Hello, everyone, Dr. Bob here. I know you’re not used to seeing me here
at the start of videos, but that’s because today, we have an extremely pressing matter
to attend to. One that cuts to the deepest core of one of
the SCP Foundation’s deadliest contained anomalies: SCP-096, the Shy Guy. It’s a creature that needs no introduction,
because it probably haunts all of your nightmares already. Close your eyes and picture it in your mind’s
eye: That gaunt face with the slack jaw and the lifeless white eyes. The face you hope never to see as long as
you live. The pale skin, pulled tight against bone. Those impossibly long, gangly limbs. It sits there in its airtight containment
cube, covering its face and quietly sobbing, always sobbing, as though cursing something
beyond even its own understanding. Perhaps, when thinking about SCP-096, you
feel a pang of sympathy mixed with the terror. After all, this anomaly is no sadist. Why would a sadist cry as it kills, like SCP-096
does? You’re not alone in asking this question. I’ve spent many a night poring over classified
files with an ever-freshening pot of coffee, trying to piece together the answers. SCP-096 is considered one of the most dangerous
Euclid-class creatures in containment, and yet, so little about it is known beyond its
capability to do great harm whenever someone is unlucky enough to see its face and send
it into its rage state. How did this happen? It’s a question for the curious, like you
or me, and after months of strenuous research, I believe I may have an answer. Whether you choose to believe it is up to
you. Just be warned, when you hear what I believe
to be the heartbreaking, tragic origin of this terrifying and pitiful monster, you may
never be able to look at him the same way again. Not that “looking” at him should ever
be high on your list of priorities... It begins in a tavern in a small Nepalese
village, a few miles away from the Chinese border, where Mount Everest - The world’s
tallest mountain above sea level - waits. Its mere existence is like a challenge to
the brave and foolhardy. “Conquer me,” it seems to whisper. “Conquer me, and declare yourself above
all those I have conquered. Become a God among men.” It’s always whispering like this, but few,
in the grand scheme of things, can actually hear it. And sadly for him, the Explorer is among those
few. He’s sitting in one of the tavern’s many
cozy nooks, picking away at a plate of mutton curry while sipping from a brass bowl of white
Chyang, a popular local drink. The Explorer, living up to his name, has come
a long way to get here. The rest of the village locals in the tavern
eye him with a variety of knowing glances. They’ve seen so many like him before - Smug
smiles and puffed chests, thinking they’ll be able to count themselves among the exalted
few who’ve conquered the mountain to end all mountains. The bodies of many men like this are still
frozen to the mountain’s surface. One brave local - an older man who can speak
English fluently - slides in across the table from the Explorer. The old timer tells him that whatever he thinks
he’ll find up on the mountain - honor, glory, recognition - he’d be better off searching
for it elsewhere. Death awaits on the icy rocks above. The Explorer, young, fit, and still feeling
mighty smug, replies that death is there for the people who haven’t worked hard enough. Who haven’t prepared. He’s scaled other mountains before, all
across the globe, from Scotland to Peru. Everest would hold no surprises for him, just
a new, compelling challenge. The old man is, as you could probably imagine,
unamused by the Explorer’s hubris. “All confidence and bluster now,” he says
with his thin, raspy voice. “But what will you say when you’re face
to face with the King?” The Explorer, assuming that this “king”
refers to the mountain itself, smiles and replies, “I’ll ask him for his crown.” With that, the old man leaves, content that
he at least tried to dissuade the Explorer from going on this doomed journey. If nothing else, his conscience would be clear
now. He had done all that he possibly could. The Explorer, not bothered by the grim prophecies
of superstitious locals, finishes his curry and Chyang and retires to the room he rented
upstairs. He’s so excited, tomorrow, it will finally
be time, all his months of training will pay off. He will climb to Mount Everest’s peak. It would be an achievement to last a whole
lifetime - one he would never, ever forget. No matter how much he wants to... The next day, the tip of his ice axe cleaves
into the mountainside as he grunts, strains, and pulls himself up another few feet. He’s about 2000 meters up, and every additional
meter is fighting him. It’s the bitterest cold he’s ever known
- A freeze so deep it makes his incredibly expensive thermal-locking clothes feel like
he’s wearing wet, one-ply toilet paper. But the pain doesn’t matter. The cold doesn’t matter. He finds it exhilarating. Of course, just as the old man had warned,
death could be waiting for him on this mountain. But the truth is, the Explorer has never felt
more alive. He winches himself up a few feet more, trying
to regulate his breathing as his icy fingers, wrapped in thick gloves, struggle to find
purchase on what feels like a sheer cliff face. There are many times when he’s supporting
his full body weight with only his hands. It often takes the kind of Herculean strength
that only a lifetime of training can give you. After all, there’s no room for error on
Mount Everest. One wrong move and you’re either plummeting
to your death, or becoming a permanent frozen fixture of the mountainside. And because Everest is so dangerous, nobody
comes to collect the bodies of dead mountaineering hopefuls. Their corpses, coated in often colorful winter
jackets, litter the mountain. Some look at them as a tragic warning. Other, more morbid mountaineers use them as
mile markers for their own more successful ascents. Whether the Explorer would be lucky, or become
just another dead, frozen mile marker, is still entirely up to chance. He climbs for a few more hours, pushing past
his body’s complaints, his physical limitations, until he reaches a well-earned plateau. Here, he establishes a small base camp and
eats some of his rations. The area is thankfully guarded enough to keep
out the worst of the sub-zero winds, so he can at least get some sleep without freezing
to death. Mount Everest cannot be conquered today, and
even someone with the Explorer’s bravado wouldn’t dare to try. But as he settles down to sleep for the night,
he can’t help but look up, and the enormity of what stands before him, he finds utterly
terrifying. The mountain just keeps going, and going,
and going, stretching up into the misty heavens, like the tip would only be a short jump from
the moon. For the first time, the Explorer begins to
genuinely wonder: Will I scale this mountain, or will I die on it? What he never even considers is that there
may be a third option that’s so, so much worse. Over the next few days, he keeps climbing
further and further. Hundreds, then thousands of meters, pass under
him as he breaks past even the boundaries biology seemed to set for him. He’s impossible to deter. An engine of pure, burning willpower, going
because he knows he cannot stop. Because he knows that if he throws in the
towel now, it will have all been for nothing. He’ll be just another failure, one spec
among billions. He’ll have no meaning, no legacy. He’ll just be another average Joe, forgotten. And that honestly scares him even more than
the prospect of freezing to death up here. Eventually, even though it costs him almost
everything to do it, he reaches 8000 meters - an area known as the “Death Zone”, where
it’s believed to be impossible for humans to acclimate. This is the thin, rarefied air that few have
been permitted to breathe, and he’s seen so many brightly-colored “mile markers”
on the way to here. The ground is slippery and the air chews into
the Explorer’s skin, but he knows he’s made it this far. Less than a thousand meters from the peak
now. He has almost conquered the mountain. So you can only imagine how surprised he feels
when he sees another mountaineer walking down the side of the mountain towards him with
an eerie kind of casualness. He’s wearing standard mountain climbing
gear, including white thermal pants and a hooded coat, zipped up to the chin. The Explorer can’t make out the stranger’s
face, beyond the pair of thick, black goggles he’s wearing over his eyes. What the hell is going on here? The second the stranger’s eyes fall upon
him, he feels a frightening sensation. The bite of the cold is gone. The chilling winds can’t reach him. Instead, he feels warm, cozy, and content,
like he’s sitting in front of a warm fire in a well-insulated log cabin. In any other circumstance, these sensations
might be welcomed, but a seasoned mountaineer knows that this is actually one of the worst
things you can feel. It means that death is creeping in, and your
body is opening the front door and welcoming it. And if this stranger is causing that feeling,
then one thing is certain: He’s bad news. The Explorer wants to turn and run, but he
finds that he can’t. It’s almost as though he’s frozen in place,
entranced by the warm, inviting feeling that the other mountaineer seems to exude as he
gets closer and closer. That’s when the Explorer notices something
strange about him: Something is glowing through his goggles, like hot embers, burning a bright,
luminous orange. Are those eyes? Dear god, are those his eyes? The Explorer can feel their terrible stare,
literally feel it. It hurts to be looked at by this monster. Yes, that’s what it is. A monster. A monster in the shape of a man. “Why are you here, mortal?” comes a booming voice from the inhuman mountaineer. “Do you wish to challenge me?” The Explorer can’t form words. He’s quaking, his body acknowledging the
cold that his mind can’t as those two glowing eyes bore into him. “Speak,” the stranger commanded. “Who... What... Are you?” The Explorer forced out between chattering
teeth. The stranger laughed. “I am the King of the Mountain.” Though to the SCP Foundation, he’s better
known as SCP-1529. And he’s the worst possible thing you can
run into while trying to scale Mount Everest. The Explorer remembers his conversation with
the old man in the tavern. The question he asked. “What will you say when you’re face to
face with the King?” And his own foolish answer, “I’ll ask
him for his crown.” Now, really, truly face to face with the King
of the Mountain, all the poor, terrified Explorer can do is whimper and beg for mercy. “Please...” he says, the tears freezing
on his cheeks as they fall. “I just wanted to climb...” The King of the Mountain gives another booming
laugh, his eyes burning. “Then you will climb,” he says. “And climb... and climb... and climb...” The King of the Mountain must have wielded
truly unspeakable power to do what he does next. With a simple nod, the Explorer is suddenly
hanging off of the mountainside, his fingers digging into the craggy rocks, the only thing
supporting his weight. It was like being back at square one all over
again, except with added pain, terror, and cold so deep he can feel his bones rattling. And all the while, he feels those eyes upon
him. Those burning, fiery eyes, staring with absolute
malice. He keeps climbing. Every time he reaches a plateau, a place where
he might camp and find even momentary comfort, the King of the Mountain is already waiting
there, staring that horrible stare. And just like that, the Explorer was climbing
again, wind whipping against him like forty lashes from a Cat O’ Nine Tails. That, coupled with the endless strain of the
climb on his muscles, is the worst agony he’s ever felt. And yet... He never dies. Even though he hasn’t eaten in days, months,
weeks, years, he never, ever dies, he just fulfils the same torturous loop, over and
over again. It’s like the King of the Mountain is just
keeping him alive for his own amusement. A toy that’s impossible to break. But while the Explorer never breaks, as time
goes on and the torments never cease, he does begin to change, like rock being molded by
the tide. First, from the endless stress, his hair falls
out. His skin goes pale from the lack of sun. His body becomes thin and wiry from starvation
and malnourishment. The endless physical strain even warps his
limbs - his arms and legs begin to stretch, his body becoming elongated and grotesque. All the way through this horrific, dehumanizing
ordeal, the King of the Mountain stares at him. One day, the Explorer, now changed, reaches
a plateau, and as can be expected, the King of the Mountain stares at him with his burning
eyes. The Explorer cowers and covers his face with
his hands, sobbing from exhaustion. He just wants the King of the Mountain to
look away, to leave him be. He babbles incoherently. He doesn’t want to be seen anymore. His pain simply makes the King of the Mountain
laugh. “I gave you your wish,” the Mountain King
says, his voice oozing with contempt. “You climbed, didn’t you? You thought that your climbing would elevate
you. Make you more than human. But now... you’re so much less. Our business concludes here. I am tired of playing with you.” And with that, the King is gone. The Explorer is alone, stranded among the
snow and the whipping winds of the death zone, but very much alive. He’s finally able to go. At long last, after what felt like an eternity,
he’s escaped. When the Explorer arrives in the village again,
he is not the Explorer at all. It’s been years since he went missing on
the mountain - The old man who had warned him not to go up onto Mount Everest had passed
peacefully in the interim. The other members of his small village would
not be afforded the same luxury. Instead, the Explorer stumbled back through
the village limits, still covering his face. The only sounds he can hear are the wailing
wind, and his own pitiful sobbing. Everything hurts. He’s so terribly afraid. He needs somebody to to help him. Why will nobody help him? The sun begins to rise and the village shakes
itself awake. People leave their homes to go about their
daily tasks. None of them are expecting to see a monster
loping through their streets, a pale, gangling monstrosity, stretched and hairless. It engenders a mix of fear and curiosity,
as it stumbles around, audibly sobbing with a loud, warped voice. It’s like nothing any of them have ever
seen before. Like something out of a myth or a folktale. But for the monster that was once the Explorer,
it’s so much worse. At first, he thinks the villagers might be
there to help him. But then... He sees their eyes. That same intense, burning, fire-pit orange
as the King of the Mountain. That same horrible gaze that the Explorer
thought he’d escaped when he left the mountain, the gaze that meant pain, torment, and madness. Even when he tries to cover his face, when
he wails at them to go away in words that make sense to no one but him, he can still
feel those terrible eyes on him. Is he still on the mountain? Is he still at the mercy of the Mountain King? Are these all just illusions, or projections? Another awful trick? What did he ever do to deserve this kind of
torment? Was the crime of wanting to climb a damn mountain
worth this kind of everlasting suffering? Did it earn him the gaze of all these monstrous
eyes? The Explorer begins to feel his anguish being
replaced by another feeling: Rapidly-rising rage. The kind of pure, blistering hatred that inexorably
leads to one result: Violence. First, he screams. Then, they scream. And finally, the killing begins. The creature that had once been the Explorer
leaves no stone unturned. Even when they try to run away, he still feels
their eyes on him. He needs to kill them all. To annihilate them quickly. Leave no trace. It’s the only way he can feel anything close
to at peace again. It becomes a kind of terrible chain reaction. The sound of the horrors going on in the street
only entices more to come outside and see what’s going on, to look at the creature
causing all this carnage, to see its face. They have no idea that this very action is
dooming them. And within the hour, the village is empty,
save for one creature - The creature that had once been the Explorer, now just afraid,
confused, and alone. He will always be alone. The anomaly that will soon be known as SCP-096
simply bows its head... And weeps. If you want to support our important mission
here at Dr. Bob, check out the Dr. Bob Patreon and become a junior researcher today! Now go and watch another entry from the files
of Dr. Bob, like SCP-3063 - A Fly Is Your New Telepathic Therapist, for another anomalous
tragedy that will tug at your heartstrings. And make sure you subscribe and turn on notifications,
so you don’t miss a single anomaly, as we delve further and further into the SCP Foundation’s
classified archives.
