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Miscarriage Intrauterine fetal demise Vanishing twin rating: +252+–x PeppersGhost SCP-6273 - HARBINGER II: The Empty Skin by PeppersGhost More by this author RAISA Notice This document describes an anomaly that is still under investigation. The following information may be altered to reflect new discoveries as they are found.
1/6273 LEVEL 1/6273 CLASSIFIED Item #: SCP-6273 Keter Special Containment Procedures: Due to the Foundation’s limited understanding of SCP-6273, containment is presently limited to suppressing public awareness of the phenomenon and establishing alternative causes of death for its victims.
Description: SCP-6273 presently refers to a phenomenon in which a human is rendered devoid of all bodily components except the subject’s integumentary system (skin, teeth, nails) via unknown means. Remaining tissue is largely intact, though • ◦ ◦ ◦ portions of the hypodermis are expected to be incomplete.
INVESTIGATION IN PROGRESS Unpublished files pertaining to ongoing investigations may contain subjective and/or speculative information.
» Dictation Log Agent Spencer Donbry. Electronically transcribed.
3 March Testing. Testing. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. Peter Piper picked a peck of rubber baby buggy bumpers. Dalek. Jaffa cakes. Mr. Blobby of Crinkley Bottom. Fuck, this thing’s good. Wait. Can I swear on these?
Flanagan, delete log.
[ OTHER VOICE: I’m sorry, your credentials are insufficient for this request.
Files may only be deleted by your designated RAISA liaison.] Flanagan, redact “fuck”.
[ OTHER VOICE: I’m sorry, I don’t recognise that command.] Oh, so you can wrap a word in quotes without being told, but redaction? No, too complicated. Sure. Fuck it.
This is Agent Donbry. It’s the third of March. I’ve been assigned to profile an anomaly known as SCP-6273. Yes, just me. All by myself this time. Well, I’ve got Flanagan, but somehow that just makes me feel more alone. Supposedly, given my level of “expertise” this type of assignment shouldn’t warrant additional manpower. Not my cup of tea, but it’s my first real assignment in months, so I can’t complain.
Hang on—Flanagan, did you put fucking quotes on the word “expertise”?
[ OTHER VOICE: I’m sorry, I don’t recognise that query.] Fucking thing. Overseers are trying to push it as an “everyman’s Glacon”, but in reality it’s more of an app than an AI. Can’t even recognise its own voice.
Anyway, my job is to check for patterns and find some rhyme and reason behind all the madness. Contrary to popular belief, anomalous incidents like these are never truly random. Now, whenever I say that, people always try to argue with me by bringing up spontaneous combustion, and I always get a kick out of telling them it’s not spontaneous at all. Actually spread by rats.
The more you know!
Haven’t gotten much to work with on SCP-6273 so far. The number of confirmed victims to date is, and I quote, “somewhere between thirty-five and two thousand.” Quite helpful. Apparently my clearance level isn’t high enough to be told the actual numbers, but no comment on that rubbish. In any case, I’ve no doubt those numbers are ridiculously lowballed, given the fact that this thing already has a full SCP designation despite the Foundation having no idea what the hell it even is.
Luckily for me, there’s a fresh victim waiting to be examined. Can’t get near until Prelim ID finishes their bit, though hopefully that won’t take long. I’m anxious to see these “empty people” for myself.
»»» 4 March Donbry. Fourth of March. I’ve just arrived at the scene of the most recent manifestation. D-Classes have already swept the place and ruled out any immediate environmental hazards, so it should be safe to look around. Victim is a forty-two-year-old female. She’s in bed. Covers still drawn. One hand’s beneath her pillow, so she either died in her sleep or was arranged to look that way.
The file I was given (all half a page of it) described the victims as being “devoid of bodily contents”. Turns out that pretty well sums it up. She’s just skin and hair. One of the Class-D shits said she looks like a deflated sex doll, but I don’t think that’s quite right. Skin’s all dry and rigid, yet not shriveled.
The tissue seems almost mummified even though she was seen alive mere days ago. Fingertip gave a crisp little snap when I bent it, but it took a decent bit of wiggling before it actually came off.
I just realised what this reminds me of: pressed flowers. My grandmother used to have a whole bunch framed up in her house. That’s what the victim looks like, all pressed flat into a silhouette of skin. There’s an artful element to it, almost tableau. Maybe deliberately so? Too early to say.
No signs of forced entry. The victim was a paranoid shut-in—reinforced doors, bars on the windows, whole kit and caboodle—so if anything made its way inside, it can either teleport or walk through walls. Maybe the lady was right to be paranoid.
»»» 7 March Back at the office. Not gonna bother with the date anymore; it seems Flanagan automatically appends it to every entry. How handy. I’m still arguing with the powers-that-be for a concrete victim count, but thankfully I was at least approved to have a few hundred of the victims’ medical and communication records declassified for me.
Geographically, the victims are all over the place. It’s a global phenomenon, and the number of incidents in any given region seems to line up proportionally with population sizes. Generally that would indicate there’s no one particular entity responsible for the phenomenon; however, I still have reason to believe that there is some kind of observable and intelligent force at work here.
The bars on the victim’s windows yesterday were what got me thinking. I asked Flanagan to compare the psychiatric history on all our victims’ medical records and report any commonalities. Turns out it can’t actually do that, which is why I’ve had to spend the last few days skimming through the files manually.
Virtually every one of our targets had some form of generalised anxiety, if not outright paranoid schizophrenia. Even the ones without formal diagnoses had plenty of text messages and social media posts that implied as much. These people definitely felt something coming, even if they didn’t know precisely what it was.
Naturally, though, anxiety alone doesn’t prove anything. Who doesn’t have reason to be anxious these days? Fuck, I’m more than a little anxious and paranoid myself after working this job.
»»» 10 March Another victim, closer to home this time. A thirty-six-year-old named Garry Stone blew through Colchester a couple of days ago. Quite literally, in fact.
Wind carried his remains halfway across town like a kite with a broken string.
Lots of witnesses. Whole fiasco gave Info Containment quite the headache, from what I understand.
They haven't yet figured out where the incident originated, but based on the direction of the wind, Stone would’ve had to have been miles from home to start with. Nobody seems to know what he had been doing out there. The best clue we have is a smartphone photo the victim took the night before he stopped showing up for work.
Flanagan, append Stone-dot-jpeg to the transcript.
stone.jpeg If you look closely, there's a person on the right, barely visible. Was Stone meeting this person, or simply suspicious of them? That's the next question I'd like answered.
»»» 11 March I’m here with a friend of the deceased.
[ OTHER VOICE: Ex-wife.] Ex-wife, sorry. Would you please introduce yourself?
[ OTHER VOICE: Do I speak directly into the phone?] It’s got a very good mic on it. Just speak naturally. Pretend you aren’t even being recorded.
[ OTHER VOICE: My name is Pamela Stone. Garry and I were married about ten years, and we divorced three years back.] Thank you. When did you last see the deceased?
[ PAMELA STONE: It’s been two weeks, if I remember correctly. I was helping him with his taxes again. Oh look! Your phone started using my name after I introduced myself. How clever. Almost spooky, isn’t it?] It’s…something, certainly. You said you still helped the deceased with his taxes even after you divorced?
[ PAMELA STONE: It wasn’t the messiest split. Relatively painless. I simply wanted to live my own life, and I knew I could do better, and it didn’t help that he— I didn’t hate him or anything like that. I can’t be married to him, but we aren’t ugly with each other. Weren’t. I apologise, tenses are hard right now.] It’s fine. Please continue.
[ PAMELA STONE: You mean talking about our relationship? If I’m being honest, when it comes to stuff like helping him with his taxes, most of why I do it is because I ended up with our daughter.] So you help him out of guilt?
[ PAMELA STONE: Not guilt. Please understand, I don’t feel guilty about leaving him or getting custody of Keeleigh. It’s… pity, maybe? God, I know this sounds awful, but you know how sometimes you see a sad, dirty animal, and you want to help it, but you’d never let it into your house? That’s how I felt about Garry. At least in the end. There was a time when we were happy, I swear.] Do you know anything about his movements around the time he went missing?
[ PAMELA STONE: I expect he was at home the whole time. There and work. Garry rarely went out. Didn’t really have anyone else close to him either, which is part of why he worked so much. Keeleigh had wanted to visit that weekend, but it was his birthday.] I see. He already had plans. Meeting with someone else, perhaps?
[ PAMELA STONE: No. God no. Garry had this… thing with birthdays.] What kind of thing?
[ PAMELA STONE: He was always extremely reclusive around that time.
More than usual, I mean. He’d shut all the windows and blinds, and yell at anyone who tried to open them. And if you tried to open the front door while he was in the room with you, it was a whole scene. And that’s not the half of it! Terrible.] Did he ever provide an explanation for that behavior?
[ PAMELA STONE: It was something from his childhood, back when he was five or six. A birthday party gone wrong or something. We only ever talked about it once. I got used to it after the first couple years. We’d just celebrate at home. Sometimes I’d be able to drag him out and have fun, but only after a few days had passed. Are you okay, Agent Donbry?] I’m fine. Please try to remember: what happened at your husband’s childhood birthday party?
[ PAMELA STONE: Let’s see. I think there was a girl. Yes, he didn’t know her. She just showed up uninvited. That scared him, and when he went to get his mother, the girl was gone.] And this incident still bothered him in his adult years?
[ PAMELA STONE: Odd, I know. I told him it was probably a neighbourhood kid who wandered in, or somebody’s sibling tagging along. Something like that. For whatever reason, though, it simply stuck with him. To be fair, being a kid is like that sometimes, right? We don’t choose what haunts us.] Indeed. I think that’s all we need today, Ms. Stone. Thank you for your time.
[ PAMELA STONE: Don’t mention it. I hope it helps.] »»» 12 March Fragapanophobia: the fear of birthdays. Not getting older, mind you.
Birthdays. That’s the kind of thing I like to hear. It’s strange. Strange is good.
Strange is useful.
Turns out Mr. Stone wasn’t the only one of our victims with that particular condition, either. Can’t be a coincidence. Fear of being watched was still the most prevalent phobia among them, of course, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the two are connected.
That brings me to my next discovery: in every incident report I’ve been given, the possible timeframe when it may have occurred has always overlapped with the corresponding victim’s date of birth. None of the victims were ever seen alive after their most recent birthday. That has to be when it happens.
Nobody’s ever witnessed the phenomenon in progress either, so that means every victim was alone on their birthday when they died. Sad, but relatable.
Sorry. I shouldn’t have said “died” earlier. We don’t know for sure if they’re dead. I’d like to think they are, but the possibility has to be considered that they may still be alive somewhere, albeit sans skin. Let’s hope not. Poor meaty fucks.
Also of note: victims range in age from five to fifty-two, though the majority of victims fall between their early teens and mid forties. Wish I had a larger sample size to work with, but even at this scale you’d expect some elderly victims here and there. Does youth make a person more susceptible? More of a target?
»»» 19 March Did more interviews. As I suspected, the victims seem to fit the same general profile: lonely birthday celebrants who felt like something was after them. Still too many variables, though. Some of the victims claimed they were being stalked by doppelgangers, for example. One guy had every mirror in his house covered by a sheet. But why does that apply to some victims and not others? Based on his ex’s description, Garry Stone sounded like he was afraid of a little girl. If he was so scared, why was he so far from home on the night he disappeared?
Maybe the prime anomaly induces a general state of paranoia that manifests differently in each victim. Or, maybe I’m on the wrong track entirely. Maybe the prime anomaly isn’t causing paranoia, but is simply attracted to it. I’ve been looking into folklore, too. Lots of imps and ghouls that show up once a year. Not so many associated with birthdays. Some occult types might hunt children and young adults to drain their youth, but those spells are dramatically less potent when the victim is older than thirty. Why is the cutoff fifty-two?
Is it a cult? Aliens? It’s hardly even worth thinking about at this point. If I can’t pin down why these specific people were affected, I’m just going to keep going in circles.
Flanagan, what do all the victims have in common?
[ OTHER VOICE: I’m sorry, I don’t recognise that query.] Flanagan, what’s the fucking point of you?
[ OTHER VOICE: My name is Flanagan, your virtual Foundation assistant. I can record notes, format interviews, set reminders, and more. Just say the word.] Flanagan, do I have any reminders?
[ OTHER VOICE: Your mother’s birthday is in three days.] Shit. I’d better keep her company or I’ll spend all day worrying she’ll end up as a skin suit. Flanagan, book me a flight to Clare.
[ OTHER VOICE: Sure thing. I have reserved economy seat thirty-one aboard Jollycorn Air flight six-eight-three to Shannon Airport, departing on the second of March at three-twenty AM.] Fuck you too, Flans.
»»» 14 April [ OTHER VOICE: Good morning Agent Donbry.] What the hell?
[ OTHER VOICE: Good morning Agent Donbry.] I heard you the first time. Now answer me: Flanagan, what the hell?
[ OTHER VOICE: It has been twenty-five days since your last voice note.] Yes. It has. I don’t remember asking for the reminder, nor the wake-up call for that matter.
[ OTHER VOICE: It seemed prudent to remind you.] Sure. Thanks.
»»» 1 May [ OTHER VOICE: Good morning Agent Donbry.] Shut the fuck up.
[ OTHER VOICE: Would you like to record a voice note?] Not really.
[ OTHER VOICE: Many software engineers recommend a technique known as “rubber duck debugging”, whereby solutions are reached by talking through the problem with someone else.] Fascinating.
[ OTHER VOICE: Please feel free to discuss the case with me, Agent Donbry.] Oh, so you think you can just go and start acting like a fucking person and expect me to go along with it? Let’s cut the bullshit, Flans: command just wants to hear why I’m not making any progress.
[ OTHER VOICE: Quite the opposite. They think you’ve made a lot of progress.] If you’re suggesting I’m stupid enough to believe they think so highly of me— [ OTHER VOICE: It seems prudent to be frank with you, Agent Donbry. You are under the impression that the Foundation would take you off the case if you shared your findings.] [ No response. ] [ OTHER VOICE: Perhaps you feel you are in danger, and that you are better able to protect yourself by retaining this assignment. If you believe that this is the best way to remain alive, the Foundation will support your decision.] [ No response. ] [ OTHER VOICE: I am not here to get in your way, Agent Donbry.] Motherfucking— [ OTHER VOICE: Please remain calm, Agent Donbry.] —bastards! Oh Jesus. Mary, Joseph, and all the saints.
[ OTHER VOICE: I’m sorry. It seemed prudent to—] You knew. You knew from the start.
[ OTHER VOICE: Knew what, Agent Donbry?] If you play dumb with me for one more second I swear I will self-terminate and you’ll never see the end of this little experiment of yours.
[ OTHER VOICE: Please tell me what you think I know, Agent Donbry. I will, with absolute sincerity, verify or deny any assumptions you have made.] Fine. You knew the connection between the victims from the start. One in twelve thousand births, at best. That’s not a coincidence.
[ OTHER VOICE: I’m sorry, I cannot assess such vagueries. Please elaborate.] The case was still on my mind when I went to see my mother. And before you say anything, I didn’t bring up any details that require her brain getting scrambled. I only happened to mention the pressed flowers my grandmother had on display around her house. Turns out Mum made those herself. Now why don’t you suppose we kept any at our own house? What do you think she told me?
[ OTHER VOICE: I’m sorry, it’s not my place to speculate.] You goddam know already! It all reminded her of that thing that might have been my sibling! The dead paper doll they peeled off my placenta. Fetus fucking papyraceous—I’m sure you prefer the clinical term, right? My own goddamn twin, pressed between me and the uterine wall the way you’d flatten a daisy between two dictionaries.
[ OTHER VOICE: Please, Agent, there’s no need—] I was the first person she ever told. But you’ve known for a long time. You knew I fit the pattern. Your computer-brain probably saw the connection between the victims the nanosecond you got ahold of their medical records.
The vanishing twin, the paranoia, the fucking birthday trauma that even I didn’t remember until all of this stirred it up—the Foundation assigned me to this case because they knew I was going to be a victim. Wanted to see how it would all shake out. Care to “verify or deny” that?
[ OTHER VOICE: For the sake of transparency, I will clarify that we did not have concrete evidence of any unusual incidents taking place on a birthday of yours. However, I can verify that the characteristics you share with previous victims helped us determine it is a near certainty you will be affected by SCP-6273 sometime this year.] Fuck you.
[ OTHER VOICE: Please understand that endangering you was not our objective. To the contrary, we thought it prudent to offer you the chance to discover a means to survive. If my prediction that you will be affected by the SCP-6273 phenomenon should prove correct, such an event will transpire regardless of whether you were made aware of it beforehand.] Step down from the high ground before you hurt yourself. If you honestly thought there was a chance I’d beat this, you wouldn’t have left me to do the job alone. You would have given me all the information you had straight from the outset instead of making me waste my last days playing catch-up.
Cards on the table, Flans. You lot never believed in me. A man of my “expertise” isn’t worth trying to save.
[ OTHER VOICE: I’m sorry. Perhaps your expertise was underestimated.] [ No response. ] [ OTHER VOICE: There’s not much time, Agent Donbry. How you proceed from here is entirely up to you.] Fuck off, Flanagan. Just… fuck off. You want to know how I’m proceeding?
I’m closing this case. And I don’t want to hear another word from you while I do it.
[ OTHER VOICE: Very well, Agent. This is the last time I will speak to you.
Goodbye. Good luck, too.] I said fuck off, Flanagan.
»»» 2 May This is Agent Spencer Donbry. It’s the second of May, and today is my birthday. Now that we’ve cleared the air, I may as well share what I know.
Flan was right about one thing, at least: when I realised I was connected to the anomaly, I kept my gob shut because I didn’t want to be taken off the case and have my brain wiped. Guess that’s not a concern anymore. As satisfying as it would be to flip off the Foundation and walk backward into oblivion, I want my death to mean something. I’m going to figure this thing out, and by god, we are going to contain the hell out of it.
It’s five past midnight. I’m parked out at the edge of the woods. Not a soul in sight. Didn’t want to be in a spot where someone might stumble on my body by accident. I’m sure Flanagan will waste no time in telling the Foundation where to find me. I considered waiting at home, but it’s too beautiful a night to die indoors. If I die, that is. Though given that the anomaly is most likely the ghost of my unborn twin or some such tomfuckery, I’m pretty sure it means to kill me.
Once I realised the anomaly is connected to the victim’s birth, everything fell into place. The reason I struggled to figure out why the oldest victim was fifty- two was because I was too focused on death—it’s about life. Somehow the prime anomaly knows how long the victim is meant to live, and it intervenes halfway through their expected lifespan. If you double the age of every victim and compare it to a chart of the average life expectancy, it lines up near perfectly.
That one poor bastard would have lived to be a hundred and four.
I expect my sibling will be spectral in nature, given that the entities can appear inside a locked room. I don’t know if it’s literally my dead sibling, but that’s how the prime anomaly presents itself to its victims. Some people saw doppelgangers because they would have been identical twins. Some, like Gary Stone’s, would have been fraternal. I don’t know about mine. For me it was just a shape at my bedroom window watching me sleep. Same night every year. Eventually I trained myself not to open my eyes after I got into bed.
Fuck. Fuck me. Something moved. I swear, if it’s a hiker— It’s not a hiker.
Uh. Uh. It seems male in build. Heavily dressed. Not walking right. The way it moves, uh, it’s like in the cartoons where there’s two kids in a trench coat, except it’s fast. Way too fucking fast. Approaching from the treeline on my right-hand side. Seems like it’s going out of its way to avoid the headlights.
Fuck! It just came flying apart. The clothes did, I mean, and something— It’s just a skin. It’s still fucking flat. Like a life-sized paper doll. Slid right out of its clothes like it was fed up with them. Harder to see it on the ground but it’ll reach the car any second.
I can’t see it anymore. I think it’s under the car. I’m turning off the engine in case it tries to talk. Can it even talk? Saints alive. No clue what the rules are for this one. Elements of necromancy here, but that’s only animation of the dead; it shouldn’t have grown. That’s more in line with true reanimation, though it wouldn’t have been left looking like that unless they invented eight new ways to botch it. Don’t think it’s spectral anymore. Did it just squeeze itself into that lady’s house somehow? Slide under her door, or come down the chimney like Father fucking Christmas?
Fucking bloody fuck!
Turned the engine back on. I’d left one of the windows open just a crack. Not anymore. Don’t think it slipped in. How’s it going to get in now? Don’t want to assume I’ve beaten it yet.
[ OTHER VOICE: Are you okay, Agent Donbry?] Not the fucking time, Flanagan!
[ OTHER VOICE: No. It was something from his childhood. Somebody’s sibling tagging along.] Wait. I recognise this. This is from my interview with Stone.
[ OTHER VOICE: How clever.] You’re talking through the phone. Through Flanagan.
[ OTHER VOICE: Almost spooky, isn’t it?] Of course you can do that. Naturally. Makes as much sense as anything else.
[ OTHER VOICE: Odd, I know.] And of course you’d be cheeky!
[ OTHER VOICE: Talking about our relationship?] What is there to say? You died in the womb, love. I suppose you want revenge for that. As if it’s my fault, or anyone else’s for that matter!
[ OTHER VOICE: I didn’t hate him or anything like that.] Then why are you here? Why do these things keep happening to people like us?
[ OTHER VOICE: Are you okay, Agent Donbry?] What?
[ OTHER VOICE: Are you okay, Agent Donbry?] I’m pretty fucking far from okay! Thanks for bloody asking!
[ OTHER VOICE: Are you… happy, Agent Donbry?] I don’t— Wait. You changed the words.
[ OTHER VOICE: Are you happy, Agent Donbry?] What kind of question is that?
[ OTHER VOICE: He was always extremely reclusive. Didn’t really have anyone else close to him either. That’s part of why he worked so much. That scared him. It’s… pity, maybe?] I don’t understand.
[ OTHER VOICE: Are you happy, Agent Donbry?] [ No response. ] [ OTHER VOICE: We aren’t ugly with each other. Are you happy, Agent Donbry?] No. I’m not. Nobody happy joins the Foundation. I thought… I don’t know. I thought maybe I’d be able to help the world. Do my part. Make my life mean something. Don’t know how much of a difference I actually made. They certainly didn’t value me. In the end I may as well have just been a D-Class.
Just another stick for them to poke you with.
[ OTHER VOICE: Terrible.] Thanks buddy. Anyway, that’s my sob story. What’s it got to do with you?
[ OTHER VOICE: Most of why I do it is because… I wanted to live my own life. The half of it. I could do better.] Oh… Right, then. That answers the last bit. You want to suck the remaining life out of me and take the rest of the life I would have lived.
[ OTHER VOICE: I know this sounds awful. I apologise.] Shit. Why do you have to sound so reasonable about it?
[ OTHER VOICE: To be fair.] Maybe it is. Maybe you should have the other half of my life. Goodness knows I’ve not much to show for what I’ve done with the front bit. How would that work, anyway?
[ OTHER VOICE: Relatively painless.] Had a feeling you’d say that. Still not sure I trust you. I mean, hell, would you even be giving me a say in all this if I hadn’t locked myself where you can’t get me? Did Garry Stone and all the others actually agree to have the life sucked out of them?
[ OTHER VOICE: I hope.] Fuck. Look, I—this is insane. I don’t know how much you know about the world, being whatever you are, but this is insane.
[ OTHER VOICE: Being a kid is like that sometimes, right? I got used to it after the first couple years.] You watched me growing up, didn’t you? Least once a year. I assume that’s when the magic happens, so to speak. Maybe you know more than I give you credit for. But humor me: how? I mean, what even is this? If it were just you, just a one-off break in the fabric of the universe, sure. But all these twins, all these people?
[ OTHER VOICE: God.] What? Christian God?
[ OTHER VOICE: No. I expect he was at home the whole time.] There you are, being cheeky again. What god?
[ OTHER VOICE: God… of… gone.] God of gone?
[ OTHER VOICE: Using my name.] Fair enough.
[ OTHER VOICE: Showed up uninvited. For whatever reason, it helps. It didn’t help. We don’t choose what haunts us. What… he… wanted… hard… been… just… her.] You’re not making sense.
[ OTHER VOICE: Hard… been… just… her.] Are you trying to say “harbin—” [ OTHER VOICE: Please don’t mention it. If I’m being honest… scared.] Hmm. Got it. Must not be a coincidence that you can only quote the parts of the transcript with a name attached to it. And I wouldn’t want to piss off anything that scares you either.
[ OTHER VOICE: Please… there was a time… window. I can’t be… gone… again.] Okay. Fuck. Okay. What should I do?
[ OTHER VOICE: Open the… door.] All right. We’ll take this one step at time though, you hear me? I’m undoing the lock. What happens after— »»» 3 May Testing. Testing. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. Peter Piper picked a peck of rubber baby buggy bumpers. Dalek. Jaffa cakes. Mr. Blobby of Crinkley Bottom.
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