The SCP Experience - Sand Attack | SCP-165

Episode Date: April 29, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-165: Sand Attack This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-165 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas C. * * * 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

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. I don't know how long the mosquito has been resting on my hand. They're the vampiric dentists of the insect world, as if dentists needed help to be scarier.

I run the joke through my head, wondering if it's worth a post. Probably worth a couple hundred likes on Twitter, or X. Still not used to that. Stay on brand! Kendra doesn't even have to open her mouth to put me down. I hear her favorite phrase, even while she's sitting next to me. Ears clogged with buds and eyes glued to her phone. Stay on brand.

She picked it up from a combination of books, blogs, and through her own trials and errors. Unless it's got something dead in it, keep it to yourself. Christ. I've heard other influencers talk about this before. The drive for clicks and views become so encompassing that it permeates your every waking thought. You can't ever unplug. Every decision you make, from what meal to eat or how to relax, runs through the filter of monetization and signal boosting. Kendra and I used to laugh behind closed doors at this advice. We would never be like them.

Flash forward a year and we haven't exchanged a word. since our flight. I can't stay angry at her while her thumbs flash as she checks our numbers. Not when I've been analyzing a joke for so long that I've forgotten about the little parasite doing a keg stand on my thumb. Wait, could that be a joke? Swearing, I raise my hand, ready to vent my frustrations on the little blood sucker. It takes off at the last second. The sound and display of me hitting myself is enough to register even through Kendra's earbuds. But there's only a slight pause of her thumbs before she resumes typing. Stay on brand, sweetheart.

I stare across the miles of unending sand and realize I'm not even 30 and trapped in a loveless marriage. Kendra and I started dating after a chance encounter at film school. She was studying to be an actress while I focused on producing and editing. Back then, parental support and our student loans helped offset our starving artist lifestyle. We knew it was only temporary, though. Kendra and I had big dreams, and it would only be a matter of time before we reached them. The real world crushed our dreams almost as soon as we graduated. We could only afford an apartment plagued with roaches, rats, and constant gunfire.

A competitive job market and lack of experience quickly saw us on the sidelines of the entertainment industry. My parents are well off, but not rich, and they couldn't afford to support me. me while I took an unpaid internship to get my big break. Kendra and I hustled for any 9 to 5 gig we could get our hands on, but, of course, they were difficult to find. My most reliable source of income was a part-time stint at a fast food joint. I worked with an older guy who was an accountant before his cocaine addiction took most of that away from him.

Despite that, he managed to hold on to his coveted Mercedes-Benz. When we were sharing a cigarette break and bitching about our lives, he told me he supplemented his work through online freelancing. Equally curious and desperate, I signed up on the website he linked me to that night. My first few editing gigs hurt more than they helped. After the freelancing platform took their 20%, I was left with a little over $20. I was ready to give up, but my co-worker encouraged me to stick with it. I'm glad I did. After six months, I built up a reputation as a quick and reliable video editor.

Suddenly, Kendra and I were the envy of our friends struggling to make it in the entertainment industry. I made enough money to move us into a slightly less dingy apartment in a much better neighborhood. Once I became certain that the work wasn't going away, I did the thing we all dream about. I quit my job in a blaze of glory, cursing out the manager and laughing in his face while he threatened to call the cops. I got us a better apartment, but Kendra's why we bought our first house. I always felt more comfortable behind the scenes in school, but Kendra wanted to be a star. When her acting career never progressed more than an extra on a few TV shows, she made a YouTube channel, makeup tutorials, video essays, drama tea, MLM scams. She went after all the trends at some point

or another. I didn't know she was live streaming one Mopey Sunday afternoon when I flopped on the sofa beside her and tried to cheer her up. I guess I must be a funny guy because Kendra's accidental video became a viral sensation. The video was nothing special, just me and her swapping jokes and making googly eyes at each other while watching some trash TV. When I'm feeling more optimistic, I think it's because of the vast uncertainty of this world. It is seeped into every aspect of life, physically, financially, spiritually, even romantically. Because of the grim world we live in, it's comforting to watch anyone be genuinely happy. Looking at a couple and knowing they're meant to be together solely from how they banter

is one of the rare certainties in these dark times. Happiness isn't found in the broad strokes, it's in the finer details, in the little everyday moments. Kendra's video accidentally captured us framed in that moment of certainty and happiness. Those were the good old days. Back when Kendra and I were just a couple of guerrilla YouTubers trying different things and seeing what the audience liked. Our next big venture came from reacting to horror movies,

and from there, we found our real footing when we toured a supposed haunted house in the area. It was bullshit, of course, but some slight editing on my part convinced some people that the supernatural was real. Kendra and I started touring the country and became bona fide supernatur. certified supernatural investigators slash YouTubers. By the end of the first year, I was exhausted and wanted to try something new. It's a stupid thing to complain about, I know. We're extremely fortunate.

Millions of people would kill to be in our position. Kendra flipped out when I ran the idea by her. She berated me, bringing up the struggles we went through, and asked if I wanted to go back to that. It was during that argument that I first heard those three fucking words plaguing my life. Stay on brand. But that's the problem. Our brand is us.

We've been slowly giving away those little moments of happiness to hordes of strangers. We can't do anything anymore without putting a fucking camera in front of us in live streaming. When you build scripts around real life, how do you stop real life from feeling like a script? Stay on brand. It's Kendra's answer to everything. With each passing day, she sinks deeper into the community and further away from me. me. She barely interacts with the outside world anymore. She only talks to me now when the camera's running, but I've got to give Kendra credit. She's still a hell of an actress. When the cameras

are on, I almost feel like she hasn't changed, that I haven't changed. But there aren't any cameras in the car, just me, a hungry mosquito, and a whole lot of desert. Since Kendra's dead to the world, I turn up the radio to keep me company. My phone needlessly interrupted the music, telling me to turn right. But I just followed Steve's car in front. He refuses to ride with me. I've got a little too much lead in the old right foot. It makes me wonder how he's keeping up with Chad and Kim.

We've only met the other couple a few times on Zoom. As soon as our plane touched down, they showed off their new G-wagon before dropping us off at the rental place. Since then, the three of us have been having a hard time catching up with the kids in their influencer mobile. Kids, I snored at the thought. Chad and Kim are only a few years younger than us, but a lot can change during that time, especially if you're working on YouTube. Steve signals a good mile before he needs to. My foot dances impatiently on the brakes as I limit my speed.

It looks like Chad and Kim haven't gotten too far ahead. The dust flying off the unpaved road still lingers in the air. I whistle as the bleached walls of the old fort come into focus. The wooden doors rotted and fell off long ago, giving us a clear path to Mosey right in. Holy shit, I let out a chuckle and glance around. Just look at this place. Dad would love it out here. My father is the type of guy who models his life around classic westerns. Fredericksburg is like the set of an old John Wayne movie left to fendezer.

for itself, but too mean and stubborn to die. The thought of my father brings a frown and scowl toward Kendra. They still haven't spoken to each other since our live-streamed wedding. I look up at the last second into Steve's brake lights. I swear, slam on the brakes, and Kendra's phone collides with the windshield. She pulls her earbuds out for the first time all day and swears at me. I nod, the words washing over me as I mumble my half-felt apologies. At least I didn't slam. into Steve's truck. That's one working relationship I've been able to salvage. Kendra is still tearing into me when Steve parks in front of an old saloon straight out of Deadwood, so I follow his lead. Steve's dented pickup stands out all the more, wedged between two overpriced luxury

vehicles. Knowing the roads would be rough, I was hoping to rent something with four-wheel drive, but Kendra vetoed me and insisted on the most expensive, least practice. model. Kendra slams her door hard, her feet sinking into the sand. It reminds me of a toddler trying to play in the snow. If toddlers could curse me out while checking their phone for damage, Kendra looks around and huffs once more before adjusting her sunglasses. Where's Chad? Just Chad? Not Kim? I swallow my suspicions and mentally prepare for the task at hand. Beats me. They couldn't have gotten far, right? Why don't you give them a call? Now that Kendra has something to do, I focus on the one part of the job I still like.

One side of the truck sinks and jumps up as Steve emerges. Our cameraman is nearly 50, but I can't imagine he's got too many years left. He's got to be close to 400 sedimentary pounds. Sweat is already running through his thick beard, but he shows no discomfort. He frames his hands into a square and peers through them. Oh yeah, he mumbles, turning from the saloon. dirty windows and panning to the second floor. You can't pay for this kind of set.

I've got to make a few calls and let some people know about this place when we're done. Steve makes me grin. He's the last person you would expect to be making a living from YouTube. And maybe that's what I like about him. Like me, Steve prefers the technical side of content creation. But nobody can get a shot like him. And his experience puts our cinematography over other channels with twice our numbers. I glance over the recording equipment and remember the old days once more.

Why don't you start getting some B-roll? I managed not to frame my hands the same as Steve. I'm thinking we could start with an opening panoramic of the town, then focus on the saloon. Steve nods. Trying to build the ambiance. It could work. Maybe establish long shots to draw the people in,

but you also want this place to feel haunted. The best way to do that is to clash the past with the present. But that's going to cost you big. We're talking remodeling extras. Nah, we'll go low budget. I jerk my thumb toward the saloon's door. I'm thinking sound effects from the bar, splashed with an echo effect.

Like drinks clinking together, old-timey piano music playing, maybe a loud drunken guffaw. Yeah, the best guffas are always drunken. My laugh is involuntary and lifts my spirits in a way only filmmaking can. There's something contagious about meeting someone that you mesh with creatively. Steve and I always had a good rapport. It's one reason why I insisted on hiring him despite his higher rates.

I keep discussing our plan for several minutes until I notice the look. Every filmmaker knows the look. It's when your crew has a problem they don't want to tell you. No good? No, it's all great. Stephen shakes his head. Especially if you were going to do a documentary, only. Well, is that what we're shooting today?

My mood pops against reality's harsh edges. Of course, we won't be able to shoot what I want. Our videos all have the same format. We'll play our background music, interspersed with a theme from Chad and Kim's channel, then a brilliant exchange between the four of us, laughing way too hard at bad jokes. Then we'll set up the flashlights and ghost boxes and overreact to our staged jump scares.

Wash and repeat. Right. I force a smile. Stay on. Copper fills my mouth as I bite down on my tongue. But at least I stop myself from saying it. Steve flinches. Being the expert cameraman that he is, I know he sees more than he lets on.

But Steve's a professional first and foremost. He ignores my awkward stutter and reaches for the camera when a scream rips through the dead town. Kendra! Lazzang sur-joled, Pucance-molyne for 15 minutes. We'd say that's the hour Dojo!

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Savoray. Admire. And enjoy. And profite. Viaray, the voice that we love that am. Sand flies all around me as I plow through the drifts toward Kendra. I find her in the open street next to a collapsed building.

Her phone hangs her side, clutched in fingers that have gone bone white. From somewhere nearby, Taylor Swift sings something somehow both revolting and catchy. Better not say that on the channel. The viewers will have mine. The quip dies in my mind. All thoughts of humor and happiness become a blank void as I stare at the source of the music. A phone, probably Chads or Kim's, lies in a puddle of red mud. The screen flashes again, branding Kendra's number.

Why does he ever list it as mom? Slowly, my senses return, and I turn away from the phone. The sight is so grisly that my mind again grasps for something else. But I can't look away from the skeletons, half buried in chunky sand mixed with blood. A chunk of flesh still clings to the side of one face. I remember Kim's vibrant blue eyes from the sample footage Kendra showed me. I keep staring until the eye pops, spilling more goo in the vile mixture. Jesus Christ!

is finally caught up with us. He walks beside me, his heavy chest heaving as he stares at the crime scene. Crime scene? I'm thinking back to our true crime days, the terminology slipping over me like a warm blanket against my shock. But that's what it is, right? Someone, or something, killed Chad and Kim. Steve's composure breaks with a deep, shuddering gag. Bending down, he heaves and adds the nauseating odor of regurgitated breakfast burritos to the already overpowering stench of death. I turn away, covering my mouth, and find Kendra. She's taking deep breaths, trying to stop herself from panicking. I reach over, rest my hand on her shoulder, and her eyes snap open. Okay, she takes another quick breath. So, let's take it from the top. Steve, get

behind me. Start doing banter like you do with Andre. I wanted to look like we're disgusting. a scene, and then I'll ask you if you see that. Shit, if you two hadn't been dicking around, we could have caught my reaction live. What? I stare at her. Are you serious? Chad and Kim are dead. I know. I'm the one that found them.

Kendra sucks air through her teeth like she's the teacher, and I'm the stupid student. But sitting around crying won't bring them back. And I'm not saying we don't alert the authorities. Just think about the big picture. We'll get millions of views. We'll dedicate the video to Chad and... What's her name? This is our chance to get moist critical numbers.

Just stay on. Shut the fuck up! My voice echoes through the dead down. The pent-up anger and shock on Kendra's face feels so good that I do it again. Shut the fuck up, Kendra! This isn't us playing Scooby-Doo for a video. People are fucking dead.

We're calling the cops. We're not filming anything. And I fucking quit. Uh, guys. Steve's voice breaks the brittle sight. silence after my outburst. What's that? No, Steve!

Kendra stomps her foot. I'm supposed to ask you that. Places, people. I don't hear another word. I'm too busy looking at where Steve's pointing. A wall of sand rises from the desert surrounding Fredericksburg. It billows toward us, a tornado of broken dirt. The ground shifts and ripples like waves,

burying any sign Chad and Kim ever existed. Kendra is still yelling as I grab a wrist. jerking her forward as we run for our lives. She shuts up when this shadow falls over us. Kendra doesn't know what's after us, but at least now she knows enough to be scared. My lungs burn as I run toward the saloon. No time to get in and start the car.

I charge inside, choking and coughing on the centuries of dust, lingering in the air. Leaning against a table, I see Kendra doesn't look much better than me. It's hard to run in heels. Oh shit! I realize my mistake. We forgot about Steve! Oh, who gives a shit about him?

Steve! Kendra's voice goes high and sickly sweet as Steve limps inside. Dirt cakes every inch of his body, turning into mud against his sweaty frame. I take one of his arms and help him to a chair. The ancient wood groans against his weight. Hey, you okay, buddy? I swallow and wipe some of the dirt from his face.

His skin is pure white underneath. You don't look so good. I... I just... Stephen coughs and takes a deep breath. It just feels like I'm out of energy. Maybe try supersizing only twice a day. Kendra mutters loudly.

Shut up! God, that still feels good. Steve's breathing becomes more labored. And as I rest a hand on his shoulder, my fingers find something hot and sticky. Steve's shoulders are drenched in blood. I keep quiet and walk behind him, not wanting him to panic, but I can't stop myself from gasping. The back of Steve's shirt is gone.

I'm staring at a wall of red meat. The dirt on his shoulders trickles and congeals down his back. As it settles, Steve's flesh disintegrates, revealing his spine. The bones snap with a loud pop, and Steve's body collapses into a pile of blood and spilled organs. Kendra screams again, and I look down at my hands. The tips of my fingers are disappearing, the skin and nails melting away. But there's no pain, only blood and dirt. The dirt! I look around the building.

It's so ancient that a gentle breeze should knock it over. How is it still standing? Listening closely, I realize there's no wind. The air is quiet, except for a very slight hum. We've got to go! I grabbed Kendra by the wrist and march toward the stairs. The first step groans but supports my weight. Are you crazy? Kendra yanks back.

We need to wait here until the storm passes. It's not a storm. The sand's alive. Kendra scoffs and laughs before she sees the seriousness on my face. She turns back towards Steve's body. All that's left is his skeleton and a pool of blood. Sand billows through the door like an avalanche. The dirt doesn't remain motionless. It squirms and writhes toward us.

I always laughed in movies when a guy would run on top of a train. What's his end goal? In the best case scenario, he puts off getting caught for another few minutes. As I drag Kendra up the stairs, I realize they're not running because they're thinking. They're running because they're completely terrified. Like me, all they're looking for is a little distance. And right now, I'd kill for a fucking train. I charge into one room and slam the door shut behind me. The dust is thick, and the stench of mold is enough to make me gag. the windows, but the sand is piled up to the second floor. We're not getting out that way. I snapped to Kendra and follow where she's pointing. From the flex of swallowed sunlight,

I can make out a string hanging from the ceiling. An attic! I leap up and swat at it, but come up two feet short. The floor groans like thunder, and I steady myself against the creaking wood. It holds, but sand is at the door, piling through the crack. Lift me! Kendra digs her nails into my shoulders and forces me to my knees. I yell as she pulls my hair and digs her nails into my scalp. She wraps her legs around my neck, and I stretch as much as I can. Kendra's hands grasp the cord as the sand slides under my feet. She yells in triumph and tugs.

The rusted hinges come off with a loud pop, sliding the ladder down. I set Kendra down, and she bolts up the ladder. I scramble after her. My hand screaming in pain as the numbness from earlier vanishes. Grunting, I turn and catch Kendra's heel on. on my jaw, come too in a cloud of warm softness. Something is wrong. My vision is blurred, tinted red, and my mouth is filled with grit.

I lift my hand to my face. The skin is completely gone. Only a few red strands of muscle remain. Andre, get up, babe! Kendra lets out an anguished howl, but she's smiling from the rafters above me. Her phone is out and pointing straight at me. Oh, that fucking bitch! She's live casting my death for the audience to see.

She wants her big break, no matter the cost. Is this all because I told her I quit? Of course it is. She had been cold about Chad and Kim's deaths, but she's taking glee out of my suffering. The Kendra I met in film school is gone. All that's left is this ghoul, so self-obsessed with clout. That's all she can see.

I smiled through my numb pain. Yes, that's all she can see. She doesn't realize that it's not dust making her cough. The sand has been in the saloon all along, just waiting for us. And Kendra doesn't even realize it. Not until she sees the trail of blood running down her face and screams. I laugh. Stay on brand, babe!

I keep laughing until my jaw dissolves. The organic component of SCP-165 resembles typical parasitic mites. 750 micrometers in length, with eight legs and a genetic structure similar to the house dust mite. The main difference is the hermit crab-like behavior of attaching grains of sand to its back. It is unknown what purpose the sand serves, but the massive colony of SCP-165 numbers in the hundreds of billions to possibly trillions, creating a rather large dune. The mites are protozoan in nature and show a collective intelligence and awareness. SCP 165's colony doesn't show cooperation, but rather competition in the hunt for food.

Like mosquitoes, they rely on chemical detection of carbon dioxide and sugars in the air to detect prey. The mites roll and bound over one another toward prey. When in contact with the flesh of animals, they release a numbing chemical toxin in their bite, similar in makeup to that of mosquito and flea bite toxins. Objects are typically unaware that millions of mites are taking turns at grabbing mouthfuls of its flesh as they swarm around their victim. A typical swarm resembles a swirling vortex around a victim or victim's appendage. The SCP-165 colony is efficient enough in their competitive swarming that most animals' appendages can be defleshed and reduced to bone within minutes.

The numbing toxin is so effective that sleeping victims may not wake up as their limbs are eased. eaten away. The mites are resistant to all but the most dangerous of pesticides. They retreat from heat and will often seek shade when available, being the most active during the night, hunting for large, sleeping prey. Their vulnerability to heat is the most preferable technique for containment. However, this is not always effective, especially when the mites are frenzied.