The SCP Experience - A New Breed of Bloodsucker | SCP-775

Episode Date: December 22, 2021

SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-775: A New Breed of Bloodsucker This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-775, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drscp #scp #scpfoundation #doctorscp #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The sprawling greenery rushed by outside my window, encroaching on the road with every mile we put between us and the city. As we turned onto a dirt road, branches brushed along both sides of the old rusty SUV. The struts groaned, and the change from asphalt to dirt rocked me side to side in the front passenger seat. Where the hell is this place? I asked the driver, a burly man named George Klein. Just up the road, he said in a heavy side. southern accent. Without looking, I knew that George's smaller and younger brother, Bill, was staring at me from his spot on the back bench seat. He'd been staring at me for most of the drive. Of course, he'd never really trusted me, so I expected a fair amount of scrutiny

from him. I sat up a little straighter, pressing my back against the seat, feeling the uncomfortable yet reassuring bulge of the Sig Sauer P-365 pistol concealed at the small of my back. So what's up? I asked. Why are we in such a rush to get out here today? You've been wanting to meet them, haven't you? George asked. Well, sure, I said. But the last time I asked, what must have been a few months ago now, you said some shit like don't walk before you put your pants on. I figured, okay, you don't trust me enough yet. Fair enough. I'm the new guy. I get it. But now you're in a big hurry to come out here. And to take me with you? What's the deal?

George had been smiling while I talked, but his face grew serious. He looked over at me as he drove, apparently unconcerned about the road ahead. You're right. I didn't trust you back then, but you've done some good work for us since. You become part of the family, but still, bringing you up to meet the stalls is a big step. Big goddamn step. George turned back to look at the dirt road that brought us deeper into the Blue Ridge Mountains. Yeah, I get that, I said. But you still ain't answered my question, George. Why now?

Because I ain't heard from them in a while, that's why. It ain't like them to not pick up the phone. Someone's always around to at least pick up. Even if they ain't got a new shipment in, they still pick up the phone. I couldn't tell if George was lying or not. He seemed genuine enough. What do you suppose could have happened? I asked.

George shook his head. Don't know. After another couple of miles, the tree limbs, heavy with leaves, pulled back from the road as we came out into a small sloping valley. The first signs of human habitation appeared along the side of the road, in the form of an old riding lawnmower and a rusty mountain bike with no wheels. We continued on for another quarter mile before the house came into view, where the road dead ended. It was then that I realized we'd been on a driveway ever since we turned off the country road several miles back. The Stull family's house was the only one back here. There were two pickup trucks parked in front of the house under a large oak tree, one of them old and one of them brand new. The house was a two-story brown sprawl that looked as if it had been pieced together over the last century.

The brown wood of the new additions wasn't as faded as the wall. wood of the original structure. There was a wraparound porch that was littered with gas cans, propane tanks, toys, BB guns, beer cans, ashtrays, and a hundred other random pieces of detritus. The yard around the house looked much the same as the porch, only with larger items that were left to molder in the yard. I saw a sink, a broken toilet, an old tractor, three old cars in various stages of disrepair, and an assortment of other automotive and farming equipment. George parked behind the old pickup truck. We all stepped out of the SUV. I adjusted my light sweatshirt, making sure it covered the bulge at my back. As I stepped away from the vehicle,

something thumped down on top of it. I looked up to see a black and yellow bug about the size of a nickel, scurrying down the side and into the grass. Christ, that thing was huge, I said. What? Bill said from the other side of the SUV. I swear I just, I just. just saw a damn tick the size of a nickel. I said, no way, George said. Must have been something else. Ticks get big out here, but not that big. Still, don't matter what size they are. They'll give you that Lyme's disease in a hurry. You don't want to mess with that shit. I shrugged it off and went around to stand with Bill and George in front of the stairs up to the porch. They both looked up at the house as if they expected something to happen. Are we going to go in?

I asked. I guess we ought to, George said. Usually someone comes out to greet us. They can hear a vehicle coming up that road for about five minutes before it shows up. I don't like this, Bill said. Something ain't right. We walked up the steps to the porch, George leading the way, and Bill falling in behind me. I didn't like that.

And I was starting to think this whole thing was an elaborate setup. If so, I would have to make some quick. moves to get out of it alive. George banged on the screen door. Hey, Ricky, you here? He called. Anybody home? No answer. Fuck this. George said and pulled a pistol out of his front waistband. I turned to see Bill doing the same behind me. My heart rate sped up a bit as I stepped aside to put my hands on my hips. Whoa, what the hell is going on? You strapped?

George asked me. No, you told me not to bring a gun. Against my better judgment. I listen to you. What is this? I don't know, George said. But I ain't going in there without a gun. Stay back if you won't. Bill and me will go in. I'll go with you, I said. I'll just stay behind you in case one of your finger slips. Ha ha, Bill said. Funny guy. Let's just get this over with. Figure out what the hell is going on here. George opened the screen door and tried the wooden door behind it. The knob turned. He swung it open and stepped into the dark interior. gun up and out the ready. Bill stepped in behind him. I followed, staying two paces behind Bill. There was no one in the entryway of the musky, sweat-smelling house. There was a thin layer of

dust over everything that wasn't touched on a daily basis. Old pictures hung at jaunty angles on the walls, the faces beneath the glass, partially obscured by dust. Ahead of me, George moved left into a living room area. Ricky, he said in a harsh whisper. I turned into the the living room to see George kneeling next to an old threadbare couch, on which a gray-haired, leather-skinned man lay. Immediately I could tell that something was wrong with him. He seemed lumpy. He wore stained gray sweatpants and a long-sleeved plaid shirt that was buttoned up to his neck. His eyes were open, and he was looking at George, moving his mouth, trying to speak. I got in close to hear what he was saying, but he was too quiet. What happened? George asked. Bill stood up,

behind his brother, looking down at Ricky, shock, written all over his face. What's wrong with him? Bill asked. He don't look right. Shut up, George said. He's trying to talk. Something moved under his sweatpants, just a faint undulation above his left knee, then a similar movement at his left hip. Something moved under his shirt too. What's he saying, George? Bill asked. George looked up at his brother, then at me. He's just saying basement and burn it. Lift up his shirt, I said.

Something's moving under there. What? I ain't lifting up his shirt, George said. He'll shoot me when he's better for something like that. I don't know what he looked like before, I said. But I don't think he's going to get better. Look, just look at his shirt and his legs. What the hell?

Bill said, stepping back. He's right, George. Look. George saw it. I could tell by his face. He set his gun down on the table beside the couch and gripped the bottom of Ricky's shirt between his thumbs and forefingers. Ricky rasped something,

but he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Drill trickled from the side of his mouth. George lifted the shirt up toward Ricky's head, revealing a dozen or so ticks. Their heads buried in Ricky's yellow and green skin. They were of varying sizes, with the largest among them, a good three inches in diameter.

George dropped the shirt and scrambled away from the couch, yelling obscenities as he went. What the hell? I said, a sudden urge to get the hell out of the house vibrating my legs. Oh, Jesus! George said. Oh, sweet Jesus. What are those things?

Before Bill or I had a chance to answer, George was on his feet, grabbing his gun from the table. Lauren! He yelled, running deeper into the house. Lauren, are you here, baby? We need to get the hell out of here, Bill said. Who's Lauren? I asked. Bill was still staring at Ricky, who looked like he was dead, or nearly so.

Bill, I said louder. Who's Lauren? Ricky's daughter, George's woman. She's his old lady. Oh, man, I said. Help me search the house. We need to get anyone else who's alive out of here. Fuck no, Bill said.

I'm out of here. I thought about letting me. him go, but I figured I would need his help. All bets were off. I was going to have to call in several organizations to handle this mess. My cover would be blown sooner rather than later. Bill moved back toward the front door, stepping past me. As he went, I grabbed his pistol and yanked it out of his hand. I had to turn on him before he had a chance to react. You're going to help me search the house and get anyone alive out of here. Now, Bill glared at me. I never trusted you. I knew you were a bitch.

I'm just trying to do the right thing, and I need your help. Fine, Bill said. I could hear George moving upstairs, still calling out Lauren's name, his voice growing more desperate with every call. Basement first, I said. Lead the way, and don't mess around, or I'll put a bullet in your leg and leave you for the ticks. Bill mumbled something and walked out of the living room.

I followed, gun at the ready. We didn't see anyone else on her way to the basement, but I saw out of the corner of my eye, little bugs scurrying along the walls and the floor here and there. I hoped they weren't more ticks, but that didn't seem likely. The place was infested. The stairs to the basement were old and rickety. They creaked and groaned as we walked down into the unfinished room piled with chunk. What are we doing down here? Bill said.

Ricky said basement, so we checked the basement. I said. George is checking upstairs. We don't find anyone, we check the rest of the house, and then leave. Simple. Bill stepped around a metal shelf piled with junk and stopped cold. Ah, hell no, he said. I stepped behind him and saw what he was looking at. It had once been a woman.

She was lying on the floor, her clothes and tatters. Her skin stretched so much that she no longer resembled a human. She'd looked like an overstuffed pillow made of human skin. And whatever was inside her was moving. It was as if the things inside her sensed our presence, because as we stood there, a rip developed in the woman's giant lumpy belly. A triangle-shaped head and two legs came out of the skin, starting the rip. But once it started, it tore through her taut skin like a yanked zipper.

Hundreds and hundreds of ticks poured out. I backpedaled toward the stairs and Bill did the same, but the little insects could jump. And they hopped onto Bill, who screamed and swatted at them, when he fell down. I thought for half a second about getting him up, but the ticks covered his legs and swarmed around him, coming after me. I bolted up the stairs, shutting the basement door behind me, as if that would help.

George! I shouted, get out of here! Get out! I ran outside, crunching on several ticks that had come out of the woodwork before reaching the front door. On the porch, I felt one of them fall on my head, and I swatted it off with one hand while I ran down the stairs. I remembered the tick that fell on the SUV from the tree.

and went out into the road where the sky above me was clear, and I could see the little bugs if they came out of the grass. I lifted my shirt and dropped my pants to look for ticks. I was clean. I pulled my clothing back into place and watched the house. Moments later, the front door banged open and out walked George. He stumbled down the steps, gun held down by his side. I could see that they had gotten him.

There were several along his arms and a few on his face. He walked like a zombie toward the SUV. George, I called. Don't get in the SUV. I can't let you leave. Not when you could spread those things. Fuck you, George said. I'll get you some help, George.

I will. I just can't let you leave. I said, raising Bill's gun up, but not yet pointing it at George. Those idiots, George said, they're always important these weird animals, damn tigers and monkeys and shit. They sell them.

I bet that's where these things came from. He rounded the SUV, heading for the driver's door. George? I called out. Don't. He ignored me, opening the door. I'm a cop, George, I said. DEA, actually.

So I need you to put the gun down and step away from the vehicle. That made him stop. He stood there for a moment, thinking over what I'd said. You bastard! He swung his gun up as he turned toward me. I pulled the trigger on Bill's gun and missed. George got a shot off that went wide right. I corrected and shot again, hitting George in the chest.

He stumbled back against the SUV and slid down to the ground, dropping his gun in the process. I'd seen enough gunshot wounds to know he didn't have long. I pulled out my cell phone and called a number from memory. Hey boss, I need you to call in an SCP Foundation containment team to my location, and you'll probably want to get out here too. I had to shoot George Klein. Hell, my boss said. Was it a good shoot?

Yeah, it was good. Okay, I'll make the call. Boss, can you tell them it's urgent? I'm a sitting duck out here. There are thousands of giant ticks at this place. I don't know how long I can keep them away from me. On it, he said, and hung up. I put my phone away and stood there in the road,

watching as George Klein stopped breathing. The ticks continued to feed on him even after he was dead. SCP 775 appears to be a form of arachnid, commonly known as the tick. It is of a significantly larger size, with most unengorged adults reaching a size comparable with a U.S. nickel. SCP-775 is capable of making small leaps

and travels very rapidly along solid surfaces. SCP-775 shares the trait of a flexible body structure, but is much more robust than the common tick, capable of surviving crushing, cutting, or tearing with little to no damage. and is also capable of swelling up to four times its original size during feeding, although this does slightly hamper its ability to move. SCP 775 will feed on any vertebrate animals,

liquefying the organs and bones inside the skin, with a special enzyme produced while feeding. They will continue to feed and reproduce on the host until it is no longer capable of providing nutrients. Young SCP 775 will often burrow under the skin and attempt to feed on liquefying tissues directly. Hosts will eventually be fully hollowed out with only the outer layers of skin remaining.

SCP 775 will fill the skin with eggs, then depart to find a new host. Nest skins are often filled to the maximum capacity that the skin is capable of holding. Lazzang sur-gillet, puissance-moleaned for 15 minutes. We'd say that's the lojo. Pre-to-joo?

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