The Straw Man | SCP-6073 & SCP-2501

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. I can't help but stare at the thing's head as we ride up to ground level in the elevator. Scarecrow's have always creeped me out, but this one takes the cake. Not that it's a particularly scary scarecrow. It wears worn leather boots, blue jean overalls, a threadbare plaid shirt, and a long brown coat. Its eyes, which are round white buttons, are shrouded by the straw hat on its head. It has no mouth on its burlap sack face, only a toothpick sticking out of the sack cloth where the corner of a mouth would be. Apparently it senses me watching. It turns its head slightly, the dry straw that makes up its body, rustling softly as it moves. I suppress a shiver at that sound, and at the four little holes in the middle of the buttons that pass for pupils. Adjusting my M4 rifle makes me feel a little better, although I'm not sure how effective it would be against this thing. I glance past the scarecrow at Sweeney, who stares at the anomaly with unabashed curiosity. He meets my gaze with his pale green eyes glittering as he winks. He looks back at the scarecrow. So, my man, let me ask you a question. Do you piss? Do you even have the equipment? I'm the quiet who stands behind me laughs. Dalton, standing behind Sweeney, shakes his head with a smile. The scarecrow turns to look at Sweeney with that dry rustle that makes me think of a snake moving through summer grass. The only answer is the toothpick shifting, as if it's chewing on it. But it has no teeth. It can't chew, just like I'm sure it can't piss. The elevator stops and the doors open. The four of us escort the scarecrow out into the corridor, which has been cleared of all inessential personnel just in case. All four of us are carrying portable scranton reality anchors in our backpacks, so the scarecrow won't be able to use any of its anomalous abilities. But it could still attack us with its hands and feet. It's not likely, given that its leather glove hands are bound at its back. But it's possible. And there's no sense in risking anyone else's safety while we escort it out of the building. As we head to the garage, passing security officers holding weapons, Wyatt speaks. SCP-6073 is no name for our new colleague here. What should we call him, boys? How about Oshif for outstanding in his field? I chuckle at the dad joke and look at Wyatt, who wears a silly grin. He's a tall spindly guy who I've never seen angry or depressed. How about the scarecrow? Dalton asks. That gets a few chuckles. How about the straw man, I suggest. Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner, Sweeney says. The straw man it is. How do you like that, straw? The scarecrow makes no reply. It doesn't have a mouth, but we know it can talk, even when surrounded by scranton reality anchors. He just doesn't want to talk with us. We reach the garage, where our nondescript Navy Blue SUV is waiting for us. I get into the front passenger seat. Dalton climbs into the driver's seat, handing his rifle to me. Sweeney and Wyatt get in back, sandwiching the straw man between them. The windows are heavily tinted, but otherwise the vehicle could easily be mistaken for a civilian ride. Plus we're all wearing street clothes. The only things to indicate we're not regular guys are the rifles we carry, and the other supplies in the back. And of course, the living scarecrow riding with us. Dalton whistles a happy tune as he guides us out of the facility. Once we're through the gate, we're on our own. And the mission couldn't be more critical. The stretch of highway we choose is a mile and a half from the private airport our target uses. According to the intel we have from someone on the inside, Jud Randolph. The hard lines soon to be leader of Marshall, Carter and Dark, will be traveling down this road in his convoy in three hours and four minutes. Representing a militant wing of the organization, Randolph wants nothing more than to destroy the foundation. And we have it on good authority that he will attempt to do just that as soon as he takes control of Marshall, Carter and Dark. Foundation agents have tried to eliminate him on numerous occasions, but every single one has failed. The agents were killed or captured and tortured for information. This has made the O5 council desperate enough to seek the help of a skip. Granted, the skip is a crack shot sniper who wreaked havoc on Marshall, Carter and Dark, the global occult coalition and the foundation before its capture. What remains to be seen is if it will follow instructions into the job, or if it will immediately try to escape. We're about to find out. Everyone but Dalton creeps toward the edge of a bluff overlooking the ribbon of road, having parked our vehicle a mile away on a seldom used dirt road. We geared up and hiked through a stretch of public forest to this bluff so we can see what we're dealing with in person. We stay on our bellies as we crawl amid the wild shrubs and tawny grass to look down upon the highway. We've released the straw man's hands so it can crawl with us, which it does with ease, like a snake gliding through the underbrush. While Dalton watches over us from a camouflage tent via drone and satellite, the rest of us solidify our plans. The afternoon is overcast, but there's no rain in the forecast. Trees with yellow and orange leaves dot the landscape on either side of the road. Most of the terrain is rocky and hilly, but a few small fields of crops occupy stretches of flat ground here and there. Our inside man says the drones won't come through until shortly before the convoy. It's standard operating procedure for Jud Randolph. Like most militant psychopaths, he's paranoid and with good reason. So by the time the drones zip over the highway in search of anything out of the ordinary, we will be in our positions undetectable. That's the hope anyway. The bluff is only about 50 feet high, with a 10 foot drop off to a half eroded dirt slope dotted with small, durable weeds and basketball-sized rocks. This is important because if things go sideways, those of us up here might have to jump down and go in for the kind of close-up battle we hope to avoid. There's no telling what kind of strange weaponry or anomalous defenses Jud Randolph might have with him, not to mention the small army of bodyguards. From landmarks along the stretch of road below, we go over our plan again and again. It involves the gnarled limb oak tree that's growing near the side of the road, the field of dried corn stalks nearby, and the low hill that's near the end of our little kill corridor. The shot from the bluff to the ambush spot is less than 200 yards. It should be a cakewalk for the strawman, but a lot of things have to go right to flush Jud Randolph out, because we won't know which vehicle he's traveling in. When I first heard of our objective, I suggested just dropping a missile on the whole convoy from a predator drone, but that idea was vetoed immediately. Not only would it do more damage than the Foundation wanted, but there was another reason it wouldn't work. Non-anomalous means of assassination had failed time and again, leading the O5 council to believe that Jud Randolph was under some kind of anomalous protection. This is why the scarecrow is here with us. The council hopes an anomalous assassination will do the job. Do they have any solid evidence to support this notion? No. They seem to be grasping at straws, literal straws, considering what the strawman's body is made of. Plus, obliterating the convoy would make positively identifying the remains difficult. As usual, we have to do things the hard way. But if all goes accordingly, the strawman should be the one to do most of the work, and shoulder most of the risk. As we finish going over the plan for the fourth time, the scarecrow says, No plan survives first contact with the enemy. His voice is as dry as October wind, and as raspy as dead leaves skittering along the gutter. After the three of us humans take a moment to get over the shock of hearing him talk, Sweeney says, No shit, Scarelock, but we can't just not have a plan. That would be a recipe for disaster. The strawman's butt and eyes stare down at the road from under the brim of his straw hat. If the mission is successful, I get to go free. That's the deal. So long as you don't mess with the foundation anymore. How do I know I can trust you? You don't. The strawman looks at Sweeney, who meets the button eye gaze unflinchingly. You're helping prevent an all out war, I say. What do you think Marshall Carter and Dark would do to you if they had you? I'm guessing they would take you apart, piece by piece, to see what makes you tick. You seem to know their reputation. So think of this as a good deed. The strawman shifts his gaze to me briefly, before moving it back down to the highway. If I'm going to do this, I'll need my rifle. And you'll need to turn those stupid reality anchors off. That's the spirit, Sweeney says. Hey Sainsbury's, we get through so many snacks. Have you got anything to help me save? Well, we're always matching and lowering prices. So hundreds of Sainsbury's fresh fruit, veg and everyday products are price matched to Aldi. And every week with Nectar you can save money on thousands of the products your family loves. So you can snack away knowing you're saving money. Sainsbury's, good food for all of us. Selected products, Aldi price match not in an eye. Nectar prices require Nectar account. Terms at Sainsbury's.co.uk slash Aldi price match and Nectar.com slash prices terms. The mask makes it hard to breathe. I can only hope I don't have to do anything strenuous while wearing this thing. Because it's hard enough lying here with it on. Here they come. Dalton says from his place 200 yards back from the bluff in a makeshift command tent. His voice comes through clearly in my earpiece. Nobody move a muscle. I can't hear the drones. And I don't dare move to look for them. So the only thing I can do is wait and hope these suits work. They're supposed to mask body heat to prevent any kind of infrared equipment from picking us out. The straw man lies perfectly still next to me. Of course, he doesn't need a suit. He doesn't generate body heat, although we have taken pains to camouflage him. We're all wearing ghillie suits to make us blend in with the scenery. Shortly after we all turned off our reality anchors, I witnessed one of the straw man's powers first hand. As the two of us lay prone on the top of the bluff, he put his gloved hands to the ground and said, I think we need more cover. Before I could answer, the wild grass and shrubs surrounding us started growing. I could even feel the grass I was lying on getting longer. The sensation like a nest of insects crawling around under me. Okay, I think that's good. I said when the foliage had grown a good eight inches, providing plenty of cover. The straw man stopped and looked at me. He's not capable of smiling, but I got the feeling he liked creeping me out. Although it unsettled me initially, I'm now thankful for the additional camouflage. I concentrate on breathing through the damn mask and staying as still as possible. Sweeney and Wyatt are down near the road in their own positions, waiting. Several minutes go by. A few cars pass on the road. A crow calls in the distance. Finally, Dalton speaks over the radio again. They're gone, but I think they're expecting something. The drones did several passes of this area. They didn't do that with any other area. I've been watching them the whole time via satellite. Maybe they recognize this is a good place for an ambush just like we did. Sweeney says, hopefully their guard is down now after those multiple passes. We can hope, Wyatt says. The airwaves go silent for a moment before Dalton speaks again. ETA four minutes, 33 seconds. Copy, I say. Wyatt and Sweeney follow suit. What's happening? The straw man asks. Four minutes out. I take off the mask and lay it to the side. The straw man pulls his camouflage netting off his 50 caliber sniper rifle so we can see through the scope. A crow calls again, this time closer than another one. I see several of the blackbirds soar down and land in the gnarled oak tree across the road. Is that you? I ask the straw man. Yes. I thought you were supposed to scare crows, not attract them. Ha, ha. I smile and shrug. Whatever helps us get this done and walk away alive, just don't tip them off. Get him into the open and I'll do the rest. The straw man says, burlap face leaning down so we can peer through his sniper rifle scope. I raise my binoculars and train them on the road to our right, where the convoy will be coming from. Nothing yet, of course. While I watch, I go through a mental inventory of my supplies. We're hiking out here, all of us, but the straw man changed into tactical gear and camouflage, humping our ghillie suits and other supplies up in our backpacks. Knowing I might have to move fast, I stuffed my pockets full of things I might need. I have smoke grenades and frag grenades in my cargo pockets. In my various other pockets, I have items such as a multi-tool, a combat knife, a tourniquet, and of course, spare ammo for both my M4 rifle and my sidearm. Trading the binoculars for a spotting scope, I continue to peer down the road off to my right. If we're lucky, I can spot Randolph with a spotter scope as the convoy comes. If we can figure out which SUV he's in right off the bat, it will make everything else much easier. Time ticks by. More crows gather around. I can't see them all, but I can hear them. There must be hundreds. You don't think that's too conspicuous? I ask. They're spread out enough, and most of them are hidden. Shouldn't be an issue. Let's hope not. Here they come, Dolton says over the radio. Through my spotter scope, I see the first of the SUVs come around the distant bend, traveling fast. What the hell? What is it? Sweeney asks. This is going to be harder than we thought. I say as the second SUV comes into view, and I verify what I'm seeing. They all look like Randolph. Every single one. Same face, same dark suit, same red tie. Fuck me running. Sweeney says. I guess we have to kill them all. Bad luck for them. Before I can answer, the strawman fires his .50 caliber rifle, much sooner than we had planned for. A hole appears in the windshield of the first SUV, and the driver's head explodes from the massive round. The SUV slows violently to its right and flips, rolling in the air twice before smashing down into the road. The strawman fires again, and hundreds of crows take flight. The two following SUVs swerve to avoid the crashed lead vehicle. They're not stopping, which means one of two things. Either the real Randolph isn't in the first vehicle, or he is, and they're trying to draw us away from it. There's no way to tell. We have to stop them all. Shoot them! A shout at the strawman, who is no longer firing. He's not even looking through his scope anymore. He looks at me and raises one hand, fingers outstretched. I recall the briefing on his powers, realizing that he doesn't necessarily need to use his gun to stop them. The two remaining SUVs speed down the road. As the first of them approaches the gnarled oak tree, the strawman moves his head. One of the massive limbs whips down in a flurry of dead leaves, disconnected by the violent movement. The limb, which must weigh a thousand pounds or more, slams down onto the hood of the SUV, causing the vehicle to flip into the air and land on its roof. Glass shatters as the roof flattens. The vehicle skids a dozen yards or so before stopping. Meanwhile, the other SUV has braked hard to avoid hitting the massive tree branch, which now blocks the road. The vehicle reverses in a squeal of tires as the army of crows, which has been circling in the sky, rushes down to obscure the windshield. Fast gunshots erupt from inside the vehicle, bullets blasting through the windshield and obliterating the crows. The strawman grunts in what must be pain or sympathy as more crows cycle in to take their fallen compatriots' places. Somehow, the SUV drives forward, going off the road to avoid the tree branch. One is still firing from inside, but the windshield is covered, so I can't imagine how they can see anything. They must have a camera feed to navigate by. As they make it past the tree and get back onto the road, Wyatt pops up and fires from his position in the cornfield, aiming for the tires. By now, men are getting out of the first SUV, armed with rifles. I radio this development and Sweeney responds, saying that he sees them and will engage shortly. As the strawman fired earlier than we anticipated, Sweeney is having to move down from his original position. I look back at the only SUV that's still moving. From my position on the bluff, I can see Wyatt's tall frame where he's firing among the dry corn stalks. Either he's missing the tires or they're bullet resistant. The latter is more likely. The SUV is approaching the end of the corridor when something unexpected happens. The section of cornfield where Wyatt is seems to implode in a spray of blood and pulverized corn stalks. There is now a rough gap in the crops as though something flattened everything there, including my friend. Although I can't see Wyatt, I'm sure he's dead. There was just too much blood. Anomalous weapon! I shout over the radio. They have an unknown anomalous weapon and we have a man down! I'm blowing it. Sweeney says, as the remaining SUV barrels down the road, it approaches a low hill where we buried an explosive device for just this situation. The vehicle comes abreast of it and it's suddenly shrouded in an eruption of dirt and rock as the device goes off. A split second later, it's visible again as it careens from the cloud of debris, rocking on its struts from the shockwave. The driver fails to regain control and it runs off the road, crashing head on into a rocky outcropping. Gunfire erupts from the first crashed SUV and I look that way to see several Randolphs go down as Sweeney lights them up from his spot behind a boulder on the other side of the road. The straw man fires his 50 cal from next to me and I see a man go down in a spray of pink mist next to the second crashed SUV. Dalton comes up from his position back at our makeshift command tent, his job watching the feed from the satellite now done. He joins the straw man and I on the bluff. Straw man, can you have your birds cover that entire SUV? I ask, pointing at the last one from which no movement has come since it crashed into the outcropping. Without answering, the straw man does his thing. Dozens of crows subtle on the SUV, blocking all the windows. Good, I say before turning to Dalton. Watch that last SUV, if someone comes out, kill them. Copy, Dalton says, adjusting so he can better cover the vehicle. A couple more Randolphs come out of the second crashed SUV. Between the straw man and Sweeney, they're killed quickly. Minutes pass as we wait for something to happen. Nothing does. No one makes a move from the crow covered third SUV. Okay, we can't put this off forever. Sweeney says, straw man, get your ass down here. You and Dalton are going to check out the last SUV. Dorsey, you and me will take these other two. Saying that the anomalous weapon was in the third SUV, we decide to wait until all of us can be there to take that one. If we're lucky, everyone inside is dead from the bomb's shrapnel. But I can count on one hand the number of times I've been lucky, and that hand is missing half a finger. Sweeney and I make quick work of the first two SUVs, only putting down two badly injured men. The rest have already been taken care of by the crash. Sweeney, the straw man, are some combination of them. Up close, we can see that these guys are wearing realistic masks of Randolph's face, and it's not a pretty one. He's an old guy with liver spots, a long, crooked nose, jowls, and puffy eyes. We verify that none of the dead in the first two SUVs are the real Randolph. Then we head over to find what's left of Wyatt. Just as I thought, he's dead, pulverized, smashed flat by whatever weapon they have in that last SUV. Once all that's done, we gather around the last vehicle at a safe distance. Although beat up and no longer in driving condition, it appears to be armored. The windows and doors still mostly intact. Let's fucking light it up, Sweeney says. The armor can only last so long. If I tell the crows to leave, those inside won't be blind any longer. The straw man says. They might be able to use their weapon on us. Okay, so we shoot through the crows. No. What do you mean no? Sweeney says through his teeth. You're here to do a fucking job, and that means doing what we say. Besides, what the fuck are you going to do if I start firing through your precious crows anyway? A massive group of crows suddenly swoops down seemingly from nowhere and settles on our heads and shoulders. It takes me a fright-filled moment to realize that they were all perching silently on the gnarled oak. They stare at us blackly, sharp beaks inches from our big, vulnerable eyes. Okay, straw man. Sweeney says with less anger in his voice. If you won't let us shoot through the crows, you have to do it. Go check it out. Why don't we just blow it up? Straw man asks. Because we have to verify the Rand Office among them, and our guys can only hold the police off for so long. We don't have time to be picking teeth out of a flaming car. Just go. We'll cover you. On some silent command, the birds perching on us take flight, settling once again on the oak. I give the straw man my M4. He leaves his 50-cow with me and walks toward the crow-covered vehicle. The birds caw. Some of them stare fixed at their dead compatriots. Many ruffle their feathers as if uncomfortable. Straw man eases up to the back passenger side door and gives a silent command to the crows, which fly off the window. Just as the straw man's about to fire the M4, the reinforced glass, he disappears in a puff of hay particles. Only that's not quite right. He's flattened by that invisible weapon. With nothing holding them there, the crows take flight, cawing loudly as they speed away. Move! Sweeney yells, raising his rifle to fire at the vehicle. Take cover! To my left, Dalton is smashed down to nothing. His blood splatters me even as I sprint toward cover. I dive behind a thick bush while away from the road. Sweeney ducks behind a nearby tree, the trunk of which is crushed as if by a pair of giant pliers. Before Sweeney can get out of the way, the top of it falls, skewering him through the chest with a branch. He cries out once and then goes quiet. I assume he's dead, but I suddenly have bigger concerns as the bush I'm hiding behind is smashed flat. Still holding the straw man's rifle, I roll behind a smaller bush nearby and take quick game with the 50 cal. With a bead on the back passenger side window, I squeeze the trigger. Even though the reinforced glass has no chance against the massive round, it punches through the window, leaving a decent sized hole. The shot gives my position away and the bush I'm behind flattens as I roll away. I keep rolling until I get snagged in some thick brush and can no longer roll anymore. I'll have to get up to move and if I do that, I'll be spotted. I'm trapped and I lift my ghillie suit up on the bluff. I can hear sections of brush flattening ahead of me, but it's thick enough here that I still have some cover. They can't see me, which means they can't crush me. I go through a mental inventory of my supplies and ordnance, just like I was taught. The elements of a plan come to mind. It takes me a few more moments to flesh the plan out and by then, the strange weapon is no longer smashing trees and pushes around me. I know how I can get this done, if I'm lucky. Reaching into one cargo pocket, I retrieve a smoke grenade. I pull the pin and toss it so it lands between me and the SUV. As soon as there's enough smoke to give me cover, I fire the 50 cal through the smoke, aiming for the same window I hit before. I have no idea where the round goes, but the sound tells me I hit glass. That's good. I move a few yards and then work the bolt to load another round before firing again. I do this, quickly moving and firing, until I'm out of rounds. Keeping the rifle in one hand, I pull the second smoke grenade out of my pocket, yank the pin, and move out toward the SUV, throwing the grenade as close to the SUV as I can. I can't see how close I get through the smoke, but I have to take the chance. After giving the second grenade enough time to obscure the area with smoke, I run blindly toward the SUV, praying I won't become a pancake. I got the smoke grenade so close that I nearly run right into the vehicle, seeing it in just enough time to slide down on the passenger side near the back tire. Gently, I reach up and feel the window. Finding two holes so close together, they're almost touching. It has to be enough. With no more smoke grenades, I only have one shot at this. Setting the rifle aside, I reach into my other cargo pocket for a frag grenade. As I hold the grenade, getting ready to pull the pin, I have a moment to wonder where the straw man's body is. His flattened clothes were right around here last time I saw them. Telling myself I can't see them because of the smoke, I pull the pin, release the spoon, and then reach up and jam the grenade into the glass where the two holes almost touch. It sticks there for a moment, but I hammer it with the side of my fist and it disappears into the vehicle. Leaving the rifle where it is, I pull my sidearm as I scramble to the rear of the vehicle, getting to my knees behind the back bumper. The smoke is starting to clear as I hear the sound of the driver's side rear door opening and the thud of a body hitting the ground a split second before the grenade explodes. The armored vehicle funnels the bulk of the blast out the open passenger side door. As I stand and step to the side, I see Randolph lying prone on the ground, reaching out towards some kind of mechanical gauntlet a few feet out of his reach. I don't know if this is the real Randolph, but I can tell he's injured from the blast. The back of his suit from the waist up is torn from shrapnel, the holes glistening with blood. I brace my firing hand and put my finger to the trigger. There's a scuffing sound from my right, causing me to tense. Put the gun down or you're fucking dead. A slightly muffled voice says. A breeze whips the last of the smoke away and I dart my eyes over, seeing another Randolph standing a yard to my right, pointing his own sidearm at me. He's injured, badly burned and bleeding from several large wounds, but his aim seems true. How did he survive the blast, I wonder. Isn't that some bullshit? I wipe my eyes back to what I'm 99% sure is the real Randolph. He's still inching toward the claw device. My finger's on the trigger, I say to the guard. Just a little squeeze and he's gone. Do you think I can get it done with a bullet in me? Want to give it a shot? I don't have time for this. If Randolph gets to the claw device, I'm dead and he's getting closer. Another foot now and he'll flatten me like roadkill. If the guard doesn't kill me first. I said put it down. The guard says, he inches toward me. I step toward the real Randolph. Don't move. He shouts. Then he calls like a bird. Like a crow. No, that's not right. It's not him. It's a crow. Somewhere near him. Wings flutter, more clawing as crows gather. Call the fucking birds off. The guy says, sounding frightened. Do you think I can control birds? I ask with a laugh. Randolph is about to have the device in his grip. It won't take him long to pull it onto his hand. I can no longer chance it. I squeeze the trigger, blasting a hole in Randolph's head. The guard grunts and then fires his gun. But I don't feel the impact of a bullet. Then he screams and fires his gun again. I leap toward the now dead Randolph, getting behind cover, thinking he can't miss a third time. The crows call madly, and the guard screams again. I hear a thump and another gunshot. The screams grow and fervor. I glance around the back of the vehicle, aiming my sidearm. The guard struggles on the ground, arms waving wildly as he tries to get the crows off of him. Both his eyes have been pecked out, and he's dropped his gun. Dozens of crows flutter around him, a lighting here and there to peck him, tearing at the Randolph mask. I'm tempted to let him suffer. Instead, I put him out of his misery with a bullet to the heart. The straw man steps over, holding his rifle, dusting it off. His clothes are covered in dirt, and straws stick out of a few new rips. But otherwise, he looks just like he did before. A toothpick sticks out of the burlap where a mouth should be. He glances at me briefly before walking past. The crows circle around him in the sky. A few of them land on his shoulders. I watch him for a moment as he walks away. I then move over to Randolph's body, verify that it's really him, and then grab the claw device, which is much lighter than it looks. I pull my radio out, change to the correct channel and speak. Mission accomplished, multiple KIAs, Dorsey requesting X-fill and cleanup. When I get the word that they're coming, I sit down in the dirt and watch as the straw man disappears into the trees. SCP-6073 is an animate and sapient scarecrow, five feet nine inches tall. Although primarily composed of packed herbaceous material, the entity has demonstrated physical strength on par with that of an average adult human male. Its facial features consist of a burlap sack with two large white buttons for eyes and no apparent mouth. Aside from stitches and holes in its body and clothing, it possesses no other distinguishing features. While the exact parameters of its capabilities remain unclear, the entity can manipulate plant life in its immediate vicinity. It has demonstrated the capacity to induce rapid growth in flora, such as trees and grass, through direct physical contact, and can telekinetically manipulate plant matter. It can also mentally influence the behavior of crows, dehydrate any object through physical touch, and produce an apparently endless supply of toothpicks from the burlap covering its mouth region. SCP-2501 is a mechanical gauntlet designed to be adapted to a human hand and forearm. It is made of an unknown lightweight material and is powered through unknown means. The device's anomalous properties manifest whenever a user inserts his or her arm into the socket and engages the claw-like mechanism at the opposite end. Inheld in front of the user's face, the device is able to exert an extreme amount of pressure on an object within the perspective of the user in relation to the claw-like mechanism. No upper limit on the amount of pressure it can exert has yet been observed.