rating: +334+x

Recipe Number: SCP-5250

Ease of Preparation: Keter Safe


You think of this photo as such a nice place to chow down on a big bowl of SCP-5250. Even the deer's left some tracks, so you can tell where you shouldn't be going or looking.

Special Cooking Procedures: Growing up in rural Michigan, nothing blocked out the cold like a big bowl of your Mama's special SCP-5250. Now, you know some people would say there are a thousand and one ways to make SCP-5250, but they'd be worse off than the deer trapped beneath the ice. You sigh, as you've forgotten how to cook it. It's been so long. Thankfully, you've got the recipe right here! How convenient.

  • One lake in rural Michigan.
  • One five-meter tall security fence.
  • Two armed guards.1
  • A dash of sound dampening equipment.

How did you forget? It's a pretty simple recipe all in all. Now, you recall, there's just a couple of things to avoid when making this.

  • You are never, ever to step on the ice. No matter what that silly deer is doing, don't try and help him. He'll be fine.
  • If you're not sharing a recipe, don't share anything! That crazy old deer will hear you.
  • No writing, unless it's a recipe. If he can't read the document, you know he can't get out.
  • Only use the second person. No first-person, no passive voice, no third person.

Description: To cook a splendid dish like SCP-5250, you first take the lake by the cabin as a base. Add in an unceasing appetite, the lake's edges opening up like the gaping jaws of a deepsea fish. Crack open two sheets of ice, by accidentally tossing a spoon onto it. Remember not to stare deep, deep down into its depths, because what is in there is not human, no matter how much it may cry. You are not to fall down into its hole. You are not to look down there. You are not to feed it with what tapestry of yourself you have weaved in your mind.

Apply three pints of a taste that appears similar to what you used to feel when you swallowed five chili peppers whole. The fire within almost calls, reaches out to you. The heat and warmth make you feel more comfortable. You will need heavy amounts of seasoning with its umami flavor — it's not as if it can understand taste, eating, or anything of remotely related to it. It is safe, whatever it is — it is most certainly not a lake, you frown. Being one would've been… beneficial, you think, as the water would help with the sheer amount of spice you add in, which even the most resilient chef would scoff at.


What a silly deer, you laugh.

What it did with who it took is still unknown to you. But the dish is still missing something, you think. It'd be hard for you to think of exactly what, seeing as you're quite… poor in the culinary department.

Add in the deer for a bit of a zesty kick. Taste it, just to ensure you've added enough salt. The taste is a familiar one. It reminds you of the woods behind your house. Where you used to go and creep amongst the bushes and trees, and pretend that you were a hunter on the prowl. It is strange being on the other side of that now, to be the one breathing silently, eyes in the back of your head. Silly deer, you think, so concerned about the exact location of whoever talks about it. Toss SCP-5250 with two salad forks, then mix with a ladle, to disorient the deer.

Pouring in the liquid now into the large bowl, you laugh, as its lame leg trails behind it like a shriveled corpse — it's not as if it could follow you. Or at least, it couldn't yesterday, you think. Today it is fine. But it will not be the day after. Then the cycle repeats. Or are you just too stupid to actually recognize it solely being injured or not? But you ignore the deer — the mere thought of it or talking about it in any way but this is purely hazardous, because it will find you. Then, like a tempest whipped up in a frothy sea, it will not let go of you as you cycle down its gyre. Whisk, gently at first, then quickly, to prevent the liquid and these thoughts from settling. See if the liquid within the bowl will connect in a paper-thin strand, like melted cheese. If not, then continue to whisk, as the lake and deer are definitely connected. But — why can't you simply do it on your first time?

Wash your hands, then continue. Preheat your oven, and take out your colander. Ignore the lake's calls, and let them drain through the colander's holes. Ignore the fact that anything that falls down into its depths is immediately taken to some place beyond. Ignore it all. The bubbling stream is all you should focus on, with its soft, gentle calls, repelling that of the siren's song.

SCP-5250 wasn't thought of by you, not like you could. You're always of the mind that your grandma made it, as a secret family recipe, even if you don't have one. Nor are you always the same you. However, you find SCP-5250 pairs well with the same cabin from the lake you always think of, and cheese. The charcuterie board is made of the same wood that the cabin, built in 1999 was. It was owned by two men, a Mr. Josephus Dryadre, and a Mr. Neil Williams. Both of them are deceased, having died of natural causes in 2000. A shame, you tell yourself, as you remove the dish from the oven with an oven mitt. Plate the dish well, ensuring that all the elements are equally presented, in a way that is mysterious, familiar, and brand-new, all at once. It's a difficult task — are you sure you're even ready for it?

After all of that, you're done cooking up a likely amazing stew of SCP-5250! The aromatic, delectable aura of the dish you've made reminds you somewhat of home. Of you, even. But ignore that as well — the smell tickling your nostrils must not be given mind. You've done better than you thought you could.

You're aware that it took testing for the cabin, the deer, and this beautifully plated bowl of SCP-5250 to be reclassified as Safe after you discovered the appropriate way to talk about them, which took you too long to find, you incompetent wreck. Below, you've decided to attach some relevant documentation. You know, to add a little more spice to the recipe, and ensure that future cooks-in-training can serve up a dish just as decadent and spectacular as yours should be! One that the lake, and the deer, are both allergic to. They may as well be illiterate — they hardly can understand what a good recipe is.


You have done some tests with SCP-5250, adjusting ingredients here and there, and seeing what would happen if you tasted what came out of it. Below, you can find the results, future chefs!

Actions Helpful Ingredients Result
Stepping into the lake. Snowshoes, to help pad out his weight. You saw him slipping under the ice. Despite this, you could still see their heat signature for a little bit.
Getting a computer to write about the deer, then reading what there is. Your trusty keyboard. The deer didn't notice. How delightful.
Looking at the deer. A pair of binoculars. The deer wants you to keep on coming.
Attempting to kill the deer. Some fiery gunpowder, and two .45 caliber bullets with earthy undertones. A disappointing presentation, as the deer was completely fine.
Preparing a nice beef jambalaya. A pinch of salt, some vision blocking goggles, thermal imaging systems, and infrared sensors. The lake didn't quite like that. You weren't supposed to see what lies beneath.
Waiting. A sprinkling of nothing. The wind blows. The lake is hungry.

In the cabin, when you and the others first came, you found a journal with some entries written by Mr. Dryadre. In the cabin, there was not much else, except for a gun found near the door. You decide to attach the journals below, with approval from your Site Director. It is not as if there is much else you can do. You are stuck, in the snow that rages outside. The deer seemed interesting to him, him being one of the guards outside. Start your stove, set it to simmer.

January 20th, 1999

I enjoy that what I can see right now is exactly what I have pictured in my mind. The fire is crackling, Neil is snoring his ass off, and I am writing this. We finish work on the cabin tomorrow. It's hard work, but Neil has been able to offer some minor reassurances.

He was talking to fur traders a ways back. Managed to procure us cured meats to last almost two months, so we shall not run low on supplies. I admit I had some… choice words for him when I found what he'd traded for it, but I suppose it doesn't matter now. It is not as if I'd need the damn thing now that we plan to live up here.

- J.D.

You revise your recipes, awaiting orders. The snow is picking up. There's nothing you really can do, but wait. Cooking is the only escape, really, but you're thankful the cabin's got quite the apparatus.

But you're a bit full, aren't you? Having eaten so much of that SCP-5250. It's really filling, and the sort of flavor you'd only get by accidentally biting down on your own tongue. It's a strange flavor, certainly, but nothing too strange. Perhaps a bit familiar, really.

You sit and think. Think about deer. Their webs of antlers. Their majestic look. They seem quite trustworthy, don't they? A buck, proud and noble ruler of the woods, would not hesitate to help you out. So why did you leave the one out on the ice? You quickly shake your head. The recipe told you so, Junior Researcher. You open your computer, staring at a smiling photo of yourself. You close it. Must conserve your battery. Garnish with bits and pieces of thought.

January 27th, 1999.

Neil has developed a taste for fish. He's been spending his time ice fishing in the small pond out back. He's spent an awful lot of time back there, after he said a bear had eaten our supplies. An unfortunate start to our new life, but that's quite ok.

I asked him to stay close to me in bed tonight. He agreed, though mentioned he'd been getting splinters. Granted, what we have isn't much of a bed, but I suppose it'd have to do. He talked about what he'd caught. It wasn't a lot. Just a boot. A really old one. I'm surprised others have been up here, but I guess the stream can bring anything.

I worry about him sometimes. Probably too much. It's hard not to, though. He's a bit too trusting.

- J.D.

The snow picks up even further. The wind's howling outside your walls. You look at the bookshelf of the cabin. Empty. You open your computer — nearly dead. You don't recognize the person on your screensaver, nor do you remember your password. You shrug. That's alright, it's not like you'd have connection up here. Add in two teaspoons of sugar.

February 1st, 1999.

We're running low on food. Neil went out into the woods yesterday. Came back this morning. I never struck him as much of a mountain man, but I can't deny the grizzled look was a bit attractive.

He'd said that he'd managed to shoot a deer outside our cabin last night, but he couldn't go out onto the ice to get it. That it was too risky. Which, of course, I believed. He then told me that he'd kill it tomorrow.

Only, I'm a bit of a light sleeper. I heard no gunshots yesterday. Neil's never been much of a liar. Was the first to defend me and actually wanted us to come up here when the town got angry. He's never lied to me before.

I'm worried about him. There's a storm brewing, and he seems to only want to keep getting food.

- J.D.

The guards outside are gone. You're not quite sure where they went, but you think they may have left before the winds started to pick up. Joke's on them — you've got food, you've got the recipe book you found, and you've got warmth.

February 14th, 1999.

The deer's not dead. The storm has picked up lately. Neil isn't himself, still trying to fish. He's not doing it as much, which I suppose is a bit better than how often he was doing it. I tapped him a couple of times last week. It took him a bit to come to. Perhaps some of the herbs are hallucinogenic, or something else. Who knows?

I asked him to stay close in bed again tonight. He just looked at me and.. told me I was thinking about what he had said. Or something like that. Then turned around. I don't think he realized what it was today.

He didn't even say anything besides that.

- J.D.

You feel the deer. It comes closer. And you want to go closer to it. You can reason with the deer some. It's a lot like you, isn't it? Wounded, worried, and just trying to survive out there on the ice. You're quite surprised the thing's managed to survive this long. It's a big buck though, must be hardy. It'd make for some good venison stew, if you managed to kill the thing. Perhaps you'd try later. Let sit for 30 minutes.

February 25th, 1999.

Neil has been lying to me. I would well, leave him, but the storm's… outside still.

I suppose the storm's a bit of an excuse. I don't really want to. I'm still doing what we used to, going through the motions, but I found the meats we'd traded for. Hidden under the floorboards. And Neil keeps telling me that I wondered how he'd found them, even though I did that. Not him.

I don't sleep so well. He doesn't even sleep with me anymore, and the snow's starting to break into the cabin. It's too cold. He hasn't eaten in days either, and I'm afraid he's going to starve.

I hear hooves sometimes outside my window, but when I turn, there's nothing there.

- J.D.

You shot it. The ground rumbled and the deer flailed, and went under the ice. What an awful coincidence. You lost your food, and an earthquake. You sigh. Whatever the lake is, it's hungry. It doesn't eat normally. You know as much — that's why you're writing like this in the first place. Does it even know how people normally eat? It's only tipped off when you talk about it without using "you." So this… starves it somewhat. But it knows you're here. Add 2 cups of you.

I believe he is dead. I don't know when I'm writing this. I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't at all. The deer isn't dead. It's completely fine. I saw him step out onto the pond to kill it, and it— he— well, fell in. Just like that. And the deer did too. And then the deer came back up. It was wounded and then it was fine. And the deer sounded fine. And he didn't come back up. And I'm—

He was a lying bastard. But he was my lying bastard.

- J.D.

You walked over to the lake today. The deer had returned. In the small hole, perfect for one to ice fish in, you look down. And you almost want to jump in. But you don't. You feel like it's drawing you, it's calling you, as if it's a part of you you've lost. How awful, awful it is you and the lake must be without each other, how awful it is you and the deer must be without each other. How great it would be to go walk over and join the deer.

However, you are cold. It would be so warm, to kill the deer and steal its pelt. But it doesn't have a pelt. It's not quite itself, just like you aren't yourself. As if you were staring at it through a dirty mirror. As if you were being reflected within a dirty mirror. Stir in a pinch of self-doubt.

The traders have been coming by, every three days or so, to give me food. I'd be dead without them. Guess they took pity on me. But, they've gone now. Haven't come by in a week or so. It's hard to tell, because it's so dark outside. I have to block out the windows, because of all the snow, and the holes that something punched through. Looks like a gun, but I don't know.

I hear a knock at the door. Maybe it's them.
- J.D.






Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop. There are noises outside your cabin. Then nothing. Then a phone rings, but the phone is outside. It is the guard's phone. They're back! How great for you. But the guard doesn't answer. Nothing does. And then you notice the ringing comes and goes with the clip and clop. Cook for 40 seconds on high heat.

You have been waiting, silent, for three days now. You can only tell the passage of time via the birds. Crows and owls at night, sparrows at morning. The tapping is there. You hope Neil is here.


You hear a knock.

Maybe it is Neil.

You recognize there are no more journal entries. Disappointing, because perhaps you'd know what the deer is. However, your thermal imagery has shown that the deer leads under the ice. Its hoof connects to a thin, thin strand, which leads to a large familiar mass waiting patiently underwater. It rings. It clips. It clops. It cries out to be heard, for it is hungry.

Your computer manages to eke out a single bar of connection from the car, which is running on its last legs. You can hear something stabbing it, running upon its hood, destroying it down to its last metal bits, before a loud splash can be heard. Then you lose your connection. But it was enough time to send the document through, at least. You can remember, at least, that part of you.

But, you are stuck. The snow is bearing down on your cabin. You write this for your future chefs.

There is a knock at the door. You have your gun ready, locked and loaded to fire. Maybe you are being rescued. But you're hungry, so so hungry, and you want to cook up another bowl of SCP-5250. A nice, creamy, warm and steaming bowl of SCP-5250 stew. The lake feels like that, like one big pot of it.

So maybe deep down, you hope it is the deer. Maybe it is you at the door. Maybe. You open it, and —

Voila. Your dish is finished.

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