The SCP Experience - The Burnley Estate | SCP-6274

Episode Date: September 4, 2023

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-6274: The Burnley Estate This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-6274 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z 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

Welcome to aboard Via Rai. Embarked and profite. Embarque and celebrate. Rigolet. Publiere. Savoyed. Admire. And enjoy.

And profite. Villaray, the voice we love that we love. Stretching my arms up, I peer out the mansion window, joints cracking and popping in a symphony that lets me know I'm alive. Sunlight streams in through the newly opened shades. Dust moats, dance, in the beams. The lush greenery of the deep south stretches out before me. As far as I can see,

there's only my mansion, my property. Well, it may not be my mansion or my property, but I've been here long enough that it's easy to think about it that way. The plush carpet cushions my feet as I pull on some comfortable clothes and pat out into the hall. The ornate hallway welcomes me like an old friend. Everything that's not burgundy is polished wood. Even the light fixtures on the walls have burgundy shades. I pass many doors as I head for the curved staircase. Some of the doors are open on well-kept rooms. Some are closed on rooms that we only go inside once a shift. As I pass one door with an elaborate drawing carved into its wood, I hear heavy breathing from the other side. That's a door we don't open at all anymore.

At the curving staircase, I sit sideways on the polished wood handrail and slide down, hopping off to avoid hitting the carved post. Hustling to the massive front door, I open it up and stick my head outside, taking a heady whiff of Mississippi air. After shutting the door, I head over to the dining room. I step down into the high ceiling room and head toward the table, which is festooned with rotting food. When I look up, I see a man standing atop the huge circular table, his bowels hanging out of a bloody gash in his stomach. His eyes follow me as I grab a non-rotting banana from a fruit ball on the table.

Morning, I say. The man says nothing. I've never known him to speak. And he's not really a man anyway. Not anymore. As I head for the kitchen, I glimpse something out of the corner of my eye, turning my head to look at the center of the table. I see a trust and carved man as the centerpiece instead of the usual pig.

Unlike the partially disembowled guy, this is a man I've never seen before. He's chubby and young. His face stuck in a terrified grimace. That's new, I say, glancing up at the man with his bowels hanging out. He stares at me just as he has every other day. The banana peel snaps as I break it open. Heading to the kitchen, I peel the piece of fruit and take a bite. There you are!

Victor Retchy says impatiently as I step into the kitchen. He's a dark-haired man with a military bearing, and he's standing next to the long table, where the staff used to eat back when this place was an aristocrat's wet dream. Sitting at the table and staring at a computer screen is Juno Lehman. Both of them are dressed in their foundation uniforms. Lehman darts his eyes up at me before turning them to the screen. He's a wiry guy with a head of wispy blonde hair. His large nose and stooped back, give him the look of a vulture.

But he's a good kid. Unlike Retchy and I, who are both the same rank, Lehman is one notch below us. Really? Retchy says, You're wearing sweats to work now? I say with a mouthful of banana, as I point to the logo on the sweatshirt. It's foundation issue. And what about your shoes?

Retchie asks. No footwear today? Come on, man, I say. Do we have to do this every morning? Learn to enjoy the most kush of assignments. Have some fun. Live a little. I mean, there's nothing like being surrounded by death all day to make you appreciate life, right? Retchy scowls and turns back to the screen, looking over Lehman's shoulder. I move around the table, stopping to toss the banana peel into the trash bin as I go. What's going on? I ask. We were supposed to get a visit from a historical society liaison today, Ritchie says. But the guy never showed.

Historical society liaison? I asked. Grabbing a radio from a charging station and putting it in my pocket. You mean a foundation agent undercover in the local historical society? Obviously, it was implied. What time was he supposed to be here? I asked. An hour ago, Ritchie says.

Something suddenly occurs to me. You know what he looks like? Sure, Lehman says. Happy to be part of the conversation. His fingers clack on the keyboard, and he brings up an image of the guy's foundation badge. Oh shit, I say. This ain't good.

What? Ritchie asks. When was the last time either of you were in the dining room? I asked them. I don't go in there. That ghost gives me the creeps, Lehman says. Uh, I don't remember, Retchie says. That's your thing.

I know what's my thing. That's why I go through there every morning. It's also why I stash my fruit in there so you two heathens don't eat it. Get to the point. Right, sorry. The point is, I just saw your historical society liaison in there, and he didn't look alive anymore. Why didn't you say anything? Ritchie snaps.

I was going to, but you distracted me by talking about my damn clothes, I say. Besides, this house does some weird stuff sometimes. I thought it was just another ghost. And you're supposed to report in. weird stuff, Winters? Damn it! What the hell do you think I'm doing? I just came on shift, man. Give me a break. There's a loud thump from the dining room, drawing our attention. We all look at each other, knowing this shit is about to hit the fan. Uh, we better get geared up, I say. Rechie and Lehman nod. Oh great, more corpses, Ritchie says as we step into the

dining room. There's a man hanging from one of the overhead rafters, swaying slightly. He looks old-timey, just like the disemboweled ghost that still stands on the table. But our attention goes to the centerpiece. The historical liaison guy, whose name I've already forgotten, is still trust up there, looking as dead as ever. It's him all right, Retchie says. Before I can say I told you so, a platter of rotten mallard levitates and hurls toward us. Retchy and I duck, but Lehman is slower on the uptake. He takes the platter in the face, crash into the ground.

Overhead, the hanged man is swinging faster and faster on the rafter. All the platters and dishes on the table start to rattle. All of them, but my fruit bowl anyway. Raising my spectral elimination rifle, SER for short, I aim at the swinging wraith. But before I can pull the trigger, a tray of moldy dessert flies at me, hitting me in the stomach before I can dodge it. Retchy fires his S-E-R, hitting the hanged man with the energy blast. The guy dissipates in an explosion of spectral energy,

but the platters are still shaking. Thumping and creaking sounds come from elsewhere in the huge house. Looking over, I see Lehman spitting maggots out of his mouth, along with rotten mallard and dressing. And as I'm watching, a large two-pronged serving fork flies from the table and stabs him in the throat. He pulls the implement out on reflex, but it's the wrong thing to do. Not that leaving it in would have bought him much time.

Blood pours out of his throat, as I scramble over to him and help him up. We got to move! I shouted Retchie, who fires his SCR at the disembowled man with little effect. The three of us run from the dining room. Lehman, limping lung beside me, one hand to his throat. We get to the front door, and Retchie tries to open it. It won't budge.

I feel Lehman goes slack in my arm. I can't hold him up any longer, so I ease him down and check for a pulse. I find one, but it dies under my finger. It's never too early to plan your summer's, story in Europe with WestJet from rolling countryside to cobblestone streets begin your next chapter. Book your seat at

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Retchy shouts over the thumping, rattling, and creaking coming from all over the house. The seance room. I shout. The protocol. It's our only shot. Retchy nods and we book it toward the stairs. As we reach the second floor and turn down the hall. I noticed that the always closed door is now open. Wait!

I shout, but Retchie is already passing the door ahead of me. He glances into the room and freezes, then he turns and marches inside. Retchie, no! I shout, remembering what happened the last time that door was open. It was the most disgusting, disturbing thing I'd ever seen, and that was before anyone even got killed. But I also remember that the spirit inside the room only latches on to one person at a time, One man at a time, never a woman.

Knowing the only thing I can do to save Retchy is the protocol, I edge past the room, telling myself not to look, but I look anyway. Inside the room is a large, four-poster bed. Partially open curtains hang down from the panels over the bed. I look past Retchie, who was marching blithely toward the bed, and see the woman. She's lying propped up on the bed, her bulging stomach, looking like the skin of a sick whale. She screams again and again.

And as she tries to push the child through her birth canal, I remember the last time I was in that room. I'd gotten close enough to see the head crowning. Like I said, it was the most disgusting, disturbing thing I'd ever seen. They say childbirth is a beautiful thing, but I have to disagree. I'm not sure if the fact that the woman giving birth was a ghost had anything to do with my revulsion. But I'm not about to examine it too closely. Better to live in happy ignorance.

Hustling past the doorway, I know I only have a few minutes before Retchie is killed in that room of horrors. At the end of the long hallway, I turn into the seance room. It's draped with velvet curtains and features a small circular table, a miniature version of the table down in the dining room.

On one wall, there is a glass-fronted panel with a sign above it that says, break glass in case of emergency. I use the front of my S-E-R to break the glass. Then I set the rifle down and grab the book and the vial of blood from the panel. Flipping to the correct page, I read the words according to the directions left by the last members of the Burnley family to inhabit the house. This was the Burnley estate before the SCP Foundation took over,

and in the vial is some Burnley blood. For years, the Bernlies were friends with the ghosts, helping to keep them in line. And we'd been warned that the spirits might get mad if a member of the Burnley family was gone for too long. Sure enough, here I am. After speaking the incantation, I throw the vial of blood under the table, breaking the glass and spilling the liquid all over. The thumping and screaming and rattling and creaking all stop at once. Breathing heavily, I glance around, a smile creeping across my face. Picking my spectral elimination rifle up, I head out into the hallway. Retchie? I shout, walking down the hall. You okay?

Retchie steps out into the hall. I'm okay. I think. That was close. I breathe a sigh of relief as I walk toward him on the plush hallway carpet. But as I get closer, I notice that he's injured. Staring at him, I stopped next to the still open doorway to the pregnant ghost's room. Retchie's not just injured.

His neck has been collapsed. Glancing into the room, I see his body sprawled on the floor. Oh, shit! I say. Retchy's ghost follows my gaze and sees his own body next to the bed, right where it fell after the woman crushed his throat. Exactly what happened to the other guy the last time that room was open. Only the other guy didn't turn into a ghost.

Retchie's ghosts looks at me, anger distorting his dead features. This is your fault! He screams, lunging at me. I jump back, holding the S-E-R up. Don't do it, Retchie. You're a new ghost. This thing will blow you away. This makes him stop. He knows I'm right.

I track around him, still keeping the energy rifle pointed at him. As I go backward down the stairs, he follows, rage, clouding his face. Reaching back with one hand, I try the front door. It opens. I step outside and shut the door behind me, and I breathe another sigh of relief. Retchie's ghost can't leave the house. Pulling out my radio, I contact my supervisor and tell him what happened. He tells me to wait at the gate for a team to arrive.

We end the call, and I put the radio back in my pocket. As I turn and walk out to wait for the backup to arrive, my mood turns foul. I really liked this posting. But now I'll have to leave. I'll have no choice. Not with Reggie's ghost in there. Too much of a liability. I step on a sharp rock in the driveway, wincing as I look down at my feet.

Man, why didn't I put on shoes this morning? SCP 6274 refers to a unique phenomenon. affecting hauntings, apparitions, and spectral entities within the grounds of the Burnley Estate, located in Pallensby, Mississippi, USA. SCP-62-74 involves a sudden intensifying and subsequent cessation in previously stable spectral activity. The Foundation became aware of the Burnley Estate in the late 20th century, after the last of the Burnley bloodline moved from the estate. The local historical society tried to take possession of the house,

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