The SCP Experience - The Artful Murderer | SCP-151

Episode Date: January 15, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-151: The Artful Murderer This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-151 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Discover the Author's impressive series of SCP Tales here: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0BVWJFGV3 Check out more of Mr. Click's work here: newpulptales.com * * * 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 heavy clouds and moisture are held in a tight grasp by the Appalachian mountains surrounding me. Even still, I drive with the heat on low and the window cracked. Taking a deep pull from my vape pen momentarily fills the chill air with the flavor of skittles. The taste lingers on my tongue before I exhale slowly. As the vapor fades, all that's left is the smell of cold air and decaying leaves. It smells like home. Or, close enough to home anyway. West Virginia is only a stone's throw away from the part of Kentucky, my family originally called home. I'm getting a

different angle of the Appalachians than when I visited Mamma and Papa as a kid, but their towering presence is still a source of comfort. The houses around me don't fit in with the familiar scenery. I don't associate the Appalachians with gated community, or McMansions. Most of our neighbors were like us, hardworking but not rich. Not that there's much overlap between the two in my experience, but I guess you can find old money in any part of the world. It's just a matter of looking in the right places. The guard at the gate takes his job seriously. Only a few families can afford to set up shop behind Golden Dew's entrance, and the rich always like their privacy. The sheriff is one of the three.

few who can resist the resident's orders. And I know his orders are not to let anyone in until he's through. Still, I give the guard one of my cards and smile politely when he goes through his whole spiel, trying to get me to leave. Addiction has me reaching for my vape, but my manners keep me from taking a long drag and exhaling it in the guard's face. A tired voice on the radio cuts off the guard's attempt to get me to turn around. expecting some visitors. Give me a holler when he shows up. Awkwardly clears his throat, and then raises the walkie-talkie to his lips. This is Terrence at gate one, Sheriff Garcia.

Um, he's already here. There's a delay before the sheriff speaks again. Send him through, Terry. Pretty sure he knows the... The car the foundation provided me is a top-of-the-line new model SUV, but it clashes with the other vehicles lining the estates. Golden Dew has a collection of Ferraris and Benz's on display, despite the massive garages attached to the cookie-cutter mansions. More money sits idle on the blacktop than I've made my entire life.

The sheriff was right about finding the right house. Less than a dozen homes are sheltered within Golden Dew, and only one has a swath of police cars and an ambulance parked on the lawn. I pull in front of a nearby house, so I don't block anyone who needs to come or go. It looks like it's the right call. As I step out of the car, the ambulance pulls out to leave, then jerks to a sudden stop. A paramedic rushes out the driver's door and throws open the back.

He and his partner hoist a woman in yoga pants and a sports bra off the gurney. Liquid spews from her mouth, covering the front of the medic's uniform. Judging from her reaction of annoyance instead of disgust, I'm guessing this isn't the first time it's happened to her. Shit! I thought you got all the water out of her lungs. I did! The driver protests as he situates the woman on her hands and knees. Get the pump! We must have missed some!

I'd take it, you're the one Terry mentioned? The voice is commanding and cuts through my attention. Everything about Sheriff Arnoldo Garcia screams cop. The call must have come in while he was campaigning. He's wearing a suit. Clean, but not too expensive. His eyes are dark and appraising, not fully masking his annoyance. Cops hated when someone shows up and takes control of their scene,

even if it might give them some answers. I smile and reach for my wallet. He takes the card for me and examines it. Specialized police consultant? He mostly manages to keep the disdain from his voice. Never heard of you before. I batter down the cringe before it can. show on my face. Sometimes, the foundation's covers can be too on the nose. I'm sure whoever came

up with this particular fake agency kicked himself for not finding a way to switch the words police and consultant around to make it spell S-C-E. We're an agency of private investigators who have worked as consultants for numerous local, state, and federal enforcement bodies over the year, Sheriff. I keep my smile up as I rehash the script director Ramirez. gave me. You put in a request to the FBI for the recent crime spree plaguing your county. I'm afraid the feds are a bit too busy, but they've forwarded your request to us. Hmm. Sheriff Garcia flips the card over, examining the words printed on the front and back. Except that I only put the request in yesterday. Since when do the feds move this fast?

This time, I don't bother to hide my sigh. The foundation pulled everything. they could about the victims and the mover and shakers within Gold County. It's a small area, with Golden Dew considerably increasing the county's median income. Gold County has a long history of tending to itself without seeking outside help. Garcia was flagged as a possible red flag, a good cop by all records, one focused on getting the job done. He plays politics as a necessity, not out of enjoyment. Remirez and I saw this as a possible hiccup,

so she gave me permission to give him a modicum of the truth. You're right, Sheriff. Those instincts in your gut telling you there's something weird about me in the SPC, they're not wrong. We're not who or what we say we are, even though every check you'll run on us will say we're legit. I gesture to the house looming behind him. Another unsolved murder added to his otherwise spotless record.

Both those instincts are also right about this shitstorm that has unfortunately fallen into your lap. Something weird is going on in your town, and the regular playbook ain't going to cut it this time. Help me do my job, and we'll get everything back to normal. This can all be a bad memory in an otherwise long and lawful career. Cops are always hard to predict, but the widower Sherman starts gagging and puking her lungs out again. The smell of brine washes over us. Sheriff Garcia's nod is short and quick before he spins on his heel and heads toward the door.

Right this way, Mr. Cody. I don't see any reason to lie to him, so I don't. Cody Hale. Lazzangue surgell, Pucance Molyne, for 15 minutes. We're like it's their dojo.

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apply. As the printer hums behind me, I take stock of the small office the foundation provided for us. It's the perfect

size for a team of three. Big enough to give us room to work but cozy enough so we don't have to go far to get the other's attention. A twang of pity and guilt thrums in my chest as I examine the new surroundings. This used to be the Gold County News Office until cable TV and the internet

put the last nail in their coffin. I suppose I should just be happy we were able to find an office to rent with all the equipment we needed. I pulled the stack of freshly printed photos from the crime scene and walk over to the chalkboard. Computers are great, but I've always preferred something tangible that everyone can see when working with others. I add Niles Sherman's corpse to the board with the others and hope it starts connecting the dots. I try not to smile at the photographs of dead bodies pinned to the board. A lifetime of investigative journalism teaches you to keep your cards close to your chest.

Even still, I'm well aware of the excited tingle rising in my chest. I don't take any pleasure when it comes to death. I'm not some psychopathic killer, but when I was a journalist, those were the stories I was drawn to. Murder victims mean someone trying to cover something up, and it's a journalist's job to grab a shovel and go digging. Maybe that's why I'm so happy. It feels good to be back in my element, to be given a mystery and puzzle and permission to form a team and whip out our shovels. Lately, I felt too much like a soldier, answering the Foundation's marching orders and their war against the society. It feels good to get back to basics. You know, I'm good at other things besides making coffee, right?

I smirk at the slight tone of indignation. People who were cooling their heels in a Foundation security cell a couple of weeks ago shouldn't be so eager to put their feet into the flames again, Gus. August Huff's frown deepens. But I'm not sure if it's because... because of my metaphor, or because of the nickname I've given him. It's for his own good though. Nicknames make people more at ease.

Granted, no one in the foundation is going to forget Gus's old allegiance anytime soon. August is a former society member, several generations worth, but not by choice. The kid was born into the work, a descendant of servants who have served the society's aristocratic leaders since before the organization had a name. About a year back, August's noble benefactor screwed up a mission that got everyone on their team except him killed. Even worse, they managed to break out an insane SCP and unleash it onto a small town. The thing made a big enough mess that it got picked up on the Foundation's network. My usual partner, Minnie Booth, and I were the closest agents to respond.

Gus managed to park a car on top of the Berserk anomaly and until Minnie and I joined his dog pile with a tank. Director Ramirez was ready to lock Gus up and throw away the key. I couldn't stop her from doing the former, but I got her to hold off on the ladder. I saw something special in Gus that day. When it came time to make a decision, instead of hauling ass and not looking back,

he stuck around and pinned down a monster that he had a hand in liberating. We probably wouldn't have been able to contain it if it wasn't for him. The kid stared down terror and waited for the foundation, knowing damn well what would happen to him. As I sip my coffee, I sighs guss up once more. The year in captivity hasn't done much to change him, at least not at first glance. He's shorter than I am, but in a lot better shape. While his body language doesn't scream soldier, he's all lean muscle with blonde hair cut so short, it might as well be a crew cut.

Gus notices what I'm doing in squirms. In the society, he was trained to be seen and not heard. It's up to me to break him of that habit. Tell me what you see, Gus. Talking makes him more uncomfortable than staring at him. I can't really blame him for that either. As far as the society goes, the foundation is the devil,

and I'm one of their better-known demons. He takes a deep breath and scans the pictures before turning back to me. Dead bodies? I take a sip of coffee and relish the taste. He might have other talents, but the kid makes a good cup of Joe. Is that a question or an answer? Dead bodies, he says with certainty this time.

But the foundation wouldn't dispatch a team for a routine serial killing. So what's this all about? I drag out the silence by taking another sip of coffee. reaching into my pocket for my babe. What do the pictures have in common? It takes Gus a minute to realize that my question isn't rhetorical. He grumbles quietly before examining each of the photographs. Since his back is to me, this time, I do smile.

Gus had seized the initiative when SCP-58 broke out of containment and managed to hold it back with the tools he had at hand. Now that he's given us all his intel on the society, Ramirez decided it's time to see if he's of any use to the foundation. He's got the training and skill to go into security, but ingenuity and initiative are signs of a good investigator. So I convinced Ramirez to let me borrow him for a trial run. All in their backs, eyes open, skin going blue.

Thinking and not just following orders is new for Gus, so he does it out loud. Same cause of death, strangulation, Strangulation? Close, but no ligature marks. I stepped beside him, glad to be proven right about my instincts. They were all drowned. Drowned?

Gus glances at the photos again, looking to see if he's missed anything, and I do the same. Four pictures from four different crime scenes with a total of seven victims, soon to be eight, if I'm right about Mrs. Sherman. The first picture after the Sherman House is a living room, with a mother, father, and their eldest son sprawled across the floor. The next is a couple in their Mercedes driver and passenger side seats. The last is a guy in a hospital bed with tattoos covering his arms. They all have one thing clearly in common that goes against our cause of death.

But, Gus says, they're all on dry land. It gets better. The water the coroner pulled from their lungs, it's saltwater. Salt water? But we're in West Virginia. I nod. Wild and wonderful. Also landlocked. So that's why we're here? Huh. Well, spit it out, Gus. You're not with a society anymore. You won't get in trouble for voicing your opinion. Gus frowns. You sure about that? I think back to some of the pricks I've worked with in my time as a foundation agent. Well, you won't get in trouble with me anyway.

For the first time since I've met Gus, a tiny smile threatens to crack through his grim expression. He puts his finger on the picture of the man with the tattoos. This guy here? The other victims come from old money. That living room is bigger than our office, and that car is the latest model. If this was the society,

I would think they're investigating because the noble families are being threatened. Good eye, I pointed the man with tattoos. Billy Crane was the first documented victim. He checked into the local ER, gasping for breath and puking saltwater. He's got quite the rap sheet too, mostly armed robbery and breaking and entering. And you're not completely wrong either. The Foundation gets its money through several different sources, including private donations. Our other victims have a history of donating to the Foundation's various fronts.

and we've had members of their family in our ranks from time to time. Society retaliation? I shake my head. This is the type of money that likes power they can wield out in the open. We haven't had a McCluskey, Hyatt, or Sherman in the foundation ranks since the 70s. So, what's the connection? Agent Hale? The monotone voice interrupts my thoughts.

Gus is uncomfortable around me, but he's absolutely terrified of Cain. It could be because of his metallic arms or legs, but I think it's more likely that Kane is an SCP, SCP 73, to be precise. He's of the friendly variety, or at least the not overtly hostile variety. I've worked with him before, and his thousand of years of experience have come in handy for the foundation more than once. What can we do for you, Kane? Sheriff Garcia has done as you asked.

Each of the victim's devices has been inserted with the foundation USB. I've discovered something interesting. The foundation has lots of gadgets and tools at its disposal. But my favorite so far has been its USB drives. They can record and copy a computer's hard drive in minutes. I don't know if they came across the technology from one of the SCPs in containment or through their connections with the government. But either way, they make the job a hell of a lot.

Holy shit, Gus says, breaking my train of thought at the same time. That's fast! Perks of a cybernetic brain and eons of experience. Kane's words are as devoid of emotion as ever. He's not boasting. He's simply stating a fact. Excluding Mr. Cranes, I did find something that each of the other victims had in common. They each received an email with this image.

Kane sits down in his chair, his fingers racing across the keyboard. It only takes him a moment to pull up the image. Gus and I perched on each of his shoulders like a couple of curious gargoyles. The scenery is shades of blue and green, with a reflection of light toward the top of the image. It looks like it's underwater, Gus scratches his head. Can we do an image search and cross-reference it to any known works of art? I smile because I already know Kane's answer. I've already done so, Mr. Huff.

No connections could be found. The email then. We can dig into those and see who. Gus realizes I'm smiling. Then sighs as he finally catches on. I'm guessing you already did so, Cain. Indeed, each was sent from a different email connected to the dark web. From there, I'm afraid the trail runs cold. Maybe on the internet, but I think you boys are forgetting where you are.

I walk to my desk and return with one of the old papers I've been reading in my spare time. Tragedy strikes Gold County, the headline proclaims. Gold County News was a small outfit that never went online, so you wouldn't have found this, Cain. A couple of years ago, the eldest from each family took a joyride on one of their boats off the coast of Florida. The boat and the kids were never seen again. That can't be a coincidence.

Gus closes his eyes and thinks. Hang on a second. What about Billy Crane? How does he fit into all this? I mean, I don't mean to speak. ill of the dead, but he didn't seem like the sort who rubbed shoulders with the rich and powerful. He's an outlier. I hand him the paper. Read this to the end. You'll find another. Cain, is there a match in town for a family with the last name, Timber? Cain doesn't even have to reach for the

computer. The information is probably already saved in his memory banks from the foundation debriefing. They own the local pawn shop. Huh, another piece of the puzzle falls into place. But I still have some questions and some reservations. Kane, I'm going to need your help. RBC Training Ground has discovered potential in over 20,000 Canadian athletes and counting. Your story could be next. If you've got the drive,

they'll help you find your path to the Olympics. Let's see what you've got. Sign up for free at rBC trainingground.ca. I adjust the new glasses on my face before stepping into the pawn shop. Two steps, and I immediately bang my leg to the sharp edges of a table. Swearing, I hobble to the side

and slowly glance at the clutter filling the walls. Like most pawn shops, everything imaginable lines the shelves. An elderly man rears up from behind the counter. Can I help you, sir? I focus on his dark sunglasses and the blank easel behind him.

Maybe. I just moved, and I'm looking for some new artwork for my place. Could I look at that painting behind you? Painting? He cocks his head and then reaches behind him, his fingers tracing over the canvas. Oh, is that what this is? I'm afraid it's not for... Hey, Dad. The ringing bell above the door and a new voice cut the man off.

You know you're not supposed to. He freezes when he sees me. And it takes me a few seconds to recognize him through my new lenses. My smile spreads as the last piece of the puzzle falls into place. Hey there. It's Terrence, right? The security guard from earlier twitches. His eyes widening as adrenaline rushes into his brain.

Before he can run away or hit me, I step forward and lower my voice. We don't have to do this in front of your dad. Your call, Terrence. My option is enough to stop Terrence from cleaning my clock or bolting for the door. Given his size, I think he could do both easily. Luckily for me, he clears his throat and looks at his dad instead of choosing to do something that'll leave me unconscious or winded. Hey, Dad, your stories are about to start.

Why don't you clock out early? I'll handle things with our customer. All right, Mr. Timber stands, using his hands to guide his way to the steps leading up to the apartment above the store. I'll put the cattle on. Tea should be cooled off and ready to drink by the time you lock up. Sounds good. Terence takes his father's spot behind the counter.

sinks onto the stool and glares at me. What can I do for you? You can hand over whatever it is that you've been using to drown the real housewives of Gold County. I point with my hand. I'm guessing it's that painting behind your back, the one that Billy Crane tried to steal when he broke in a couple of weeks ago.

You fought him off. You have a background insecurity. It couldn't have been that hard. And you were probably going to file a police report, except Billy Crane drowned. Terrant smiles. Nothing they could do for him. And no one could explain why.

A small town like this? Gossip like that spreads faster than wildfire. No doubt. I matched his smile with my own. You know, I grew up in a small town like this. I've got a little sister too. If anyone hurt her, well, I'd probably be doing the same thing you're doing. Except I would make sure that I was hurting the right people.

The right people? Terence slams his fist down on the counter. The trash and golden do are the right people. They look down on the folks in this town just because they've got money. Tracy was talented, an artist. Enough to get her a scholarship to go to that fancy academy with their spoiled brats. I told her not to go on that cruise with them. They were just using her.

Those rich brats got her killed. And they barely mentioned her name in the goddamn paper. But then that painting showed up, right? I have to keep him talking for a few more minutes. Lucky you didn't get a good look at it. But your sister's disappearance was tough on your old man. You've been helping him run the shop in addition to your full-time gig as a security guard. You probably didn't even notice it until Billy Crane broke in.

I knew I had to be careful about Billy's drowning. Terrence's smile borders on delusion. I don't know how, but my sister sent that to us from beyond the grave. The names on the back were the names of the people responsible for her death. She wanted to make them pay. So, you tried sending them the picture, but the painting doesn't work like that. And it's a good thing it doesn't. Otherwise, you would have been killed when you snout that picture.

But it has to be a direct line of sight for it to work, right, Terrence? Yes, like this. Terrence spins and grabs the painting, brandishing at me like a weapon. It looks the same as in the picture, with wavy blues and greens that capture the ocean's depth. I raise my hand to my throat and gag. Terrence lowers the painting so I can see him smile. I cough and straighten. Sorry about that.

Tried out this new vape flavor that's supposed to taste like cigarette, but it just tastes like ass and scars your throat up. Terence's confidence drops for confusion, and his eyes edge toward the painting. But I stop him by clearing my throat and tapping my glasses. Yeah, I've got her friend who's great with gadgets. These aren't really glasses. They're projecting a photo of my eyes on the outside,

but there's a camera recording and projecting everything into the inside of my lenses. The delay makes me a little clumsy, but hey, beats drowning, am I right? Terence swears, drops the painting, and bolts for the side door. He plows straight into Gus's wading elbow. The much larger man staggers back and cocks a haymaker that would knock the head off a gorilla. Gus ducks under it, using Terrence's his arm. using Terrence's momentum to surprise him, then sweeps out his knees. A leg lock later, and Terrence is tapping out and getting coughed.

You're right, Gus. I turn the painting around and look at the names on the back. Hamilton McCluskey III, Solomon Sherman, Adriana Hyatt, and Tracy Timber. All in the same handwriting. Another mystery for someone else to solve. You are good for more than coffee. SCP 151 is a 1 meter by 1.3-m. meter oil painting, apparently from the perspective of someone underwater. A subject who views the painting exhibits no initial effects.

However, over a period of 24 hours, the subject's breathing becomes increasingly labored, culminating in the death of the subject. Autopsies reveal that subjects' lungs have filled with seawater. Attempts to halt the drowning process by medical intervention have proven successful in prolonging the life of the subject, but have, have not stopped nor reversed the condition. The painting is not signed, but several names are written on the back. SCP 151 was found in an antique shop in Gold County, West Virginia, after the foundation began

investigating a series of unexplained drowning deaths. As West Virginia is landlocked, the foundation dispatched a team of plainclothes agents after being informed of the nature of the water in the victim's lungs and the victims had all been discovered on dry land. The agents discovered that the names written on the back belonged to a group of artistically inclined students, all of whom disappeared during a mysterious boating accident. Investigation into their fate is ongoing and may provide clues as to the nature and origin of SCP 151.