The SCP Experience - The Buzz of Flies, the Screams of Innocents | SCP-4891

Episode Date: August 19, 2024

SCP Foundation APOLLYON class object, SCP-4891 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-4891 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt D. * * * 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

Sitting on a rock in the beaming sunshine, I watch from the edge of the reservoir as the small crowd of 20-somethings mill about 40 yards away. The water 50 feet below is tropical blue by some magic of minerals in the rock. Lush green branches sway in the humid breeze, releasing the heady smell of summer with each rustle of leaves. The group that arrived just 10 minutes ago came tromping through the trees, bringing with them the bluster and noise. common to their generation and age group. When I picked this area as the burial place, I knew it was frequented by people looking for an adrenaline spike from jumping off the cliffs. That was part of the allure.

I wanted to have an excuse to come out here, to not be seen as suspicious for being here. Although I have no intention of swimming, I wear swim trunks and a loose Hawaiian shirt. My backpack contains a beach towel, a Jonathan Mayberry paperback, a bottle of water, and snacks. I peer through my sunglasses at the group of three men and two women as they drink their beers and played their music through a small Bluetooth speaker. They noticed me when they first came into the clearing on the cliffside, but paid me little mind. Even though I knew I could be inviting trouble, I can't help but watch them with a scientist's studiousness. The electric jolt of envy running through my veins is as familiar to me as the contours of this reservoir.

I've always been painfully introverted and socially awkward, so I've never experienced the pleasure of having friendships like the group of five I now watch. I'm not a complete recluse. I have what some would consider friends, but are more like acquaintances. But the easy and carefree happiness I see expressed among the five, is something foreign to my experience. The two women remove their shirts and shorts, revealing bikini swimsuits. One of the men glances at me.

I should look away, but I don't. I think my opaque sunglasses are enough to give me reasonable doubt, but apparently the man doesn't see it the same way. Dressed in a tank top and swim trunks that only come down to mid-thigh, It's clear to see he has the kind of physique women are generally attracted to. His muscles bulge, his tan skin is clear of blemishes, at least from this distance. I finally look away, but it's too late. Hey!

Tanktop says, clearly shouting at me. Turning my gaze to the water, I tried to ignore him, hoping he'll drop it. He doesn't. He says, this time, I look over, raising my eyebrows trying to look innocent. What's your problem? He says, walking over with the beer still in one hand. Me? I say, still sitting, elbows on knees.

What the fuck are you staring at, asshole? Tanktop says, walking faster now, reminding me of one of those speedwalkers, all swaying hips and pumping arms. If he weren't so big, he would look ridiculous. But size and musculature go a long way to make someone look tough. His four friends stare after him, looking half shocked and half amused. Sorry, I say, as he stops right in front of me, his back to the cliff. It's a stupid move, and one born of overconfidence.

I could just shove him backward. Chances are, he wouldn't clear the rocky outcropping near the water surface that jumpers must clear. or else face serious injury. He'd probably crack his skull open. But of course, I don't push him. I don't like this kind of conflict. Sorry? Tanktop says, mockingly.

Sorry for being a fucking creep? My hands are shaking as I look between them, down at my feet. Yes, I say. Why don't you just fuck off? He says, raising a hand and pointing to the trail through the wood. that leads back to the dirt parking lot half a mile away. Okay, I say. But tank top doesn't move.

He forces me to pivot awkwardly on the rock, so I have room to stand up. I grab my bag and move away from him. A quick glance at the other four reveals smirks on all but one face. One of the girls, a brunette and a bright pink bikini, looks disgusted. I can't tell if she's disgusted with tank top's behavior. or with mine. Fucking pervert, tank top calls after me as I start down the trail. I stop and look over my shoulder at him.

I said get lost, creep, he shouts, starting down the trail toward me. I turn and shuffle away, but I don't leave. Once I'm a quarter of a mile away, I cut into the woods. I'm not leaving here without visiting the burial ground. It's why I came here anyway. I always stop at the reservoir first to get my head right, remembering all the good times and the joy I felt with her. Then, once I've had time to meditate, I go visit her. But today, something is different.

As I approach the burial site, I start seeing small black flies everywhere. There are dozens of them, hundreds maybe. They're not your common housefly. These are smaller. One of them lands on my arm. I go to brush it away, expecting it to fly off, but it runs quickly down my arm, only flying off when it has no more limb to run along.

As I move through the woods toward the small clearing, I notice more and more flies. They land on me, crawling along my exposed skin, but they don't bite, so I don't mind. It's been a long time since I had a problem with insects crawling on me. Perhaps because I got used to the sensation when I was a child. My stepfather used to lock me in the cellar whenever I was bad. The place was infested with insects of all kinds,

mostly spiders and cockroaches. One time, when he broke my cat, Simons, neck, and threw him in the cellar, there were flies. I stayed down there for 12 hours with my rotting cat, listening to and feeling the flies on my skin. skin. But by then, I was getting used to being in the cellar with the bugs. The first dozen times I was forced into that dark, dank cell. I cried and blubbered and begged to be let out. But eventually, I realized that thrashing around and freaking out would only get me bitten by the spiders,

who thought I was trying to hurt them. It took some time, but I eventually managed to accept the bugs crawling across me as I lay in the cellar. Then, I started to see them as friends. I experienced their touch as a comfort, letting me know I wasn't alone in the cellar. So a few harmless flies crawling on me in the woods isn't a concern. I don't mind at all. I'm more concerned with why they're here and where they're coming from. As I reached the burial site, I looked down at the ground over the unmarked grave.

panic, constricting my throat. Tossing my bag aside absently, I crouch and study the ground. As I suspected, the flies are coming from down there, which means they're coffin flies, and they're using Bethany's corpse as a breeding ground. The violation is so visceral, so infuriating, I drop to my knees and dig with my hands. As I dig, I uncover more and more of these coffin flies, each one solidifying the notion that Bethany's corpse has been disturbed in a way I can't accept. I throw the dirt furiously, panting through my clenched teeth. What the fuck are you doing, creep?

Tank Top's voice brings me crashing back to my senses, my panic turning to unadulterated fear. I straighten on my knees and look over my shoulder to see Tank Top standing there, beer still in hand. He followed me. He knows where I buried Bethany. The cruel disgust on his face morphs into real. realization as he sees the fear on my face.

He swaps absently at the flies that buzz around him as he backs up. It's not what you think, I say, standing up. Dude, stay the fuck away from me, he says. His steps growing quicker, more frantic. The flies seem to like him, landing on his face and next to his eyes, making him blink and shake his head, even as he turns around to rush out of the woods. I start after him. Wait!

I say. Let me explain. Jesus Christ! He shouts, dropping his fear so he can use both hands to combat the flies, which seemed to have doubled in just a few seconds. Waving his arms, slapping at his face and shouting, he runs out of the woods, barreling toward the trail, watching as the insects buzz around him in a frenzy.

Once we're clear of the flies, I'll explain everything to him. I'll explain it so he doesn't get the wrong idea about me, about what's buried in the ground there. The coffin flies pay me little mind, mere dozen or so staying with me, crawling on my arms and face as I follow tank top to the trail. He takes an immediate right out of the woods, bolting down the trail and clawing at his face.

I'm not sure how it's possible, but the flies seem to have doubled again, now forming an ever-moving cloud around his upper body. They're so thick, I can barely see his fingers as they raked down his face, trying to clear them from his eyes, nostrils, and mouth. Soon, we're approaching the edge of the cliff, where his friends are still gathered. I stay a good ten yards back, watching the scene play out as if in slow motion.

One of the other men, a guy wearing tie-dye swim trunks, steps out in front of tank top. The three other stare uncomprehendingly, mouths open and sharp, as their fly-engulfed friend barrels toward the cliff. Jason, stop! Tidei says, crouching down and opening his arms, clearly trying to stop his friend from going blindly off the cliff. But Jason is going too fast. He slams into Tidei running full speed, and then two of them stumble toward the cliff's edge,

falling awkwardly to the hard rocky surface just before disappearing over the edge in a tangle of limbs and flies. A moment passes before there's a gut-twisting crunch, followed by a splash. The woman in the pink bikini screams as she looks over the edge. The third man steps next to her and looks down. Oh, fuck! He says. He kicks off his shoes and jumps off the cliff into the water below, being sure to clear the dangerous outcropping below.

I make my way stiffly over to the cliff and look over the edge. There's a splatter of blood on the rocky outcropping where the two men are. hit. The third man is swimming over to tank top, who floats face down in the water and has a bloody red cloud spreading out from his head. The other man, tie-dye, floats face up in the water. His head twisted sickeningly to the side, his neck broken. The flies are dissipating, flying back up and heading back to their nest, their home. One lands on my nose and crawls up to sit on the Nabi bridge. I cross my eyes and look at the insect. For a moment, I think there's some kind of intelligence staring back at me,

trying to communicate with me. But as the woman in the pink bikini comes toward me, the fly takes to the air and buzzes away from the cliff, the woman screams in my face, tears moistening her cheeks. I just look at her, and at the other woman, who stands pale-faced at the edge of the cliff, looking at the horrific scene below. I say nothing, because there's There's nothing to say. There's no helping them now. Lazzangue surgellied, puissance-molyne for 15 minutes.

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burial site. I simply tell the officer taking statements that Jason followed me down the trail and continued taunting me until the flies started after him. But the flies didn't bother you? The officer asks.

According to his nameplate, his name is Sherman. Sure, they were around me too, but not like they were around him. Maybe he stepped on a nest or something. I don't know. I've never seen flies act like that before. Can you show me where the flies started attacking him? I say yes and walk the officer down the trail. The paramedics have already come and gone, taking both bodies with them to do whatever they do to bodies after a freak accident like this.

The other three twenty-somethings are still at the cliff's edge, waiting to be released by the police. I don't know what they told the officers, but I know they can't pin this on me. They all saw the flies. I never laid a hand on Jason. Then why do I feel like this is my fault? Why do I feel like I did this to him? I stop it about the place where Jason and I came out of the woods. I think it was around here, I say. It takes effort not to look toward the burial site.

The cop looks around, and then he studies me closely. Although I try not to, I can't help but fidget under his gaze. After what seems like a long time, he says, So you had some kind of altercation with one of the deceased? I wouldn't call it an altercation. I say. The guy thought I was staring at his girlfriend or something. So he puffed his chest out and beat it a little bit. You know, showing off for the girls, that kind of thing. I didn't take it personally. I just got up and left. But he followed me to about here. That's when the flies distracted him.

Uh-huh. But he didn't touch you? No, sir. And you didn't touch him? No. But you followed him back to the reservoir when the... the fly started attacking him. Yeah, I mean, he was freaking out. I wanted to help him, but obviously, I couldn't. Right. The cop studies me for a long moment. I avert my eyes. What were you doing out here to begin with? Sherman asks. Just enjoying the summer day, I say, not liking his tone. I often come out here. Alone? Yes, alone, I say. Something wrong with him? Not at all, Mr. Kretchen, he says. He looks down at his notebook for a moment and then back up at me. Well, we have your information. If anyone needs to follow up, we'll be in touch.

Thank you, I say, turning to head down the trail, back toward my car. Oh, one last thing, Mr. Cretchen, the cop says. Did you bring a bag out here with you? I freeze, realizing that I left my backpack at the burial site. I take a moment to swallow and compose myself before turning back toward the cop. Uh, no, I say. No bag. Not even a towel or a bottle of water? He asks. Nope, I say. Got that stuff in my car. All right, the cop says, that one word tinged with skepticism. Thanks for your time, Mr. Cretchen. As I walk down the trail, I wonder if the cop will ask the other three whether I had a bag. Maybe he's gunning for a detective job.

Maybe he smells something on me he doesn't like. Maybe I'm just a bad liar. When I get to my car, I'm shaking so bad I can barely get the key in the ignition. I know I have to come back tonight, and not just to get my bag. I have to move the body on the road and move to the parking area on foot through the humid night air. insects trill and night birds call occasionally as I walk. Every once in a while, I feel a fly land on my arm, disturbing the fine hairs there, or on my neck, or my face.

Although I have no way to tell for sure, I'm confident it's the same fly that came home with me earlier. The one that was in my vehicle after my interaction with the cop, Sherman. In my fright, the fly kept me company. It's constant buzzing serving to keep me grounded. On the verge of a panic attack on my way home, I had to pull over and close my eyes and listen to the buzz of the fly. It brought me back into my childhood punishment, lying in the musty cellar among the insects,

smelling my decomposing pet cat. If I could get through that at such a young age, I can get through this now, I told myself. It helped me to focus. Soon enough, I had my head to get to get. enough to finish the drive home and start my planning for the night. But it wasn't the last time the fly helped steer me away from a panic attack. Over the last several hours, it helped me keep my composure. As I see that there's no one parked by the trail to the cliffs,

I find it strange that the fly seems to be keeping me company. Every time I think about Bethany's body deep underground, infested with coffinfly larva, it makes me want to rage vomit, But I don't hold the flies responsible. It's not their fault. They're just doing what they know how to do. They're just acting on instinct. Which is what I need to do if I'm going to get myself out of this mess. I walk back to my vehicle and drive up to the dirt parking area next to the trailhead with my headlights off.

There's a divot in the trees, and I back the Buick into it, providing some camouflage just in case a cop drive. past. Maybe, if I'm lucky, it will be enough to shield the car from sight. I gather my supplies and walk up the trailhead, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The last thing I need to do is call attention to myself with a flashlight or lantern. As soon as I veer off the trail and into the woods, dozens of coffinflies swirl around me, landing on my sweat, sticky skin. I'm glad for the company. I get to the burial site, relieved to see that my backpack is still there, untouched, not found by the police. I set everything but my shovel aside and then get to work, digging.

The sharp, metallic thud of the shovel digging up dirt helps me into a kind of trance. My shoulders and back begin to ache sweetly. The armpits of my dark t-shirt grow wet with perspiration. I dig down several feet before I see evidence. of a body. I stop shoveling and kneel in the hole, gently brushing dirt away from short brown hair. Before I can see how bad the coffin fly infestation is, a bright light erupts, illuminating me in the hole, making me feel naked. Put your hands up slowly, Mr. Gretchen, the man says. I recognize the voice. It's the cop, Sherman. A stone sticks in my throat and my heart tries to jackhammer it out.

I raise my hands and glance over my shoulder, but I can't see Sherman because of the bright flashlight he's shining in my face. Get out of the hole, he says. You don't understand, I say. Get out of the hole, he says again. As I step out of the hole, hands still up. The flashlight twitches. God damn flies, Sherman says. The insects dance through the beam of light, sometimes obstructing it for a fleeting moment.

sometimes just becoming visible as they dart through it get on your knees and lace your fingers behind your head sherman says please i say just let me explain are you resisting arrest krechen no no i get on my knees and lace my fingers behind my head the light twitches again and sherman spits several times jesus christ he says he's fucking thanks he's talking about the flies They seem to be growing thicker, although it's hard to tell because of the darkness. 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. The location of the flashlight changes as he sets it on the ground, still illuminating me. He steps up behind me, and I feel cold metal on. my left wrist. He pulls my left arm down and then my right, cuffing them together. While he does this, he reads me my Miranda rights. I tell him I understand my rights. Is it her body down there? He asks, shoving me onto my chest ungentlely. He has excitement in his voice. He thinks he's

caught a killer. I say nothing. After all, he's just told me I have the right to remain silent. But that doesn't mean I don't want to scream. It is her, isn't it? he says. I just knew there was something weird about you. I fucking smelled it. I hear the snap of nitral as he bulls gloves on. Then he steps into my vision, flashlight back in his hand. The flies are thick now, congregating around Sherman.

He bats absently at them, clearly more focused on what's in the hole. He shines the flashlight down into the excavation. What the fuck? I tried to tell you, I say, hope brightening my mind. It's not what you think. Shut up, Sherman says, clearly angry. He bends down and moves dirt with one gloved hand, uncovering the rotting dog's head. Slapping at the flies, he straightens and looks at me.

A fucking dog? I know it's not legal to bury animals out here, I say. I don't want to get a ticket. But this was her favorite place. We used to come out here every week. I would let her run around in the woods and chase squirrels while I went swimming. You're fucking kidding me, he says. This is why you were acting so guilty?

Because you buried your goddamn dog here? I nod, but he's not interested in an answer. He climbs out of the hole and grabs my shovel. Before I can even shout for him to stop, he jams the shovel blade into the dog's neck. I stare. Anger and disgust, roiling inside as he hacks at the dog's neck, severing its head. More flies pour out of the canine corpse, heading straight towards Sherman. There are now so many of them, they're beginning to obscure the flashlight beam,

landing on the lens in such numbers to blot out the light. Sherman drops the shell and beats his free hand in front of his face. He whips the flashlight around, but the flies hold tight, seemingly determined to kill the light. He says, jumping out of the hole. Goddamn, they're in my nose. Snorting and spitting and coughing, Sherman lurches away from the hole, dropping the flash load, which lands in the dirt. Now that it's no longer in his hand, the flies seem uninterested in the tool, and it once again pours forth light, illuminating him from behind. I flip onto my back and sit up, watching with interest as Sherman drops to his knees a few feet away.

He shoves one finger up his nostril, digging savagely at the nasal cavity. The flies cover nearly every centimeter of his face, constantly shifting and dodging as he beats at them with his other hand. They're in my goddamn nose! He screams. Help me! He stares toward me, but the flies dart for his eyes, and he slams them shut. Jesus, man! Help me!

I can feel them in my fucking brain! He pulls his finger out of his nose. and I see that he shoved it up there with such force he broke the nitral glove. He feels along the ground, eyes still closed, until he finds a stick slightly thinner than his finger. He brings the stick up, positions it under one nostril, and then slams it up into his skull. But apparently it isn't enough,

so he brings his palm up and smacks the bottom of the stick, sending it farther into his nasal cavity. His eyes shoot open, and his back straightens. His hands go out to his sides, fingers spread wide and stiff. After a moment, he reaches up and yanks the stick out of his nostril. Blood pours from his nose.

Sherman opens his mouth, either to scream or to take a breath, but thousands of the coffin flies rush in before he can do either. Whatever he did to his brain with that stick seems to have messed him up because he barely fights back as the insects suffocate him. He squirms and twitches for a while before finally settling down on his back. The flies stream out of his open mouth long after his chest stops moving. I sit in shocked silence for a long time before scrambling over and finding the handcuff keys in his right pants pocket.

I uncuff myself and then stare at Sherman's body, thinking furiously. All the while, the buzz of the flies continues in my ears. And after a while, words are not. form out of that buzz. Words that make me smile. When I finally get to my feet and grab the shovel, I know I need to hurry. It's only a matter of time before Sherman's absence is noted. He probably turned off his radio so he could sneak up on me. So for all I know, dispatch is trying to contact him right now to see what he's doing. Maybe he already told him where he was. Maybe there are police racing over here right now. If that's the case,

There's only one thing to do. One thing that might save me. Pull the dog's corpse out of the hole, tossing its head after it. Then I dig some more. I dig until my back and shoulder scream for a break. And my forearms bulge and my hands cramped. When I finally reach Bethany, I'm relieved to see that she, too, has been infested with coffinflies. When I first conceived of the notion, it caused me panic.

but now I'm happy about it. I'm happy that I will get to do one more thing with Bethany, perhaps the greatest thing of all. Her half-rotten face is still beautiful, even though her green eyes are nothing but shrunken, shriveled grapes. She's completely naked, just as I left her. The stab wounds in her chest have become more pronounced because any moisture has been leached from her body,

tightening her skin and causing the wounds to open up. I pull her out, thinking about how close Sherman was to discovering her body. When I buried her here and put the dog on top of her, I was hoping that the dog's corpse would mask her smell if cadaver dogs ever came to search out here. But the dog I killed came in handy in another way. It gave the flies enough time to do their thing, to help me. Sherman must have run my name through the system

and seen that I had been questioned in the disappearance. of Bethany LaGrange a year ago. They suspected me but couldn't prove anything. Now, everything has changed. There's a dead cop line nearby. Dead cops don't go under the radar, even if they weren't technically killed by someone else.

Now it's time to do what I've always wanted to do, but I just never had the courage. Bethany was never a heavy woman. She was petite. And now that she's just a corpse, It's easy to throw her over my shoulder. I grab the dog's corpse by the tail and drag it with me down the trail toward my car. A cloud of coffin flies come along with me, buzzing happily.

The sound of people outside grows in intensity as the car gets hotter. Even with the sun shade up, it's a couple degrees from sweltering in the hot car. Excited voices filter through the constant buzz inside the car. The music festival is starting soon. I got here early enough to back my car in near a fence. On the other side of the fence is the park in which the music festival is being held. I'm starting to get antsy, but I need to wait for more people. So I listen to the words in the constant buzzing, and I think about all the fun Bethany and I had.

I recall her screams, her pleading, her grunts of pain. So many good times. Times I wish I could relive. But stalking her and abducting her was hard work, and I almost got caught. That's the only reason I haven't done anything like that again, until now. This will be different, though. It won't be as up close and personal. But I'll still get to hear the screams. I'll still get to watch as panic takes hold. So I wait. I wait until the crowd grows bigger, and the first blasts of music come from distant speakers.

I open my car door and step out into the sun, sweat, oaring down my face. After being in the hot car, the summer air out here feels like a cool fall day. Flies stream out of my car as I head to the back and open the trunk. A black cloud of buzzing insects flies out, abandoning the two corpses in the trunk, for the lithe flesh packing the park on the other side of the fence. I watched them go, smiling. Then I run over to a nearby tree and climb up so I can see over the fence. Already, people are swatting at the flies and shaking their heads like annoyed horses.

My smile grows wider as panic takes hold in the crowd, spreading like waves in a lake just after a mangled body hits the water's surface. Then the screams start. Screams about the flies being inside of them. Inside their mouths, their noses, their ears, inside their sun. skin. Soon, the blood starts to flow as some people get trampled and others tear their own eyes out, and others choke or suffocate on the insects. But now I know how they work. I know how they multiply. And before 10 minutes have passed, the entire sprawling park is covered in a cloud of black insects. The buzz is like music to my ears, but the screams are orgasmic.

species of coffinfly that reproduce via transferral of a cognito-hazard spread through direct physical contact with other life forms. Subjects must be consciously aware that the instance of SCP 4891 is touching them in order for the effect to activate. Following infection, an instance of SCP 4891 will manifest on subjects' bodies whenever they feel a physical touch they consciously believe is an instance or insect landing on them. This is often caused by an itching sensation or a light touch. Due to the increasing appearance of instances this effect causes, subjects are likely to begin mistaking similar skin sensations for additional instances landing on them. Without appropriate treatment, subjects will begin perceiving any sort of physical sensation as an SCP-4891

instance touching them. Continued exposure will result in untreated subjects equating any physical sensation on their body to be from an instance of SCP 4891. Approximately 95% of subjects that have gone untreated for SCP 4891 infection have expired.