The SCP Experience - Granny | SCP-3297

Episode Date: January 12, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-3297: Granny This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-3297 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Cyrus Spears * * * DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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The old woman smiled at me and patted the seat on the bench next to her. I glanced over my shoulder. Ready to step aside for whoever she was inviting. But there was no one behind me. She smiled a bit wider and patted the bench again. Her shiny, wrinkled skin bunched up over her gnarled, arthritic knuckles, and her blunt, rippled nails tapped the lacquered wood. I shrugged my shoulders to push my coat up a little bit higher,

obscuring my mouth partially with the collar as I muttered. Do I know you? She had a voice that sounded like it came off an old record. She shook her head. The sun beamed right through her thin white hair. It was thinner than carted cotton, which made it look like she had a halo arching over an otherwise bald head. Long since Christmas. It was nearly spring, but she was old, and I was not about to hold her accountable for her memory,

especially when it seemed like my own was failing. I had a grandmother, but she died when I was 10. She lived in Maine, from what I remember, many states away from Florida. I remember her hair being brown, not white, and she always wore red sweatshirts with little bears embroidered on the front. This woman was wearing a short-sleeved floral button up over a pair of khaki shorts and had her feet stuck through a bright pink pair of flip-lops. She sat hunched over on the bench with her crooked fingers, working their way through a bag. that had a pair of knitting needles sticking out the side, but she was not pulling out anything to work on.

It was difficult to see her eyes. They were obscured behind thick, coke bottle lenses that were opaque, like frosted glass. Yet they were pointed at me with such an aura of expectation that I felt like I had no choice but to sit down. What harm could it do anyway? She was a harmless old woman at the end of the day. And if she had lost her mind, if she thought I was someone else, maybe I could help point her in the right direction. She seemed independent enough. Nothing about her screamed, nursing home runaway, or anything like that. I am sorry, I said, even as I sat down on the bench.

I think you have mistaken me for someone else. Don't make mistakes. She adjusted her glasses and turned her gaze down towards her bag. Her brow furrowed as she rifled through it. The sides of the blue aluminum knitting needles clanked together as they swirled around the entrance. But she still did not pull anything out. If I can't find that darn olive yard. That struck a cord in me.

I found myself staring at the bag, remembering something about a pair of gloves she had made for me one winter. They were red? Or maybe they were red and blue. Two of my favorite colors. I wore them to school once, but I had lost them somehow. That was about as far as the memory stretched. It was strange, because it did not really feel like my memory.

I did not recognize the wooden table or the yellow linoleum in the kitchen, but I very clearly saw her hands slide the box towards me. It was a big box, and inside were the red or maybe blue gloves hidden underneath a pounder. of white tissue paper. I shook my head and rubbed the back of my neck. It was all so strange, and yet I felt bad for forgetting. What are you making? I asked her. It seemed polite and proper. A new pair of gloves for you, but I seemed to have misplaced my yarn. Oh, darn it, I will have to go to the store. She looked back up. The sun hit her lenses, and I still could not see her eyes

behind them, but I knew what they looked like. I had seen them plenty of times. I knew they were kind, soft, and gray. They rested underneath folds of wrinkled lids and sparkled whenever she said something she felt was clever. I was hoping to have them done by Easter. It is coming up fast, you know. Oh, yes, I said. Clearly, she was right about that. My heart skipped a guilty beat for not remembering the details. Do you... Are you spending the night? She clicked her tongue,

and it sounded like a chittering insect. Just like last year, and the year before, she tilted her head. Do you remember that one year we painted eggs and you were so upset because you wanted there to be chocolate in them? And the next morning,

you were so happy when the plastic eggs had chocolate buttons inside. And you ate so many the chocolate. you had a tummy egg for the whole afternoon? She laughed, and I could not help but smile with her. A sound escaped my lips, but I was not sure it was a laugh. I remember that. I could see it clearly in my head.

Purple, pink, and yellow plastic eggs that I broke open with my greedy little fingers so I could fish around inside for their contents. I remembered milk, chocolate buttons, wrapped in colorful pieces of tin foil that I would suck out of their wrapping like meat from a crab claw. I had always liked chocolate, hadn't I? Yes, that sounded right. It always tasted so good at the end of Lent. I always had to give up chocolate for Lent. I was not sure why. Was it because I loved it so much? Or because my mother thought it would be a good excuse to let us crash from the sugar high that ran straight from

the 12 days of Christmas through Valentine's? Valentine's was its own. memory. Granny liked to give us baskets with heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, which were my favorite, and the candy hearts that tasted like chalk. I always ate the candy hearts first, because I wanted to save the chocolate for last, and I pushed my finger into the middle of each chocolate to make sure I did not run into the kind that had orange filling. Those were my least favorite, and I always tossed them out. Strange. Strange. Strange. strange. Christmas time in Florida. Easter in Florida. No snow on the ground. We still had a Christmas tree, though. There wasn't even frost on the windows, just my breath as I pressed

my nose against the glass and waited excitedly to see Santa. I never saw him, and I always fell asleep. My grandmother told me that if I was awake when Santa came, then I would never get any presents. She read us two stories on Christmas Eve. It was always the night before Christmas, and then the story of Jesus' birth. She wanted us to remember the reason for it all, she asked. Her voice brought me back to the present.

The spiral of memories fought to consume me, and I blinked a few times, trying to focus my eyes again, back on her. She was still smiling. Something about her expression seemed satisfied. She drew her brown gummy tongue across her lips, and I watched, hypnotized by the motion, before I responded. I'm great, I said. I was just thinking about when we were kids. I, you always read two stories on Christmas Eve, she nodded.

Yes, she said. And for the memory. My head felt heavy and tight, like there was a balloon on the inside getting bigger and bigger, pressing against the sides of my skull. I pushed my fingers into the sides of my temple, as if I could chase away the feeling like a headache. And then I nodded. Yes, I said. Yes, I remember. A blue bicycle, wasn't it?

With silver streamers on the handles. It had red flames painted on the sides and a ringing bell that drove my mother crazy. I couldn't ride the bike in the house, so I pulled off the bell and kept ringing it until she let me go outside. My granny stood in her driveway and watched me give it a go, dressed in that same floral shirt and shorts with the bright pink flip-lops.

I knew what her eyes looked like, but I still could not picture them. I remembered seeing the sun reflecting off her thick lenses, turning her eyes into big white circles that watched me zip up and down the neighborhood street. I swallowed hard, and I realized I had been sitting almost as hunched over as she was. I tried to straighten out my spine, but a stabbing pain in my shoulder blades kept me down. I rested my elbows against my knees and kept my eyes transfixed on her.

The more she talked, the more I felt like a little kid, waiting to hear just one more story before bed. Now she was talking again. All the memories hit me like a tidal wave. and I was entranced. Any guilt I might have felt for not remembering sooner was washed away underneath the sweet, pleasant reminiscing. It was all so real that I could almost smell the cinnamon potpourri

that always filled her house around Christmas time. She was a talented woman, my granny. She could make absolutely anything. Oh, she crowed as if she read my mind. She was getting livelier, and I loved that. She sat up a bit straighter and her cheeks were flushed pink.

She wagged a finger at me now in an affectionate gesture. I asked you name for a confection, but I never corrected her. I tried to nod, but my whole head felt too heavy, and it was easy to just maintain my position and listen. I gave her an encouraging smile,

which was the most of what I could do. She did not see. seemed to mind, though. She kept going. And that was my granny, always chattering about something, always happy to continue the conversation whether anyone was responding to her or not. It's a very simple recipe. Guash. The way she said it sent a shiver up my spine. But the unpleasant tingle was quickly covered up by my fondness for her Christmas crack. Of course I remembered it. My memory was so vivid. In fact, I could almost taste it. The powdered sugar dough was always so thick, and when it was frozen, it crumbled apart.

Of course, if you held it too long in your hands, it all became a melted mess. The peanut butter was the best part, and she always made homemade, chocolate-covered cherries too. Those are very easy to make, she said. And let me tell you a secret. Them in the chocolate, then let them cool on wax paper. She clicked her tongue again, like the fluttering wings of a cricket. You'd love to eat them, a batch. The more she talked about food, the heavier my head felt.

My eyelids started to droop, and there was pressure building up in my sinuses. I was firmly convinced that if I let my head hit the bench, then it would burst apart. And all the memories would come draining out of me like soup. I could picture that so vividly too. My head, lying broken like an eggshell, against the wooden bench with all the brain matter running out, with thick pieces floating in the water like stew. It wasn't a horrifying thought.

If anything, it was sort of funny. The thick pieces looked like chocolate buttons. The gray matter sludge looked like powdered sugar in milk. I closed my eyes altogether, Even though I could not see her, I could still smell her. She smelled like coconut and pineapples, like that soft old lady perfume from behind a department store counter. You look exhausted, she said. I still couldn't move, but I didn't need to.

She rested her hand against the back of my neck and pulled me down into her lap. She raked her knobby fingers through my hair. air, and I caught myself yawning. The muscles in my throat were too lax to take in a really deep breath, so it came out as a staggering, shallow cough. I love your memories, she told me. I savour each and every one of them. I made a little sound. Half asleep, I remembered running around her house barefoot on Thanksgiving Day.

I remembered the smell of pecan pie drifting through the house, and what, cool, fresh apple cider tasted like. She always kept the house so pleasant and cool for the balmy Florida days, even when she was baking. I liked to hide in her crawl spaces. There were so many in the house. The attic was nice, too, with its fresh pine smell and all the dry, dusty blankets for me to crawl underneath.

I remembered myself staying hidden for hours while we played hide-and-seek. I always won. Or was it that my sister's... My sister always won. My granny would cluck her tongue at us. I always thought she sounded like a summer cicada. Are you falling asleep on me? She teased.

No, ma'am. I finally managed real words. I opened my eyes and found myself facing her knitting bag. She moved it out of my way and patted my side. You know? She said, Granny, some fresh yarn, so she can finish making you a new pair of gloves. gloves. Of course. I yawned again and rubbed my eyes. Of course. I can do that for you, Granny.

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I could still make out the color, though. It was a robin's egg blue. She unwound a strand and held it up for my inspection, wrapped around her crooked fingers. It needs to match this, she said. And a nice red expensive kind. Not that cheap gloves need to keep. Of course not.

At this point, I did not trust my own memory. I dug around in my pocket for my phone and pulled it out, ignoring a slew of texts that I did not bother to read while swiping open the camera app. Can I take a picture of it? I asked. I think that will help me remember it better. Of course, she said. She held up the ball and I leveled my camera, snapping a picture. When the picture cleared, I zoomed in to make sure I could see the exact Robin's Egg Blue of the yarn.

When I zoomed back out, the picture put my granny in frame. She was dark brown with a large, fuzzy head with luminous compound eyes stuck on either side. A shimmering pair of thin wings were draped over her shoulders, and all six of her legs were sticking out. The middle pair was still, while the top pair worked busily to replace her yarn back into the bag and move her knitting needles out of the way. Her wings shivered and she clucked her tongue at me again, making that chattering little sound. I smiled. They're all right. She asked me. Yes, I lowered my phone. I just like that picture. I can see your eyes very well. She smiled at me and put her hand on the back of my neck again.

She dragged me forward and placed an affectionate, damp kiss on my forehead. She said, yes. The thought filled me with a rush of joy, even though it felt impossible to stand up, like my legs were made of jelly. I'll be back, Granny. The sunlight flashed off her white glasses again and she smiled, showing me a mouthful of grain, crooked teeth, before lowering her head again, fishing around in her knitting bag. SCP 3297 is a member of an unknown species in the true bug superfamily, closest resembling cicada,

which disguises its atheropod appearance via its info-hazardous properties. SCP 3297 incorporates its insect biology into its human disguise by masking its apposition compound eyes as a pair of very thick and pale opaque glasses and membranous wings of a shawl. It possesses a chittinous brown exoskeleton, stands upright, and has six uneramus extremities. The first pair is used to grab and use items. The lower pair is used in locomotion, while the middle pair is atrophied, appearing to have become vestigial. SCP 3297's disguise takes on the visual appearance of an octogenarian Caucasian female, measuring 1.6 meters and looking to weigh about 70 to 75 kilograms. Though it has been known to change its disguise from time to time, curly white hair, floral patterns on clothing, flip-flops, and sunspots are a common feature. The

entity's disguise does not extend to photos or videos taken of it in which it appears in its true form. The entity is capable of speech and is intelligent, referring to itself with various colloquialisms for grandmother. SCP 3297 possesses mind-altering and reading capabilities, which thus far have only been recorded to work on humans interacting with it. SCP 3297 will plant false memories of itself onto a subject's mind, as if it were their grandmother, and gradually replace memories not involving itself. Planted memories are always pleasant and usually involve food, toys, or Catholic,

holidays. Though these memories are often inconsistent with most subjects' histories and backgrounds, those under the entity's effects will not find these inconsistencies unusual and will treat them as factual events. Subjects previously exposed to SCP 3297 viewing the entity in its true form will still regard it as their grandmother.