The SCP Experience - Honey and Bone | SCP-1176

Episode Date: July 1, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-1176. This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1176 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Andrew E. * * * 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 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The room's intensely bright and spotless white walls almost make me squint. It's been cleaned recently. I can tell by the hint of lemon and bleach in the air. It's a little cool, but I'm used to it for my lab work. It's better for the machines and samples to be handled at slightly lower than room temperature. Anyways, I've been waiting for 20 minutes. With a sigh, I pick up the small recording device I'd placed on the shiny stainless steel table. and punch a few buttons.

It whirrs to life. Is this thing a recording? I say. Suppose it must be the red lights on. Hello, this is Dr. Peter Knight. I am here at the behest of Mr. John Sheldrake, the well-known tech billionaire. He has acquired an item of great value

that he wants me to assess, but he hasn't told me much more than that. Mr. Sheldrake made me an offer I really couldn't turn down. I pause. considering whether or not to say the next part out loud. But these are my private notes, so... He's paying me a lot of money. Insane amount, really.

It was so much that the first thing I said to him is that I wouldn't do anything illegal. He assured me everything was above board, and that I would be free to leave or quit at any time, though I'd be subject to a pretty severe non-disclosure agreement. Anyway, I'm waiting for Mr. Sheldrake and his men to deliver the object. I'm in a lab. It's state of the art. I didn't have access to technology this advanced when I was studying at college, that's for sure.

I won't bore anyone listening by listing everything they have here. But let's just say the equipment is so advanced and varied that I've become even less certain what it is I'm supposed to be doing here. It's true. The breadth and quality of the equipment is incredible. Mr. Sheldrake had probably spent millions constructing and supplying this hidden research lab under one of his villas. An elevator dings and metal doors slide open.

It's Mr. Sheldrake and two men dressed in dark blue coveralls. They're wheeling a large wooden box using a hospital gurney. The wheels squeak and shudder under the weight. I can't be certain, but it must weigh over 400 pounds. Mr. Sheldrake walks over to me and vigorously shakes my hand as the men position the gurney in the center of the room. Hello, Dr. Knight, Mr. Sheldrake says. Thank you for coming. I'm sorry I couldn't greet you myself.

And I also apologize for the cloak and dagger. I have to protect my investment. And when you realize what this thing is and what it can do, I'm sure you'll see why. Of course. Is that? It is indeed. What do you think? He asks. It is a sarcophagus from a culture I'm not intimately familiar.

with. I can't identify it at a glance. It's at once both ancient Egyptian and not. As I look closer, I can see that it has some design choices in common with various styles of Egyptian funerary rights, but other aspects would have been completely foreign to the region. I'm beginning to understand why Mr. Sheldrick had sought me out in particular. There probably aren't many people with the medical science background, who also have a degree in history, with a specialization in ancient Mediterranean burial rights. I had gone quite deep down the archaeologist rabbit hole before pivoting to scientific pursuits that involved the living, rather than the dead.

I consider the sarcophagus, but can't draw any immediate conclusions, other than its apparent state of wear and tear. It's remarkably well preserved, I say. Where did you get it? John Sheldrake shakes his head. I can't reveal who I acquired it from, of course. But I can assure you, it was done so legally. That's not what I meant.

If you want me to interpret and translate these symbols and drawings on the side, I need to know what area this came from. I can't sift through the thousands upon thousands of ancient languages looking for the right one. Not quickly, anyway. There's a significant pause. as Mr. Sheldrake raises an eyebrow at me. He walks to the sarcophagus and puts his hand on it,

feeling the wood beneath his fingertips. I can't tell if he's considering what I said, or simply electing to ignore me. If he was a grad student, I'd probably yell at him to get his oily fingers off the ancient artifact and put on some damn gloves. But since he's my employer, I can't really do that. Instead, I try again to convince him.

Look, if you want a yes man who's just going to keep his head down and not ask any questions, then you should find someone else for this. This isn't simple curiosity, Mr. Sheldrick. I wouldn't ask if I didn't feel I needed the information. He removes his hand from the sarcophagus and glances up at me with a hint of a smile on his lips. Maybe he had expected a meek scientist, but if that's the case, then he hasn't done his research. I have to go up in front of the board every year and argue with them about why they shouldn't cut my team's funding. And every year, I win that argument.

Understand, I have no way of verifying this information, Mr. Sheldrake begins. But the seller informs me that the person inside is likely to be an Arabian man who died in the 10th or 11th century. The sarcophagus design is supposed to be Egyptian-influenced, but not. done by ancient Egyptian craftsmen. As for what's inside, I leave that to you. ominous as that last sentence had been, I'm still grateful to Mr. Sheldrake. It's not easy to back down and divulge a secret you'd rather not. And it's incredibly helpful information. Now I won't have to waste my time digging through Egyptian texts, since any inscriptions are likely to be in an Arabic dialect. Thank you, Mr. Sheldrake, I say.

He nods slightly and then flicks his wrist. Both of his men straighten their backs and stand at rigid attention. Get to work, Dr. Knight. I look forward to hearing your results. With that, he walks into the elevator, both men trailing just behind him. The elevator door closes, and I'm alone. I glance at the sarcophagus. Okay, not totally alone.

I pick up the recording device and hold it up to ensure it captures my voice clearly. All right, I'm standing in front of the sarcophagus. It's approximately 6.5 feet long and 3 feet wide. Note to self. Take precise measurements at a later time. It does not fully fit the stylistic design conventions of any sarcophagus I am aware of. Therefore, dating by visual analysis alone is impossible. However, it most closely resembles the late Hellenistic style.

I note some points of commonality with later Arabian funerary practices and... I trail off as I lean in closer to observe some faded etchings on the coffin. Yes, there are traces of Arabic writing, as well as hieroglyphics. This artifact definitely changed hands at some point in antiquity. Beginning to circle the wooden structure, I continue to make audio notes. It features a wide variety of hieroglyphics as well as bits of Arabic script. The glyphs depict the typical features of gods and pharaohs. I expect they will be the usual spells of protection and good fortune, normally placed upon

the final resting places of the dead. But I will have to translate them to know for certain. Also, there's something quite odd about the artifact. For reasons unknown to me, someone has attached a spigot to the bottom of the bottom of the bottom end of the sarcophagus, near where I presume the feat to be. I have no idea why someone would do this, but it was done within the last hundred years. It was done with care, inflicting minimal damage to the material. But why was it done in the first place? Another mystery to solve. I won't risk turning it, since that could damage the structure of the sarcophagus, but running my finger against

the spout produces a waxy, resinous substance. Congealed plant matter, perhaps? More testing needed. After finishing the visual inspection, my initial surge of energy passes. I'm always invigorated by a new mystery to unravel. That was part of the reason I'd studied ancient history in the first place. There's still so much we don't know.

So much to discover. Still, slow and steady are the watchwords of the scientific community. There's no point in rushing, if that makes you sloppy or corrupts your results. So even though I'm practically itching to crack open the sucker, and I can tell it's already been open and closed many times by the non-existent seal on the top slab, I instead decide that I should catalog and decode all the writing first.

At least if I later end up damaging the sarcophagus by accident, I'll still have the text carved onto the coffin. I begin the tedious process of record, reporting everything I can about the surface of the artifact. Lazzangue sur-gillet, puissance-moyane for 15 minutes. We're like it's their dojo. Pre-a-to-Jew!

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Mr. Sheldrake is patient with me. Even when it takes me weeks to catalog the surface of the sarcophagus and months to decode the writing. The hieroglyphics are as expected. It turns out the person inside is indeed a noble of some kind. And, judging by the translations, quite a powerful one. The writing contains spells and prayers meant to facilitate the dead's journey through the afterlife. The Arabic script is fascinating. I can't describe it any other way. I estimate the period of time between the hieroglyphics and the last written Arabic inscription to be 2,000 years. I've rarely seen such temporally distant cultures' religious practices interact in this way. One of the inscriptions is completely undecipherable. It's an adaptable. It's an

a dialect I can't even find reference to anywhere, let alone translate. There are two others written in a more modern, familiar dialect, though I struggle plenty with those as well. The 15th son, I recite to Mr. Sheldrake over the phone. Put to the fast of honey, died. The great Imam, I think his name is next, but I'm not sure, sealed him, marked with the signs, in honey, bring aid to the people. That's everything I could translate. I'm sorry, I know it's not much. I can hear Mr. Sheldrake breathing at the other end of the line, he says.

Are you sure of the word honey? That's one of the few words I'm actually sure of. That one was unusually clear. Why? What about the next inscription? I can't translate that one. Why not? Is it too damaged?

Mr. Sheldrake asks. If it's the equipment, that's no problem. I can get you anything you need. Money's no object. It pains me to have to admit this, especially since Mr. Sheldrake is essentially my employer. But I don't have a choice. No, the problem isn't with the equipment.

It's with me, I say, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth. I, I'm not a linguist, nor am I experienced with, Arabic script. It is faded, yes, but I believe it to be translatable. It is simply beyond my abilities. I also believe it is possible to get a better translation of the first inscription. I'm sorry. I understand if you wish to proceed with someone more well-versed in the subject. Mr. Sheldrake smacks his lips, and I hear a knife scrape against a plate. It occurs to me that I've

probably interrupted his lunch. Dr. Knight, he says. There is a reason why I entrusted this project to a single person, when a whole team would be more efficient. I do not ask for perfection, merely that you do your best. It is my sense that you are doing your best, are you not? I, yes, of course, I say, struck by his magnanimity. As a tech genius not used to hearing the words, no, or I can't, I had experienced. expected a more petulant response from him.

The breath I hadn't known I'd been holding releases itself. You will understand why I have done things this way when you open the sarcophagus. You will do so soon, yes? Yes, I was planning to do it first thing tomorrow. Assuming I wasn't fired during this conversation, I add in my head. Very good, he says. I'm eager to hear your thoughts on the sarcophagus' contents. especially in light of your translation.

You'll have them by the end of tomorrow, I say. I can hardly believe my luck. Not only am I not fired, I also finally get to see what's in that coffin. Not knowing has been killing me. Mr. Sheldrake hangs up without a goodbye, and I start packing up to go home. I have a big day tomorrow.

The lid creaks unpleasantly as the winch system Mr. Sheldrake has provided lifts the sarcophagus's cover into the air. I worry that the blasted thing will crack, but I figure if it's withstood thousands of years of wear and tear, it can probably survive being opened one more time. Judging by the way he's talked about it, Mr. Sheldrake has definitely seen inside. The machine completes its pre-programmed path

and gingerly sets the lid on the ground a little ways away from the gurney the sarcophagus has been laid on. Okay, it's done. I excitedly turn on the recording device, eager to begin taking my first impressions of the mummy inside. I'm so excited I feel like I'm about to go on stage in front of a huge audience. I'm sure I'm grinning ear to ear as I look over the edge of the coffin. I...

What in the... I hear myself say. This is... I'm in my throat to compose myself and start again. My excitement is replaced with cool detachment. I need to bring my A-game for this. This is Dr. Peter Knight. I'm beginning my examination of the interior of the sarcophagus. Inside, there is a preserved body, as expected.

It does appear to be a man, based on the size of the skeleton and other distinguishing features. But that's about all I can say for now. The reason for my vague description is because the body is encased in a... I'm not sure how to describe it. An amber-colored material of unknown origin. Whatever I had been expecting, it wasn't this. It really looks like a prehistoric insect covered in amber, only much, much larger. This is unlike any funeral practice I've heard of in any region, across any time period.

I mean, sometimes important figures like Vladimir Lenin have been displayed openly in their caskets through glass. But using amber? And in such large quantities, if even a single other one of them, person in the entire world had ever been found to have been preserved this way, I would have heard of it. I'm going to take a sample of the material, I say into the recorder. I shuffle over to some stainless steel drawers and begin rifling through them. I'm still not certain about where everything is, especially since the lab is so comprehensively stocked. Finally, I find tools for chipping small samples of rock, essentially a more delicate-looking hammer and chisel. I lean or

over the box to take the sample when I notice something else. The scent of the amber material is quite sweet, not floral, more like a confection. It's actually rather overpowering. If it is indeed amber, I would expect it to give off a more pine-like scent. Okay, I'm taking the sample now. I'm going to attempt to chip off a very small piece of material. I align my chisel with a section above the mummy's navel, raise my hammer, and strike down. soft but firm.

My chisel goes straight through the amber, piercing far further than I'd intended. My sleeve makes contact with the material, and it sinks in too. I rear back, and both my sleeve and the chisel come back drippy. It's not amber, it's a liquid. Figuring it's already on me anyway, I rub a bit of the liquid over my thumb and pointer finger.

It's viscous and sticky. Given the sweet smell, I have to assume it's honey. Honey? My mind flashes to the inscription. With what little of it I could translate, it mentioned honey, didn't it? For the record, I say into the recorder. The amber-colored material was not a solid, but liquid.

My first guess is honey, though I'll have to run some tests to be sure. What the hell kind of tests can I run? They're a freaking detect honey test I've never heard of? Although, this may explain one mystery. The spigot. I could not think of any reason someone would attach a spigot to a sarcophagus, but perhaps it was to facilitate the removal of honey from its unorthodox container. Though that leaves us with a new mystery. Why on earth would someone fill a sarcophagus with honey?

I can't keep up this charade. I'm trying to make rational and reasonable guesses when nothing about this is rational. Mr. Sheldrake had known about this, I'm certain of it. The way he's talked about it, and he wouldn't bought a sarcophagus without looking inside it. The man had given me his number for emergencies. I decide that this qualifies. I take off my white latex gloves, find his contact details on my phone, and press the call button. Why?

He says breezily. I've been expecting your... ...affirms it. So you did know, I say. Why didn't you tell me? I wanted your honest assessment. Without my opinions affecting your own. That? And if I started with, I've got a coffin full of honey, you probably wouldn't have agreed to work for me.

I suppose that makes sense, but... Next steps, Mr. Sheldrake asks. I walk over to the sarcophagus and peer inside it. The amber honey is obscuring my view of the person inside. I want to get a closer look at the body. For that, I need to drain the honey. Do I have your permission? Yes.

In fact, I've thought to... you might ask. Everything you need will be delivered by my men within the hour. If you need help with the draining or setting up, simply ask and they will help you. I... Thank you. I've underestimated him a little, I think. Or maybe it's the situation I've underestimated. This is more than just a businessman spending his money on a random thing he'd found. Something else is going on. I think he can hear my hesitation through the line. Else? He asks. Are you keeping anything else for me?

He laughs. Always. With that, he hangs up the phone. It's never too early to plan your summer story in Europe with WestJet, from rolling countryside to cobblestone streets. Begin your next chapter. Book your seat at westjet.com or call your travel agent. WestJet, where your story takes off.

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The voice that we love that we're going to set up. Mr. Sheldrake's men combine 45 minutes with just way too many containers. Their troughs, eight of them. And each one looks big enough

to fit all the honey from the sarcophagus by itself. I have no idea why he brought so many. Maybe he got a deal in a bulk order. It feels a little weird to give orders to these bought tall strangers, but they help a lot, getting things in place. One of them even runs to the store to get some honey when I ask him to. I figure if I can't test the honey directly, I can at least compare samples. I do that while the coffin drains. I've got one of the troughs directly under the spigot, which I've opened and is now dripping copious amounts of

honey. The process is slow, since honey doesn't flow like water, and the lab fills with wet, gloopy splotching sounds. Each splat makes my shoulders tense. It's weird. Something about the honey pulls and repels me in equal measure. Curiosity mixes with the knowledge that something here is very wrong. Despite the distraction, I'm able to confirm that to my eye, the store-bought honey and the sarcophagus honey are the same, even under a microscope. They may have subtle differences in composition, but it's close enough for me to conclude that they're both honeies. Probably.

I mean, definitely. I'm a scientist, and I've just proven that they're the same. If I can't trust my own conclusions, the news can I trust. Yes, it is extremely odd for a coffin to be full of honey. A fact that must somehow relate to a thousand, year old Arabic inscription. But honey is an incredible substance that has been found in Egyptian tombs to be still edible 3,000 or more years after being sealed. So it's not that strange. I walk over to the trough of honey, still filling up thanks to the spigot. What am I so afraid of?

Armed with facts and logic, my curiosity defeats my concern, and I pace over to the drawer where the spoons are kept. I grab one, hover over the trough, then gently dip the spoon into the sticky substance. I'm careful to keep the spoon over the center of the trough. I don't want any material spilling onto the ground. I lean over and chop down, swallowing the honey. It's delicious, though not the best thing I've ever tasted or anything. Immediately, I feel heat pooling my cheeks, but it's not a bad reaction to the food. It's embarrassment. Who exactly am I showing off for?

The dead guy in the coffin? Shaking my head, I rinse out the spoon and check on the sarcophagus. It's not quite drained, but it's enough to do some analysis. I grab my handy voice recorder and begin. Before I start, I'd like to note that these statements are preliminary. The honey hasn't fully drained, but I wanted to get my initial thoughts done before I do a more thorough examination in the morning, I say.

I've been brushing up on the 10th and 11th century ever since I learned that the person inside had died during that time. My first theory appears to have been correct. Based on the inscription, I had presumed the individual inside to be a royal relative of a shake. Though the sarcophagus itself features a mix of styles, the mummy itself is clearly from a later period. More detailed thoughts on this will be available in my written. report. This individual is clearly a noble, with high-quality linen wrappings and a necklace, I believe, is made of gold, though the honey remnants make it difficult to tell. It lacks the

common religious regalia a high priest or imam would be buried with, though I suppose they could have been looted over the centuries. In addition, the mummy's head, which has been positioned flat, looking straight up out of the coffin, suddenly tilt to the side, producing a wrap. cutting sound. Jesus! I jump back from the sarcophagus, part racing. The lab is always cool, but suddenly it's downright freezing as I creep back over to the artifact, each step carefully calculated to produce as little noise as possible.

Once I gather my courage enough to look into the cavity, I breathe a sigh of relief. The skeletal head is tilted to the side, but it hasn't moved further. I think that the honey was helping to hold the head in place somehow. It moved suddenly, which startled me. Everything's fine. I'll continue with my examination, I say into the recorder. As the adrenaline begins to leave my body, making me feel a bit jelly-legged,

I noticed something odd about the mummy. Much of the body is covered in wrappings, but I'm noting an unusually large amount of bone fractures in the exposed areas. These aren't from simple wear on the body over the years. They look, well, not fresh, but fresher than the rest of the body. The edges are quite sharp. These were inflicted post-mortem long after death. I'm not sure what to make of them as of yet. I glance at the head end, just for a moment, the way the honey's dripping makes it seem like he's crying. The tears

of a long dead man. Maybe that's enough for today. I leave this spigot on, figuring it will help the rest of the liquid drain. That night, I didn't feel like eating dinner, but that's fine. If I have any adverse reaction to the honey, I want to be sure it's not from something else anyway. I haven't eaten for a full day. To be more precise, I haven't been hungry for a full day. No appetite whatsoever. I woke up this morning and tried to eat the same breakfast I always do, but I just didn't want to. It's crazy. But the only thing that comes to, I'm just to come to, to mind as an explanation as the honey. Could it somehow have satiated my hunger for a whole day?

Hunger, or lack thereof, becomes the least of my worries when I walk into the lab in the morning. I know something's wrong the second I walk through the elevator doors. The lab is completely trashed. Glass is shattered, drawers are open everywhere, metal tools have been strewn about, and everywhere, over every surface, a familiar amber substance glistens. rushing over to the trough, I nearly slip in a puddle of honey. Had someone damaged the trough when they trashed the lab?

No, the seal appears tight, and the amount of honey in the container doesn't seem to have decreased. In fact, it's almost overflowing now. I glance inside the sarcophagus and then do a double-take. It's gone. The mummy is gone. Someone stole it. Okay, think. Stay calm.

I've got to call Mr. Sheldry. He'll want to know about this ASAP. The phone rings once or twice, before it cuts out suddenly, and I'm kicked to his voicemail. I think he's declined the call. Mr. Sheldrake, call me as soon as you get this. There's been a break-in at the lab. I think someone's stolen the mummy. I hear a loud bang.

A cold chill runs down my spine. I'm not alone here. I should run. I should sprint to the elevator and walk out of here. That's what I should do. But I don't. Instead, I turn inch by inch towards the banging. It's coming from a supply closet.

Maybe something just happened to fall when I came in. Can't write. I'm not that lucky. Against my better instincts, I creep slowly towards the closet. I jump out of my skin a little. Maybe someone's been tied up? Like the robbers had forced someone to lead them here, and then left them in the supply closet.

And now they're banging for help? A logical part of my brain argues that it's unlikely, and even if it's true, I shouldn't risk my life on a guess. A warm buzz in my brain pushes that thought aside and urges me forward. I press my thumb into the sliding door handle, depressing the latch. With a deep breath, I force myself to open the door. I'm greeted by horror. Absolute horror. A man is standing there.

A man with withered skin, dried out ice-out ice-water. sockets and brownish yellow teeth. His clothes are tattered linen wraps, and from his mouth and eyes flows an impossible stream of honey, making it almost appear as if he's crying. The ground of the supply closet is completely soaked in it. I'd eaten the honey. The honey that flows from this thing's body is inside me. Before I can grapple with that, it moves, taking a step forward. I try to jump back, but I immediately slip and tumbled at the ground. Trying to force myself to move, I can't help but notice on the ground that there aren't just random puddles of honey. No, there's a pattern and a shape. A wet slapping sound comes from

behind me, and I know it's the creature moving forward, so I scramble across the floor through the honey and glass. My hands get cut, and they're instantly coated in both blood and sugar. Still, I crawl to the elevator, even as I hear the monster following me. It stings, but I slapped my hand against the elevator call button, expecting it to light up. It doesn't. No! No! No! No!

No! I yell, hitting the button again and again. It had been working fine just five minutes ago. What in the... The phone call. Mr. Sheldrake had declined it. The elevator. It's been disabled intentionally.

My employers trapped me in here on purpose. The wet steps of the mummy draw closer and closer. Quaking with the elevator. With fear, I turn to face it. It's standing right above me. It leans over me. Honey pouring off its face and onto mine. I sputtered, trying to keep the honey out of my mouth.

I can't see. It's in my eyes. Please. Stop! I say, trying to crawl away. I don't get far before it reaches down and grips both my shoulders. Though it's barely more than bone, it's too strong. Or maybe I'm just too scared to.

The honey pours over my face. It's everywhere. Soaking my clothes, running down my throat, filling up my nostrils, covering my eyes. I swallow. But all that does is make room for more honey. My gag reflex tries to make space, pushes against the flow. It does nothing.

I can feel myself wriggle pathetically in its grip, but it doesn't loosen. I can't breathe. I can't. SEP 1176 is a milderable. rummified male corpse, estimated to be 35 years old at death, of Arabian descent, and dated to the 10th or 11th century AD. Despite severe tissue degradation, the brain shows continuous electrical activity similar to deep sleep. Instead of bodily fluids, SCP 1176 contains a honey-like substance,

SCP 1176-1, which is chemically identical to Anatolian honey. This fluid exudes from the body, varying in production rate with environmental conditions and does not deplete. SCP 1176-1 is safe to consume for individuals with AB plus blood type, providing high caloric and nutritional value without long-term effects. However, it causes severe allergic reactions and death in individuals with other blood types. SCP 1176 was recovered from a stone sarcophagus inscribed with a stone sarcophagus, inscribed with a Egyptian and Proto-Arabic texts and equipped with a spigot for extracting SCP 1176-1. The foundation acquired SCP 1176 in 1985 from a facility linked to fatal honey shipments in Ethiopia.

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