SCP-7788
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Doorway leading into SCP-7788.

ITEM #:

SCP-7788

OBJECT CLASS:

THAUMIEL

Special Containment Procedures: Following a proposal made by SCP-7788's lead researcher, Dene Walterson, it is now being used as a break room. The door leading into SCP-7788 has been installed with a keycard reader and is accessible to all personnel present at Site-188 with Level 1 or higher clearance. Its object class has been revised to Thaumiel for this reason.

Description: SCP-7788 is a Type-B2 pocket dimension in the East Wing of Level 2 (subterranean) at Site-188, accessible through the entrance to what was initially a storage closet holding standard janitorial supplies. The anomaly spontaneously emerged on August 12, 1998, under unknown circumstances; investigation into what caused its appearance is of low priority. Currently, it is believed that SCP-7788's manifestation owes to the high concentration of various anomalous spatial phenomena on-site.

SCP-7788 is a non-Euclidean space, presumably limitless in size, with the interior resembling a vast wheat field. From within the dimension, it appears that its egress is the same door that was used to enter, fitted onto a doorframe. There are no abnormal features within this environment, and time also moves similarly and conforms to baseline reality.

The vast majority of meteorological activity within SCP-7788 is composed of clear, sunny skies. However, it is not uncommon to encounter overcast, windy, and, in rare instances, rainy weather.

If an individual travels a sufficient distance away from the exit to get lost and be unable to find their way back, they will begin to acquire an extremely accurate and innate sense of direction allowing them to return to the doorway and depart should they wish to do so.

Addendum: Attached below is a transcript of events which were recorded by a camera planted inside SCP-7788, near its entrance. It shows the first instance of the anomaly being utilised for recreational purposes, which was carried out by Junior Researcher Dene Walterson, who is solely responsible for research efforts into SCP-7788.

< BEGIN LOG >

[The doorway at the edge of the feed opens and Walterson steps into SCP-7788.]

[He closes the door and drags a white folding lawn chair behind him, walking a dozen paces into the field before finally coming to a stop in the middle of a small clearing.]

[He places it down and sets it up.]

[Walterson remains standing for little under a minute, watching the moist dirt and trampled wheat stems below, before eventually pulling out a digital voice recorder from inside his lab coat's pocket.]

[He takes a seat on the chair and leans backwards, slouching in the process.]

[He takes the voice recorder in both hands and presses several buttons on it before letting his arms drop towards the ground while he still held the device in his right hand.]

[Walterson's head falls backwards and he begins watching the cloudless blue sky above absentmindedly.]

[He presses a single button on the device.]

[It begins playing.]

Good morning, this is Dene Walterson, a junior researcher at One-Eight-Eight!

I've just been assigned to lead a research project, today, on the thirteenth, of August. I'll be… by myself, and I'll be looking into the manifestation of Seven-Seven-Eight-Eight. Everything's low-budget too, so I'll have to make do with what I've gone and cut corners I suppose.

[Chuckles.]

The thing's just a wheat field from what the documentation says but it could really get me some recognition you know, for figuring something out. I could even get myself a raise or another step closer to a promotion if I'm lucky.

Haven't gone in to check it out… yet. I'll have to go in there eventually but you never know, it's something new and I don't really want to take my chances.

[Bleep.]

[A few seconds pass before the next recording begins playing.]

It's the nineteenth, of August, and this is my very first update on the Seven-Seven-Eight-Eight research project!

Well, anyways, uh, I started with the obvious, the janitor himself. The one that used this closet the most and went missing when Seven-Seven-Eight-Eight appeared.

Name's Gabriel Cole, thirty-one, no parents, good at his job, uh, got recruited about five years ago. Apparently, he's got a relative, a top dog at Oh-Six, who likely got the job here at One-Eight-Eight for ol' Gabriel. Their personnel file's locked under Level Four clearance though, so I won't be getting anything else about 'em, for now.

The janitor was last seen, wouldn't you know it, going into the closet. Haven't found the man anywhere after that so, for now, he's the biggest suspect that could be linked to Seven-Seven-Eight-Eight's creation as I said earlier. And, yeah, some other janitor went in to find the field a few hours later.

I've started looking into the guy's family, excluding the relative of course. A, uh, distant cousin of his has some mild ontokinetic capabilities, they're a low-grade reality bender. It's possible Gabriel's also got some latent abilities that he's not aware of. Maybe did something to the closet without realising it.

Though… that explanation has its own problems. You'd need to be a top-class reality bender to just create an isolated dimension of this size within an enclosed location, not to mention how long it's lasted without breaking down. Those don't just pop out of nowhere. We would have noticed if it did.

And there's also a small little detail I was able to find after a lot of digging. Gabriel's father used to own a wheat field out in the country when he was young. It was terribly long ago, but I'll still go check it out in a few days. Might have something to do with Seven-Seven-Eight-Eight.

Oh, yeah, I guess I should also mention I went inside. Sent a D-Class to walk around the door on the other side and see if there were any traps of some sort. Came up with nothing. Sent him out a distance away from the door too, figured out there was some mental compass deal to this thing, helps you find your way back to the exit if you get lost.

That's it for this update.

[Bleep.]

[Pause.]

Twenty-fifth, August.

The wheat field's gone. There's a parking lot there now.

Frederick Cole, Gabriel's father, left no paperwork, no records, no nothing at all about his little field. Nothing but some old photograph I found. Sent it to the RAISA office here to be restored and digitized.

I'll say the picture's pretty similar to Seven-Seven-Eight-Eight. But hey, every wheat field looks the same to me.

I suppose this is a dead end now, I'll have to go looking for something else, some other lead…

[Pause.]

The cameras.

[Bleep.]


[Pause.]

Twenty-ninth of August, fourth log.

I've pored over every little piece of CCTV footage that's got Cole in it. From his job interview, to him cleaning containment cells and mopping every last surface of this floor, looking for anything at all that might catch my eye. God, I could sleep for a day if I just conked out right now.

Even with all the hours of footage I went through, I only really found one little detail worth mentioning.

On the twelfth of February, nineteen-ninety-five, he walked into the East Wing's D-Class holding section per his standard routine. Nothing out of the ordinary, until one of 'em tried talking to him from their cell. He responded, and it just turned into a conversation from there. He kept on cleaning, but they kept on talking. There didn't seem to be any insults thrown around, just a normal conversation, as good as any other.

They talked every day for the next three years.

Might not have something to do with the anomaly. Maybe I'm just mentioning it cause there wasn't anything else of interest in all that footage.

[Pause.]

But it's somewhere to start, right?

[Bleep.]

[The chair creaks.]

[Walterson sighs.]

[He closes his eyes.]

Thirtieth, August. Fifth update…

[Pause.]

You know, at any other Site, hoping that a D-class would be alive for, what, three years, would be a goddam joke. But this isn't a big facility, we've only got a little over a dozen of 'em, and we don't just send 'em to the meat grinder for no reason.

The D-Class… they—she, she's Laurene Bello, thirty-three, ID's, um, fifty-nine-seventy-eight.

[Pause.]

She died yesterday.

Sudden cardiac arrest.

It wasn't some… anomaly. Not anything horrific. Just a… silent death, a quiet one… in bed.

[Pause.]

Tried asking the guard stationed at the holding cells if he knew anything about her.

Said he never really cared enough to talk to 'em.

[Pause.]

The universe really is playing with me here.

And the universe won.

[There is a minute of silence.]

[Bleep.]

[Walterson remains motionless.]

[A breeze rolls through the field, hitting Walterson. His hair brushes over his face and the wheat spikes shake and rustle.]

[The wind blows past. The rustling stops.]

[Several minutes pass.]

[Walterson opens his eyes. He adjusts his posture and sits up straight on the chair, pushing his hair back, away from his face.]

[He takes the recording device in both hands again and he watches it intently for a short period of time.]

[He presses a button. A red blinking light is seen.]

[Walterson takes a deep breath. His mouth is ajar, ready to speak.]

[He exhales, softly, and purses his lips. His grip on the device loosens.]

[Walterson looks up and gazes towards the horizon. He gets up and slowly rests the recorder on the seat of the chair. He puts both hands inside his pockets and slowly trudges forward, pushing aside the stems of wheat around him and treading over their bases.]

[He stops.]

[Searching through his back pocket he produces a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He pulls one out and places it in his mouth, holding on to it with his lips while he placed the pack back inside his pocket. He takes the lighter and ignites the cigarette. Walterson throws the lighter into his coat pocket and takes a huff. He exhales.]

[The wind picks up again. The wheat moves once more and shines golden under the sun. Ash breaks off and the smoke drifts away, following the direction of the wind. Walterson resumes walking.]

[Walterson is too far away for his actions to be seen clearly. He climbs a small hill, slowed down by the incline.]

[He reaches the top and continues walking down the slope, past the horizon.]

[Walterson can no longer be seen.]

[The recording device continues blinking.]

[Another gust of wind sweeps by.]

< END LOG >



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