar condition to the mother. Bone sticks out of his skin and blood covers his gene overalls. Crowe looks away and sucks in a calming breath. When he looks back, he spots another pile of blood and organs in front of the fireplace. He carefully shuffles over and finds less of a pile and more of a shape, or a pattern maybe. The half brain sits in the center with dots and lines of blood around it and a heart above it. Crowe cannot even begin to think what it could mean. Now, for the father. The detective follows the sound of whimpering through the adjacent door and finds the man crouched in the corner of the kitchen. He is covered in blood, but not drenched. He looks up when Crowe clears his throat. I, I didn't, I don't. The man shakes his head, struggling to form syllables. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. It wasn't, wasn't me. Crowe looks away to hide his anger. He keeps his voice steady as he says, Bradley Page, you're going to have to come with us. Bradley lets out a nearly inhuman moan. Crowe wants to kick him. Instead, he pulls the man to his feet, slightly rougher than he should, then leads him to the front door, past the scene of the crime. But Bradley jerks away from him. No, not there. I can't go back there. Crowe tightens his jaw and pivots to the back door, shoving Bradley in front of him. He keeps a tight grip on his arm as they walk to the police car. There are so many things Crowe wants to say, so many words he wants to shout, but not now. He must remain calm now. He's just here to escort Mr. Page to the station. He can blow up once they're there. Bradley spends the entire ride wailing and muttering in the backseat. When they get to the station, Crowe hands him off to another officer for processing. Without another word, he goes to his office, shuts the door, lowers the blinds, and screams into his elbow. When he shuts his eyes, he sees the scene. The blood trailing through the house, the little girl desecrated on the couch. The boy's overalls stained red. These images will never leave him. Instead, they join the other horrors in his head, added in the album of trauma to unpack in therapy. Crowe takes a breath and straightens his shirt. Bradley is silent when Detective Crowe enters the interrogation room. His wrists are handcuffed to the table, his ankles to the chair. Gone is the moaning man, a shell in his place. He stares at a chip in the wall on the far side of the room. Crowe's chair scrapes the floor as he sits, but Bradley doesn't even flinch. He just stares. Crowe studies him, this monster man. He has close cropped brown hair and well-kept facial hair, the lines sharp and meticulous. He must have a good barber. His skin is smooth, laugh lines just beginning to form around his mouth. If Crowe didn't look into his eyes, he would have no idea this man was a killer. Look at me, Crowe growls. Bradley startles and switches his gaze to the detective. Killers lie, but the eyes don't. All it takes is one glance, and Crowe can pin a killer. But not today. He stares into the gray-green depths of this man who killed his wife and daughter, and all he sees is horror. No glint of malice, no contempt hiding in the iris, no squint of guilt. This man is haunted by what he has done. What did you do it? Crowe asks. Bradley remains silent. His gaze has reverted to the wall. Crowe sighs and opens the file before him, keeping the contents hidden. Your name is Bradley Page? An almost imperceptible nod. Born in 1980? Another nod. Married to Myrtle Montgomery, father of Cassidy and Brody? Cassy. He murmurs to the wall. My Cassy. What happened to Cassy, Mr. Page? He shakes his head, still murmuring his daughter's name. You don't know? Here, I'll show you. One by one, Crowe lays out photos of the crime scene. Look at them, Bradley. Look at what you did to your family. But Bradley refuses to look. His are glued to the wall. Look at them! Crowe shouts as he holds up a photo, half of Cassidy on the couch. He shoves it in Bradley's face until the man shouts and recoils. No, no, no, no! Yes, Bradley, this is what you did! Bradley squeezes his eyes closed and continues to shake his head. No, no, no. Crowe has seen this before. Killers who refuse to accept responsibility for their crimes. Men who are disgusted by what they've done with their own hands. It takes time for them to realize what they've done, even why they've done it. He won't get anywhere with Bradley today, but he'll trip up eventually. They always do. Say that again? Crowe tilts his head at the officer, certain he has misheard him. The timing doesn't match up. There's no way Bradley Page could have done all that damage from the time he came home to the time we got there. It's not possible. Show me! He barks. The young man scurries to the computer and pulls up the video footage. There is Bradley Page, clear as day. He walks out of the store and into his car with a jaunt to his step. A bag of groceries in his hand. The timestamp shows 11.25 a.m. What time did he call? Less than 10 minutes later. The officer closes the video and pulls up another one, this time showing Bradley outside his house. He approaches with his bag of groceries, inserts his key, and calmly enters the house at 11.31. How long between the time he called and our arrival? Six minutes, sir. Crowe frowns. That certainly doesn't leave a lot of time to trash the house, drag his wife downstairs, and not just kill, but mutilate both his wife and kids. It's not just that, sir. There's no murder weapon. We checked the entire house and all over the neighborhood, but there's nothing. You think he didn't do it? The officer hesitates. Finally, he shrugs. I don't know what to believe, sir. Neither does Crowe. From the moment he stepped into the house, the case seemed straightforward. He had no doubt that Bradley was a killer. But maybe there was more to this than he thought. More to the man with the haunted eyes. Tell me what happened the morning of March 12th. A different man sits in front of Detective Crowe today. He is haggard, with purple circles under his eyes, and stains on his wrinkled shirt. But the eyes are the same. Detective Crowe is different, too. He offers Bradley a coffee and even smiles at him. He speaks softly and calmly, without the barely suppressed rage from before. I told you. I don't know what happened. I know, I know. But walk me through that morning. What did you do when you woke up? Bradley sighs. I made coffee, like usual. The girls weren't up yet. So Brody and I got breakfast going. Pancakes. Cassie and Brody's favorite. He pauses and takes a deep breath, his voice shaking. We ate in front of the TV and watched cartoons for a while. Then I went to the store. And when I came home, he lets out a garbled cry and hides his face in his hands. Had you and Myrtle been fighting? What? His head shoots up, confusion and anger all over his face. No, of course not. We were happy. We were really happy. His voice breaks on the last word. Detective Crowe narrows his eyes, but keeps his tone gentle. Tell me what happened when you got home. I unlocked the door and called out. When I stepped inside, I saw the blood. I think I dropped the keys. I don't know. I don't know what happened to them. I don't know what happened after that really. Everything is kind of a blur. Crowe nods. We have your keys. They're being kept as evidence right now. Bradley doesn't respond. He is staring at the wall again, probably trying not to relive the scene. Bradley? Something in the detective's tone makes Bradley look up. Who else could have done this? Crowe studies Bradley's reaction carefully, noticing every emotion that flits across his face. Relief, confusion, fear, despair. It's all there. But there isn't a trace of guilt, not even a flash. Bradley takes a deep breath and shakes his head. That's just it, Detective. I don't know. None of this makes any sense. And I'm worried. Bradley looks at Crowe. Crowe looks at Bradley, his face impassive. The silence stretches. A tear rolls down Bradley's face. I'm worried that it was me. The words are a whisper, but they are weighty. Bradley leans back and closes his eyes, torn between pain and relief. Crowe remains silent, watching Bradley unfold. What if there's some kind of terrible monster or demon inside of me that unleashed itself that day? Maybe that's why I can't remember much. Do you want it to be you? Bradley flinches, as if he's been punched. No, of course not. I just... what else could do something so horrible? It couldn't have been a normal human. I refuse to believe that. His voice lowers and he fights for words. Brody, my baby, torn apart. And my little girl, she was cut in half. How does that happen? The last words are a shout. The handcuffs rattle against the table in his agitation. How, Detective? Bradley's eyes are so haunted that Crowe has to look away. He shakes his head. I don't know, but I'm going to find out. Sorry for the voice note, but can we get a takeaway to that, Mum? No, no, we've got leftovers in the fridge. They'll do it, it'll be nice. Sorry, I'll eat it. Who's for pizza? Pizza! Sure, we can give you lots of data, but what really matters is friends and family. 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But now, he pulls out his phone and dials the number, not even sure what to say when someone picks up. Agent Steven Gardner arrives the next day. He is wearing all black, and his face is half obscured by sunglasses that he doesn't take off. Crowe leads him to his office and offers him coffee, which he declines. He leans forward in his seat and gets straight to business. We'll take him. Crowe tilts his head. You think something unnatural is going on then? Undoubtedly. What do you think it is? We won't know until we begin testing. Crowe pictures Bradley in a sterile white room, alone and afraid, just like when he found him in his kitchen. What kind of testing? That's classified. The way he says it makes Crowe think, he's made the statement a thousand times before. Where are you taking him? That's classified. The mysterious agent repeats, confirming Crowe's thoughts. Will you let me know what happens? Agent Gardner doesn't answer right away this time. He studies Crowe behind his dark lenses, and Crowe tries not to squirm. Finally, he stands and says, we'll see. When Agent Gardner and Bradley Page walk out of the police station, Detective Crowe thinks he will never see either of them again. But Agent Gardner returns two weeks later. He strides through the police station as if he owns it, slams the office door closed, and throws himself into the seat across from him. It's not him. Crowe knows who he's talking about, of course, but he has a million questions on the tip of his tongue. He settles for, how do you know? Agent Gardner grimaces. Crowe wonders what horrors the already haunted man has been through. As if in answer to that question, Gardner replies, he won't remember any of it. But trust me, it can't be him. So what? We have another perpetrator out there? I need all the evidence from the case. When Crowe doesn't immediately get up, Gardner waves his hand. Now. Crowe suddenly wishes this entitled man hadn't reappeared, even as the case becomes even more interesting. He does as he's told and takes out the bucket of evidence from storage. When he re-enters the small room, he locks the door to prevent any disturbance. Inside the bucket is mostly clothing, Bradley's and the victim's. There's also a set of keys covered in blood from when Bradley dropped them. Gardner zeroes in on the keys the second Crowe shows him. Why does he have two house keys? Crowe leans forward and inspects the two keys, both exactly the same aside from different blood spatters. Maybe he carries a spare in the same place as his regular key. Why wouldn't he hide it outside the house or at least keep it in a different spot? Crowe shrugs, not following Gardner's train of thought. So he has two keys. What's the big deal? Give me some gloves, Gardner says. Crowe bristles, but again does as he is told. He pulls out his drawer and hands a pair of latex gloves to the agent. Gardner snaps them on and pulls the keys free of the plastic bag. They jingle together in the air as he studies them. Crowe watches him, both fascinated and confused. Look at this. Gardner brings the keys close to Crowe and points at the one on the left. The blood stains are different, older. That's weird. Before Crowe can ask how that would be possible, Gardner brings the keys to the office door and fits one into the lock. It slides in with a resounding click outside, in the main office, the lights dim. What? How can that be? Crowe crosses the space to examine the lock, glancing between it and the strange agent. What the hell is going on here? He thinks. Gardner keeps his eyes on the key, his brows furrowed. Does it? Before he can finish, Crowe pulls the door Agent Gardner shouts a warning, but he is too late. The door is wide open and destruction lies beyond. The normally bustling police station has gone quiet. The lights are dim, like a theater before a show. Blood covers the floor, the walls, and it's even spattered on the ceiling. Desks are covered in bone and bits of flesh, not a single living person remains. Detective Crowe stands on the threshold of the door, taking it in. This time, he doesn't hide his scream in his elbow. He suddenly understands the haunted look in Bradley's eyes, the way he couldn't speak for a few days. No amount of therapy will help Crowe forget these images. Officer Jamie, the young man he been working with is still at his desk. His head hangs over his back like a hood, waiting to be pulled up. The sergeant lies on the ground, his chest a bloody pulp of flesh and squashed organs. Near the front doors, the walls are lined with seats for civilians waiting to make a complaint or bail out a friend. Two of them were occupied. Now, they're all covered in flesh. Slowly, Crowe slides his eyes away from the horror until he meets the gaze of Agent Gardner. He expects to see the same fear and disgust there, but what he finds is resignation. Gardner sighs like he forgot to put sugar in his coffee. The massacre of innocence, a minor inconvenience. Crowe wants to slap him, to lash out somehow, but he doesn't have the energy. He slumps to the floor, facing away from the destruction. What do we do now? He wails into the hands, covering his face. Leave it to me, Agent Gardner replies. News spreads quickly about the fire that burned down the Fullerton police station and the single tragic survivor. The blaze was so intense that it leveled the building, leaving nothing but ashes. Crowe remembers none of it, but when asked how he survived, he gives the answer he's been told to give. He stepped out to take a phone call, and by the time he realized what was happening, it was too late. The source of the fire is listed as a gas leak. Despite being told he is not responsible, Crowe feels incredibly guilty. They tell him it's survivor's guilt, and he pretends to believe them. But somewhere in the back of his mind, Crowe sees flashes of a horrid scene. His nightmares show him bodies, slashed, and dissected like science experiments. And he has a newly realized aversion to keys. The first time he came home after the incident, he pulled out his keys and dropped them like they were on fire. The mere touch of the metal against his skin felt like a brand. And the thought of inserting the key into the lock had him gasping in fear. He has switched to an electronic lock, even bought a new car with a push start. The only good thing to come from the fire is his friendship with Steven Gardner, a fireman who worked on the case. Sometimes, Steven asks him funny questions. But Crowe doesn't mind. He likes the connection they share, the horror they both witnessed at the police station. SCP-1016 is a normal looking key that slowly changes its appearance to match other keys it's stored with. It can always be identified by permanent blood stains containing DNA from 27 unknown people. If left in one place long enough, similar blood stains start appearing on nearby surfaces. The key only works on locked doors that have living mammals behind them. When used, all lights inside dim unnaturally, without any real power change. Surveillance devices inside get disabled as if someone tampered with them. A mysterious, unseen presence enters the structure. After the door is opened, everything inside is found dead. In short, it's a shape-shifting key that, when used under the right conditions, unleashes an unseen force that kills all life inside the locked space.