Noting that on 28 Apr 2025, fivepm (account age 2935 days, site membership 36 days) coldposted the following page, which has multiple indicators of AI-generation: https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-8542 (note that even after 12 revisions, a rating module was never added. Another site member added the rating module after 16 days of no activity from the author)
Furthermore, per report, "initial coldpost revision doesn't have the log at the end […] appears to have been added entirely in revision 1".
[[include :scp-wiki:component:anomaly-class-bar-source
|item-number= 8542
|clearance= #3
|container-class= esoteric
|secondary-class= uncontained
|secondary-icon= https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/component:anomaly-class-bar/uncontained-icon.svg
|disruption-class= ekhi
|risk-class= notice
]]
**Special Containment Procedures:** Due to the unpredictable and global manifestation of SCP-8542, total containment remains unfeasible. Foundation assets embedded within pediatric healthcare systems worldwide are tasked with monitoring for potential SCP-8542 incidents, typically flagged through sudden, unexplained neurological failure in children aged three to six.
[[include component:image-block name=https://files.catbox.moe/qvrvxn.png|caption={{Dynamic pharmacophores (dynophores) of protein-ligand interactions between SCP-8542-A and KOR (probability density point cloud representation). TM denotes to transmembrane helices.}}]]
Cover stories involving rare and aggressive neurodegenerative disorders are to be disseminated to medical institutions and media outlets to obfuscate the anomalous nature of these cases. Post-mortem examinations are to be conducted under Foundation supervision, with all biological samples secured for ongoing biochemical analysis. Families of affected individuals are to be administered Class-F amnestics where necessary. Mobile Task Force Beta-12 ("Child’s Watch") remains on permanent standby for rapid response, recovery of remains, and suppression of civilian awareness.
**Description:** SCP-8542 refers to a spontaneous and fatal neurological phenomenon exclusively affecting human children between the ages of three and six. Since its recognition by the Foundation in 1980, over 76,000 cases have been confirmed across North America, Europe, South America, and Asia. The onset of SCP-8542 occurs without warning and is not linked to any identifiable environmental, genetic, or behavioral factors. Affected children, often during periods of rest, silence, or low cognitive engagement—such as bedtime, "quiet time," or solitary inactivity—experience a rapid and catastrophic alteration of their neurological structures and endogenous chemical processes.
Biochemical analysis of SCP-8542 cases consistently reveals extreme abnormalities. Among the most prominent markers are elevated levels of serotonin metabolites far exceeding pediatric norms, alongside cortical activity patterns that suggest a hyper-synchronous state inconsistent with any known neurological condition. These patterns mirror the cortical excitation observed during intense hallucinogenic experiences, but on a scale that is both uncontrolled and unsustainable for human physiology.
Further investigation has revealed that neural tissue from SCP-8542 victims contains distinct biochemical signatures resembling exposure to potent psychoactive compounds. Specifically, lipid-soluble diterpenoid fragments—structurally similar to Salvinorin A (referred to as SCP-8542-A)—are frequently detected, with binding affinity profiles indicating transient interaction with κ-opioid receptors. These markers are often found in higher concentrations than those associated with serotonin receptor activity, suggesting a dual-action neurochemical event analogous to simultaneous exposure to both Lysergic Acid Diethylamide (LSD) and Salvinorin A. However, no external source of these compounds or their analogs has ever been identified, leading to the conclusion that SCP-8542 induces an endogenous synthesis or anomalous manifestation of these substances within the child's body.
The resulting neurochemical storm overwhelms the central nervous system, leading to rapid onset of seizures, coma, and ultimately death due to massive systemic failure or cerebral hemorrhage. In rare cases where medical intervention was immediate, subjects remained in a persistent vegetative state with no recovery observed. EEG readings from these cases show continuous, erratic cortical firing, resembling a brain trapped in a state of perpetual psychedelic and dissociative overload.
It remains unknown why SCP-8542 strictly confines its manifestations to children within the 3-6 age range. Extensive testing on older and younger subjects has yielded no instances of SCP-8542 activation. Current hypotheses suggest a link to developmental neurochemistry unique to this early childhood window, though no conclusive mechanism has been identified.
Foundation neurologists have noted a recurring correlation between SCP-8542 onset and periods characterized by reduced activity in the brain's default mode network (DMN). While diminished DMN activity is typical during meditative states, early sleep phases, or passive rest, it is unclear whether this neurological state acts as a trigger for SCP-8542, or merely coincides with its preferred conditions for manifestation. Efforts to artificially manipulate DMN activity in controlled environments have failed to induce SCP-8542, further complicating causation theories.
No pattern in geography, genetics, diet, socio-economic status, or environmental exposure has been established, reinforcing the classification of SCP-8542 as a spontaneous and non-transmissible phenomenon. Despite extensive research, no preventative measures, predictive markers, or therapeutic interventions have proven effective. The phenomenon's inherent unpredictability, lethality, and the sensitive nature of its victims continue to present significant challenges to containment and understanding.
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++ [[span class="blink"]]**You have: One (1) new e-mail!**[[/span]]
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**To:** reiss.d@scip.net
**From:** uw8r8t1fjnpu5426v58@grr.la
**Subject:** RE: SCP-8542
**Date:** 23/09/2003
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Reiss,
You know who this is. I'm taking a risk by sending this, even with this email. But I need to. I know protocol says I should just submit the formal incident report through Command, clean and sterile like they prefer it. You'll get that version too, with all the boxes ticked and the right euphemisms in place. But after what I saw out here, I need to send this to you directly. Not as an agent ticking off another assignment, but as someone who's been chasing these cases for over a decade now. But right about now, where I'm at, where I've been… I don’t know. Something has to change. Or maybe I’ve just cracked.
Let me start from the top.
We got the call on the 17th, just past midnight. Local hospital flagged a pediatric fatality with "irregular neurochemical behaviors"—phrasing that gets routed straight to Beta-12. Small town in Montana, population so low you could probably fit everyone in it onto a single subway car if they had one. Everyone knows everyone, and nothing stays secret for long. We were wheels up by 0400. By noon, I was standing in front of the ███████ family home, trying to piece together how a quiet, ordinary evening turned into yet another black mark in the SCP-8542 ledger.
You’ve read the profiles before, I’m sure. Standard family. Two parents, one kid—Evan ███████, age five. No prior medical conditions. No history of neurological issues. No medications. Diet clean enough to make a nutritionist weep. Dad works at the mill, mom teaches part-time at the local elementary school. They even had a golden retriever, for Christ’s sake. If you looked up "average American family" in a dictionary, you’d get a picture of their porch.
But when I arrived, the picture-perfect image was already rotting at the edges. The mother was on the couch, clutching a cup of coffee she wasn’t drinking—just holding it like it was the last solid thing in a world that had liquefied around her. Her eyes were open, but I don’t think she was seeing anything in front of her. The father was out back, chain-smoking like he was trying to fill his lungs with anything but the memory of what he'd found upstairs. I caught a glimpse of him through the kitchen window, trembling as he spoke to the sheriff—a man just as out of his depth but doing his best to play the part of someone who could keep the universe from collapsing.
The town's Sheriff Collins was the one who briefed me first. He didn’t ask for credentials; I guess when two men in black suits show up with federal tags and a MedEvac chopper in tow, you stop asking questions. He told me they’d found Evan around 9:30 PM the night before. Mom had gone to check on him after he didn’t come down for his bedtime story.
You know how this goes, Reiss. But I still asked to see the room.
Top of the stairs, second door on the left. You could tell they’d decorated it with love—walls painted sky blue, little star stickers on the ceiling, shelves lined with dinosaurs and picture books. It smelled faintly of crayons and laundry detergent.
And then there was the bed.
He was already gone when they found him—thankfully, they’d moved the body to the hospital by the time I arrived. But the imprint of him was still there, in ways you don’t forget. The sheets twisted like he’d seized up mid-dream, a damp patch where the bodily functions gave out in the end. But what really got me was the look on Sheriff Collins’ face when he pointed out the pillow.
Blood. Not much, just a faint, ominous bloom where his head had rested. A cerebral hemorrhage, no doubt—standard for late-stage SCP-8542 cases when the brain finally gives out under the chemical onslaught. But you could tell Collins wasn’t thinking about medical causes. He was thinking about how a healthy five-year-old could go to bed and wind up like that without a sound.
I collected the usual samples. Fibers, fluids, whatever might help the lab boys feel useful even though we both know the results would be the same as the last hundred cases. Elevated serotonin metabolites, diterpenoid fragments, cortical hyperactivity markers. Like clockwork.
Things got under my skin from here.
I sat down with the parents afterward. I had to—part of the job is making sure no details slip through the cracks before we roll in with the amnestics. The mother hadn’t said a word since I walked in, but when I asked her to describe the evening, she finally spoke. Her voice was raw, like every word scraped its way out of her throat.
She said it was just a normal night. Evan had been playing with his toys after dinner, quiet but content. Around eight, he’d yawned and told her he was tired—wanted to go to bed early. She kissed him goodnight, tucked him in, and left the door ajar like always. No complaints, no fever, no headache. Just… tired.
I asked if he’d said anything unusual. She shook her head.
I spoke to the father next. He was jittery, fingers stained yellow from too many cigarettes in too few hours. He didn’t have much to add—same story. Normal day. Normal night.
"We always worried about the wrong things," he muttered, staring at the ground. "You spend years telling yourself to watch out for cars, strangers, accidents… You never think something in bed would be what kills him."
What do you even say to that? I just nodded, let him keep talking like it mattered.
We wrapped up within the hour. Class-B amnestics for both parents, tweaked the memories so they’d recall a sudden aneurysm—rare, but tragically plausible. Local authorities bought the cover story without protest. Small towns don’t ask for autopsies when the feds say it’s handled.
We flew Evan’s body back to Site-06 for full analysis. I already know what they’ll find—same as always. The chemical storm, the receptor saturation, the neural destruction. Another case file for the archives. Another statistic in a growing number that no one can make sense of.
But here’s why I’m really writing you, Reiss.
When I was leaving the house, I noticed something. A detail so small it probably won’t make it into the official report. On the nightstand beside Evan’s bed was a little cassette player—one of those cheap ones kids use to listen to bedtime stories or music. The tape inside had stopped mid-reel. I hit play out of curiosity.
It was just white noise.
His parents told me he liked to fall asleep to "ocean sounds." Said it helped him drift off when the house got too quiet. But standing there, listening to that static hiss, I couldn’t help but wonder if that was the last thing he heard before it all went dark.
Silence, Reiss. That’s the one common thread I've kept seeing, even if no one wants to put it in writing. These kids don’t die screaming. They don’t call for help. It’s always when the world goes quiet—when their minds settle, when there’s nothing left but the hum of their own thoughts.
You know me—I don’t spook easy. We’ve both cleaned up after enough shit to know when to compartmentalize, when to tell yourself it’s just another day in the Foundation. But this, I have to admit… it followed me home.
After Montana, I couldn’t sleep. Not for a night, not for a week—weeks, Reiss. Lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Evan. About all of them. I kept picturing those last moments, over and over. What does a five-year-old even feel when his brain turns into a chemical warzone? Is there fear? Pain? Or is it something else entirely—something we can’t even wrap our heads around because no one lives to tell us?
I started reading the old case files again. Not for procedure—for myself. Trying to find some hint, some shred of meaning in this mess. And every time, it came back to that silence. That stillness before everything collapses. I couldn’t let it go.
And that’s when this idea got in my head.
You’re going to think I’m insane—and maybe I was—but I needed to understand, even if it was just a fraction. I needed to know what it felt like to have your mind pushed past the brink, to be swallowed whole by your own neurology.
I called in a favor from an old contact in Bellingham—someone we used back in ’99 during that mess with SCP-████. You remember, the one with the dodgy opiates flooding the streets? Well, turns out he still had connections in the "research chemical" scene. A few calls, some cash wired through a laundromat front in Baltimore, and within days, I had what I needed: fifteen tabs of uncut LSD, potent stuff—claimed to be over 250 micrograms a hit—and a vial of high-grade salvinorin extract, 40x concentration. No paperwork, no trail.
I flew commercial to Ohio—kept it off Foundation radars. Rented a car under a fake name we keep on standby. I didn’t know where I was going until I saw it—some half-finished suburban development outside Columbus, one of those prefab neighborhoods where the dream died before it got off the ground. Rows of empty houses with "For Sale" signs sun-bleached and forgotten. I picked one that looked isolated enough, broke in through the back door. No furniture, no power, just empty rooms and stale air. Perfect.
I brought nothing but a sleeping bag, a jug of water, a pack of protein bars, and the drugs. Left my phone in the car. Locked the front door from the inside with a piece of rebar I found in the garage. If I was going to do this, I wasn’t leaving until I couldn’t anymore.
The first night, I sat in what seemed closest to a child’s bedroom—small, with a carpeted floor that smelled of that "new house" odor. Fitting, I thought. I took one tab of LSD, sat cross-legged on the floor, and waited.
When it peaked, I loaded the glass pipe I’d brought—stuffed it full of the salvinorin extract—and lit up. Held it in until my vision blurred and my lungs screamed.
And then I let go.
Reiss, I don’t know how to describe where I went. I know enough about psychedelics to separate hallucination from anything remotely "real," but this wasn’t visions of colors or melting walls. It was obliteration. A snapping of the self like dry twigs underfoot. One moment I was there, the next I was scattered—thoughts ricocheting in a space that didn’t have dimensions or time. There was no "me" left to process fear or awe.
And when it faded, I did it again.
For four days, I stayed in that house. Day and night blurred together—not that it mattered, since I kept the blinds shut tight. I’d take a tab in the morning, wait for the peak, then hit the salvia as hard as my body could stand. Sometimes I’d come to hours later, sometimes minutes—I couldn’t tell. I wasn’t eating. I barely drank. My hands shook so badly by day three I could hardly load the pipe, but I forced myself to keep going.
I needed to push further. I needed to know if, in that abyss, there was some echo of what those kids experienced before SCP-8542 snuffed them out.
After dozens of trips into that chemical void, after tearing down every mental wall I had—I found nothing. No revelation. No hidden understanding. Just an endless cascade of thoughts dissolving into static. I thought maybe I’d hear something in the silence, feel some presence, but there was only absence.
By the end of the fourth day, my body gave out. I woke up sprawled on the floor, dehydrated, muscles cramped, my heart pounding like it was ready to mutiny. I remember crawling to the door, fumbling with the makeshift lock, and stumbling out into the daylight like some half-dead animal. I drove to a motel, slept for 18 hours straight, then cleaned myself up enough to catch a flight back. No one at the Foundation noticed I was gone. Just another field agent off-grid, chasing leads.
I didn’t tell anyone about this—until now.
Because after all that, after nearly killing myself trying to simulate a fraction of what SCP-8542 does… I realized something that’s been rotting in my gut ever since.
Those kids? They didn’t get the luxury of coming back. I had a choice—I could put the pipe down, walk out of that house, reassemble my shattered mind. But them? Evan? The others?
They never stood a chance.
Their brains betrayed them in the quiet. No buildup, no warning, no escape hatch. Just a sudden, overwhelming flood of chemicals tearing their consciousness apart until there was nothing left but a body cooling under cartoon bedsheets.
So here I am, back where I started—no closer to understanding, but with a hollow feeling I can’t shake. I thought maybe if I shared this with you—the only person I trust to hear it without reporting me to Command—it might help me make sense of it.
It hasn’t.
You’ll get my official report tomorrow. All neat and proper, like nothing’s wrong. But between you and me, Reiss? I don’t know how many more of these I can do.
SCP-8542 isn’t just killing kids. It’s grinding us down too. Quietly. Patiently.
Maybe that's its nature. Not just randomness—but erosion.
Anyway, I’ll see you when I get back to Site-06. If you’ve got a bottle tucked away in your office, I’ll bring the glasses. God knows we’ll need them.
— You Know Who
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[[include :scp-wiki:theme:y2k]]Excerpts of note:
Description: SCP-8542 refers to a spontaneous and fatal neurological phenomenon exclusively affecting human children between the ages of three and six. Since its recognition by the Foundation in 1980, over 76,000 cases have been confirmed across North America, Europe, South America, and Asia. The onset of SCP-8542 occurs without warning and is not linked to any identifiable environmental, genetic, or behavioral factors. Affected children, often during periods of rest, silence, or low cognitive engagement—such as bedtime, "quiet time," or solitary inactivity—experience a rapid and catastrophic alteration of their neurological structures and endogenous chemical processes.
No pattern in geography, genetics, diet, socio-economic status, or environmental exposure has been established, reinforcing the classification of SCP-8542 as a spontaneous and non-transmissible phenomenon. Despite extensive research, no preventative measures, predictive markers, or therapeutic interventions have proven effective. The phenomenon's inherent unpredictability, lethality, and the sensitive nature of its victims continue to present significant challenges to containment and understanding.
You’ll get my official report tomorrow. All neat and proper, like nothing’s wrong. But between you and me, Reiss? I don’t know how many more of these I can do.
SCP-8542 isn’t just killing kids. It’s grinding us down too. Quietly. Patiently.
Maybe that's its nature. Not just randomness—but erosion.
Upon readers posting in the discussion thread that the page seemed AI-generated, the user responded:
Reader comment ported:
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| I find it quite odd that the author has had no activity whatsoever on this wikidot account and proceeded to post this without any use of a sandbox. |
| I also find this paragraph in particular to contain a bunch of stuff you see in AI generated works. |
| No pattern in geography, genetics, diet, socio-economic status, or environmental exposure has been established, reinforcing the classification of SCP-8542 as a spontaneous and non-transmissible phenomenon. Despite extensive research, no preventative measures, predictive markers, or therapeutic interventions have proven effective. The phenomenon's inherent unpredictability, lethality, and the sensitive nature of its victims continue to present significant challenges to containment and understanding. |
https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/forum/t-17104332/scp-8542#post-6943166
Reader comment ported (reply to above)I’ve mostly been writing SCP fanfiction as a hobby for Roblox works since I was around 15. I’m 18 now, and wrote the majority of this in a google docs page, then referred to this page for styling:
https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-style-resource
I did not know it was apparently a requirement to use a sandbox entirely to prove my legitimacy to random users. As for your accusation about my writing: what proof can be given? Frankly, it’s extremely discouraging to have written about this stuff unofficially as a fan for years, then finally have an idea I think is solid enough to make it to the wiki, only to have it instantly scrutinized and called AI-generated because of “a bunch of stuff you see in AI-generated works” (which is extremely vague). Still, I don’t like having my writing insulted by comparison to AI, so whatever proof you’d like to ease your mind, I’d be more than happy to provide.
| People do have a right to be skeptical of potential AI-generated articles. I mean, they are posted on here nearly every day so people do get good at spotting them. I did use an AI checker and every one I used said this entire thing or most of it is AI-generated. Now, I'm not saying that this alone proves you did use AI to make this article but that and the fact that you don't have a sandbox is enough to raise an eyebrow. |
| Ultimately, this is now in staff's hands as we can't do anything and I'm not one to throw out accusations without good reason. If it's not AI-generated and you did write it all legitimately, then we owe you an apology for the assumption. If it is AI-generated, then I would say that's a damn shame. |
https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/forum/t-17104332/scp-8542#post-6943259
Staff comment ported:The way you’ve put it is fair. I was quite frustrated in my response, apologies. I do agree that AI is practically everywhere in creative writing, and honestly, I don’t know why I assumed it wasn’t happening almost daily on the wiki as you’ve said—it makes sense it would be. And you’re right—it’s in staff’s hands now. I don’t really have anything substantial to refute the AI detectors other than being unsure why my writing flagged them as positive (perhaps due to my grammar style or diction). Still, it’s a shame that creative writing has reached a point where everything is viewed with suspicion rather than simply being enjoyed.
| wrote the majority of this in a google docs page, then referred to this page for styling |
| whatever proof you’d like to ease your mind, I’d be more than happy to provide. |
| Can you provide screenshots of different revisions, with timestamps, of your Google Docs drafting process? Remember to blank out any identifying information, so you don't share personal details by accident. |
Additional reader comments ported, for context:
| The email did its job at telling the article's story, but I do have to point out the strangeness of someone writing a short novel in an email where they're venting to someone. Still, good job. |
| Edit: Novote until AI accusations are dis/proven |
| This is good, and I can tell a lot of care is here, but the worries of ai make me feel off. Additionally, how exactly do the drug replicate the anamoly? This is quite confusing to me: this thing basically kills kids when their along via destroying their brain. That is an amazing concept. Is it a monster, a ghost, just an act of nature, those questions are purposely left unanswered which adds to the horror. But how does this guy recreate it? White noise and drugs? that just makes it seem like a normal aneurysm. |
| This article is horrifying in a very special unique way, and I really hope this was made in good faith and without AI. I would also really like some comment or something by the author talking about their inspirations and incentive to writing this piece, because parts of it could be very personal for them. |
| This is clearly AI generated — regardless, it's exceedingly melodramatic and emotionally cheap. Who would actually write an email like that? |
| What makes this article worrying is that, to me, it is exceedingly well-written. It is practically flawless from a mechanical perspective, and in its use of specific, scientific language. I've been critiquing a ton of drafts recently, and even the best drafts tend to have typos or oversights, but not this. This article suggests a strong grasp of English, ample background knowledge in this real-world subject area, and an extremely attentive editing process to catch every error. |
| Default Mode Network? Salvinorin A? Diterpenoid fragments? Jesus, this was written by a med student if not someone more educated. |
| In other words, this is far too impressive for an account that has had literally zero other activity before posting this article. I don't believe in AI detectors in the slightest, nor do I hold delusions of being some sort of Internet detective, but it is hard to believe in the legitimacy of a first-time creation this polished and specialized. |
It has been 26 days since staff requested screenshots in the article's discussion thread, and 18 days since the user was messaged directly requesting proof they wrote the material.
As such, membership revoked, PM sent. Zoobeeny, Kufat, and nico supporting.