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- Overheard in a Diner in Lemont
Shitty drafts at turtle speed.
["[collapsible show="+ Text" hide="- Hide Text"]]
Interviewed: [The person, persons, or SCP being interviewed]
Interviewer: [Interviewer, can be blocked out using █]
Foreword: [Small passage stating why the interview is taking place, and regarding what]
<Begin Log, [optional time info]>
[Repeat as necessary]
<End Log, [optional time info]>
Closing Statement: [Small passage on what transpired afterward, or what happened to the person being interviewed]
And this handy little bugger: ███████████████
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Safe/Euclid/Keter (indicate which class)
Special Containment Procedures: [Paragraphs explaining the procedures]
Description: [Paragraphs explaining the description]
Addendum: [Optional additional paragraphs]"
(It’s been several years, but this story has stuck with me. I’ve reproduced it as faithfully as I could, with the exception of changing it from ‘bar conversation in a dingy county route diner’ to a conventional narrative.)
My older brother heard voices.
We weren’t a wealthy family, so my folks didn’t get him into some shrink in the city, or pump him full of pills. It was pretty much “shut up and act normal”.
Eddie was a full eight years older than me, so we didn’t have much to do with each other. He was a pretty lonely kid, and didn’t talk much. So I really didn’t know what was happening, until I was a lot older, and he was already long gone.
The only time he acted like a fucking loon around me was when I was about eight. Right after some massive screaming match with my mother, probably, about his voices, he asked me if I wanted to take a walk with him.
I mean, I thought we were going down to get ice cream. We were living down in Romeoville at the time, and I’m sure you know that Dairy Queen down on the main drag. I used to walk there occasionally to get something when our family had enough money to give me a few dollars.
Instead, Eddie takes me to this cemetery a few blocks from the house. He leads me all silentlike just right into the middle of all the markers, and stands there for a moment. Now, I knew even back then that Ed was a weird dude, so this wasn’t shocking or unexpected, but still, it was after dark, and I was eight, standing in graveyard.
Then, Eddie peered at a grave marker for a bit, took a deep breath, turned around, and stared at me.
“You can hear them, can’t you?”
I couldn’t hear anything, and that question scared the piss out of me. I shook my head and told him I wanted to go home.
He didn’t say anything, but it was obvious I’d disappointed him somehow.
We walked back in silence, which didn’t help make the situation any less creepy. When we got back to the house, he went up to his room without another word, and we never spoke of it again.
Now, things get messed up two years later. This was back in ninety-six, and a girl from Romeoville High School went missing, what was her name…. Meredith Parker, right? Yeah, that was it.
Anyway, this Parker girl disappears without a trace, and town apparently flips itself over looking for her. I was only like ten or eleven, so I don’t really remember much, until Eddie got himself involved.
Early fall sometime, Meredith had been missing for about three or four months. Eddie apparently calls the cops, and leads them down to some marshy spot off the I&M Canal, little bit past the Citgo refinery. Can’t tell you exactly where it is, as they never told me.
But, the cop and Eddie find an arm washed up in the reeds along the shore of the canal. Two
guesses who it belonged to.
And, well, that was all that was ever found of Meredith Parker.
Now, Eddie had no reason to be there, ever. He had no reason to be walking there, no reason to have pulled over and gotten out of his car over there, no reason to just be wandering by. Pretty much no one had any reason to be in that area- apparently you couldn’t see the arm
from the street.
So when the cop asks Eddie what he was doing there, how’d he find this arm, Eddie says his voices led him there, told him that’s where Meredith was. If there was a wrong answer short of “I killed her”, that was it.
Eddie was a loner, didn’t fit in at school, and he found the body under suspicious circumstances. Although the cops didn’t find any evidence to actually charge him with, god knows they tried, the town rumor mill pretty much decided he was guilty. He couldn’t handle it, and left town without saying anything a month or two later.
That would be the last time I’d ever see Eddie.
My life went on, though, and shit stayed more or less the same for seven years, until one day state police come knocking at my door, asking about Eddie. Apparently, they’d found him OD’d on heroin in some fleabag motel outside of Wellborn, Florida, of all places.
The previous night forty police departments all across the country had gotten calls from someone telling them voices had revealed the location of a local missing person. The next morning, forty bodies were recovered, and the phone calls traced back to Room 134 at the Americana Motel in Wellborn. A local patrolman busted in the room door that afternoon, found my brother’s corpse splayed across the bed, and the phone hanging off the hook, the number for the non-emergency line of the Chickasha, Oklahoma police department still dialed in, the call unmade.
I haven’t had the heart to look up who it was, but somewhere, deep down, I know that they're never going to find the forty-first body now.