The SCP Experience - The Devil's Driver | SCP-265

Episode Date: December 31, 2024

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-265 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-265 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett * * * 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

A movie plays on my TV that I'm only half paying attention to. Some spy thriller set before the fall of the Soviet Union. I've lost track of the plot because I'm scrolling my phone. When I do multiple things at once, like scroll with a movie or a TV show on in the background, it helps keep my mind blank. For a long time after the incident, that was the last thing I wanted.

For nearly eight months, I remained hypervigilant. sure that it would come back to finish the job. I spent my nights looking out my window with a shotgun in my hands, tensing at every passing car. During the day, I did research and practiced, shooting at the local range and generally neglected all those things you're supposed to do as an adult to make it through the world. For eight long months, I got little sleep and zero peace of mind,

and it never came back. As the ninth month rolled around, I lost my job and had to move back in with my parents. Back in my childhood home, I let my guard down little by little. I stopped obsessing over it, mostly for my parents' sake. They thought I was going crazy. One night, I overheard them talking about having me committed. Not that they ever would. My parents are two of the most loving people I've ever met.

But the fact that they were even considering it told me all I needed to know about my own behavior. I had been oblivious, and it was dragging my whole family down. So almost four months ago, I eased up a little. It wasn't easy, and I had to find ways to stop thinking about it. I had to do it for myself and for my parents. Now, as my mind comes back to reality thanks to some noise upstairs, I wonder what mom and dad are doing up so late. It's nearly midnight.

Setting my phone down, I tilt my head and look toward the ceiling, listening. The storm door out front slams, sending a jolt of fear coursing through my body. I leap from the bed I've been slouching on and rip the closet door open. The shotgun is still loaded. I do know that. I race up the stairs with a weapon in hand. How many times did I tell them to come get me? I think crazily.

How many times did I say it? How many? I burst through the basement door and duck into the hallway that leads to the front of the house. I see my mother, looking so fragile and small in her nightgown, standing at the open front door,

peering through the glass of the closed storm door. What is it? My mom turns at my words, and her eyes suddenly go wide. I know she's remembering what I told them so many times, and I know that my father is out there. He's out there because he didn't remember either. Dread fills my bones with liquid metal as I start forward.

The scream rips from my throat. Dad! It was never real to my parents. They weren't there. They didn't see what I saw or experience what I experienced. They thought it was just trauma from losing my girlfriend, from seeing her killed in front of me. And I didn't even tell them all.

that I experienced because I knew they wouldn't believe it. Still, I tried my best to warn them. I should have never let my guard down. My mom moves out of the way, and I hit the storm door so hard I break the glass with the butt of the shotgun. The cold hits me like a bucket of water as I step out into the howling snow, peering around crazily for my dad. It doesn't take me long to spot him. He's to my right, in the snow-covered driveway. Facing off with the car pulled half on to our property. The sight of that car freezes me to the spot. He looks over at me and shakes his bald head,

gesturing angrily at the vehicle. I tried to talk to them, but they kept backing up. It's not a vehicle you would see often, even here in Poland. But it's a model I'm intimately familiar with. I researched it for months, trying unsuccessfully to find the owner. It's a sleek Black Series 1, G-A-Z M-21 Volga, manufactured in the Soviet Union sometime between 1958 and 1959. It's a four-door sedan with high clearance, wide-set round headlights, an inward slanting grill over a jutting front bumper,

and curtains on all the windows but the front and back windshields. Despite the blinding glare from the headlights, I know there's no one driving the thing. It drives itself. Once considered a tank on wheels, the Volga hasn't been manufactured in half a century, but this one, which stares ahead with its blinding eyes and its gleaming, shark-like grill, appears to be in pristine condition. Just like the last time I saw it nearly a year ago. Although the headlights are pointed directly at my father,

I can see the Volga's gaze on me. As I open my mouth, The engine revs. Dad, run! I raise the shotgun, even as the car lurches forward. It shouldn't have such good traction in the snow. It should be impossible to move as fast as it does, but I know better than anyone that this is no ordinary car.

I fire the shotgun at the vehicle's front-right tire. Sparks fly from the hubcap, but the tire remains inflated. My dad is moving back toward the door as fast as his arthritic knees will take him. Despair clenches my heart as I work at the pump and prepare to fire again. This is why I told them to come get me if a strange car showed up. This is why I begged them to stay inside if anything odd was happening. I hustle toward my father as I fire at the car again, this time going for the windshield. But the pellets don't do anything, aside from making a few little holes in the glass. And I'm too late. I can already see I'm too late.

The Volga crashes into my father at the thighs and slams him into the front of the house just a few feet from the porch. I'm not sure if the cracking sound I hear is my father's legs breaking or the sighting snapping. Either way, the scream my father releases soon after drowns out any other noise. I reach him a moment later, shooting incoherently as tears sprout from my eyes. Taking my father's hand on the warm hood, I look him in the eyes and look him in the eyes. and open my mouth to say I'm sorry. But before I can, the vulgar reverses, releasing my father and causing him to collapse. I try my best to put him down gently, but it's hard to do with only one hand on him and

the other holding the shotgun. The vehicle backs out into the yard, rolling slowly until its back wheels reach the curb. I barely pay it any mind. The sight of Dad's mangled legs makes me so mad I let go of his hand and stalk toward the idling vehicle, raising the shotgun, working the slide. Shouting wordlessly, I fire at the windshield again, peppering it with little holes from the pellets. The Volga lurches forward, barreling toward me and my dad behind me. Distantly, I can hear my mom screaming at someone from inside the house.

She's called the police. I work the slide again and fire once more as the car comes within. feet of me. I hadn't planned on moving, but instinct takes over, and my muscles work as if on their own, causing me to jump and roll into the hood as the Volga speeds toward the house again. It's a miracle I managed to hang on to the shotgun as I hit the windshield, but then I'm thrown the opposite way as the Volga crashes into the house. As I hit the siding, I smack my head and lose my grip on the shotgun, which falls off to the side. Dad!

I say, barely realizing I'm even talking. I've bounced back from the siding, and I'm still on the Volga's hood as it backs slowly away from the house, revealing my dad's body. The Volga crushed his head. There's no way he's still alive. His head is just a gory smear against the house and the front of the vehicle. After seeing this, I get to my knees and launch myself at the pocked and cracked windshield, once again yelling in fury. I hit the glass with my left shoulder, feeling it buckles slightly. The Volga hits the gas, lurching backwards. I have to scramble to stay on the car.

I won't let it go again. Not a second time. I grabbed the lip of the hood at the base of the windshield, just as the Volga bounces off the curb and whips around to face down the road. And I still hold on as it speeds away. My mother's screams follow me down the road like dying echoes in a bottomless pit.

Lasagne sur-gillet, puissance-moleaned for 15 minutes. We'd say that's their dojo Prere to play. Vive the pleasure with the Ojo the casino in line that propose

the most recent machine to money and the show of free to get to do you to get back BAS Bonanza without the

end of the payments instantane. Hey! I've got to Woohoo! Scenture the pleasure. Play-O-Joe.

18-year-depos only, Excluen in Ontario. 50 tours gratuys on the machine-assau-Begbaz Bonanza. Depos minimum of $10. Veil to play a way to be responsible. The conditions apply. The Volga whips back and forth across the road, trying to dislodge me from the hood.

I hang on with cold numbed fingers, unable to do anything else. My plan has always been the same. Since that night nearly a year ago, when Annetta and I were walking back to my house from a dinner date. We walked along the sidewalk. Annetta closer to the road while I was on her right, closer to the yards we passed. At first, I didn't think anything of the car that appeared behind us.

My thoughts were occupied elsewhere, with the feeling of Anita's warm hand in mind and the buzzing anticipation of her warm body in my bed. She was the one who first said something. That car has been following us for a few minutes. I glanced over my shoulder, seeing the peculiar round headlights that were rare in this modern age. The car was a good 30 meters behind us, and it was a residential road, so I figured the driver was lost. I said as much to Aneta, and we continued our walk through the chilly night. A pelting snow had just started, and as we turned a corner, we were facing into the wind.

We both leaned forward and walked a little faster. The car turned behind us. It was closer now, 20 meters. But my house was just up ahead, perhaps an eighth of a kilometer away. Annetta glanced over her shoulder again, squeezing my hand tighter as she saw how close the car had gotten. Bartek. Probably just some teenagers.

We came abreast of a stone wall that served as a fence for a large yard on our right. That flat surface stretched out in front of us, and I suddenly felt very scared. A moment later, I heard the vehicle's engine rev. I stiffened, but did nothing else. Despite my fear, I was sure the car would just pass us by on the street. It didn't. Annetta looked over her shoulder soon after the engine revved, so she was in a better position to make a move, and she tried. She jerked away from the wall

and toward the road, but I had tightened my grip on her hand. To this day, I don't know why I didn't just let her go. I tell myself I was afraid that she would fall into the street, but I was street and get hit by the car. But if I had just let go of her hand, she might still be alive today. Instead, the car hit us, but it seemed it was aiming for Annetta more than me, because I felt the right headlight hit my left leg. The impact ripped our hands apart, and I spun once in the air, landing face down on the sidewalk while the sound of metal scraping the wall erupted. I flipped over, getting into a sitting position and looking for Annetta. I couldn't see her.

There was only the car, no longer moving. It's two right-side wheels on the sidewalk, the passenger's side mirror kissing the wall. The reverse lights came on, prompting me to scramble backwards like a crab. I was surprised that my left leg worked at all. The Volga's back bumper rushed at me, the lack of a license plate glaringly obvious in a distant, an important way. I just kept scrambling back, knowing that getting to my feet

was an operation that would take far too much time. But the vehicle stopped with the bottom of the rear bumper, barely touching my knees. The sound of shifting machinery bounced dully off the sidewalk, as the transmission went from reverse to drive. It surged forward again, swerving so its right-side wheels were in the middle of the sidewalk. And then it bumped over something on that side.

something lying on the sidewalk. Of course, I knew what that something was, even if I didn't want to believe it at the time. The crunching of Annetta's bones echoed with a resounding finality, the sound finally propelling me to my feet. As I looked through the back windshield, I could see that there was no driver. The car was empty.

Somewhere deep inside, I had known that from the moment I first laid eyes on the car. No mere human could embody such unadulterated, evil. I knew that the woman I loved was dead, but I also knew, suddenly and out of nowhere, that if I were to get inside that vehicle, I could see her again. Not the mangled her on the sidewalk, but the her I'd come to know and love, her spirit, her essence. But that wasn't all. I knew that getting into the driver's seat of the Volga meant ending its reign of terror. A rain I was sure would last for centuries if someone didn't stop it.

Shouting, I lurched forward, nearly tripping over Aneta's body as I reached for the back door handle. As soon as my fingers touched the cold metal, the Volga lurched away. Still, I managed to hook two of my fingers into the D-shaped handle. My legs went into overdrive as I tried to keep up with the speeding vehicle. As I got my thumb on the button to open the door, my legs went out from under me. I rolled on the wet road, tearing the skin of my face and hands before I finally came to a stop facing the sky. I kept my eyes closed, vowing that if I ever saw that car again, I would get into the driver's seat and take control of it. I would expel the evil from it, turning it into just a car.

With a vow complete and the sound of the engine finally fading away to nothing, I opened my eyes. Snowflakes rushed diagonally down at me from the night sky as I wallowed in my pain. Now, as I hold onto the hood's lip with frozen fingers, I see the same thing. Only I'm not lying in the road. I'm on top of the Volga as it races out of my town and into the countryside. Snowflakes pelt my face and cold burns my skin. The Volga is still swerving, trying to throw me off, but the moves are less severe. Could it be getting tired?

Is that possible? I shift my body carefully back, getting my hips back over my knees, which are pressed to the warm metal hood. Growling, I propel my body forward, shifting and slamming my right shoulder into the windshield. The impact is painful, but the glass bow is a little more. The Volga tries to toss me again,

but this time it does so by veering off the road. One of my hands comes loose, and my legs fly out over the side of the vehicle. But I managed to pull myself back up, securing my other hand again. I glance over my shoulder, knowing instinctively where we are. We're heading directly for a large pond in a park on the outskirts of my small town. The water is covered with a thin layer of ice. Not nearly enough to hold the weight of the car.

The Volga means to drown me. I put all I have into the next hit, and the windshield bows a little more. The tires bump across a walking path, boarder. the pond. I slam my shoulder into the glass one more time. It collapses, and I fall awkwardly onto the front bench seat, just as the sound of cracking ice and splashing water erupts from outside. I grab the steering wheel and pull myself up to a sitting position. The front of the vehicle tips madly, and icy water rushes up the hood. With both hands on the wheel, I jam my foot on the brake pedal. Nothing happens. The water pours in through the glassless windlass,

shield, yanking my breath out of my lungs as it touches me. The realization that I've been wrong this whole time feels like a shotgun blast to the chest. I try to pull my hands off the wheel, but they won't move. I spasm and jerk as the frigid water fills the car, but nothing works. I'm stuck, as if I'm part of the vehicle now. Then the water is above my head, and the Volga is going down into the lightless depths of the pond. Panicking, unable to be able to be able to to breathe if I don't want to inhale water. I look around me for some way to escape. Annetta sits next to me in the front seat, smiling, healthy, full of life. She reaches her hand out and touches my thigh. Warmth spreads through me, and I find I'm able to breathe again.

I sense movement from behind me. A glimpse over my shoulder reveals my father in the back. He, too, is smiling at me. And he looks like he did when I was a child. in the prime of his life. He leans forward and puts his hand on my shoulder. The warmth expands. Then my father's smile falters. He grips my shoulder tightly as his skin goes a sickly gray and then shrivels. The skin tightens over his face.

His eyes bulge and his mouth drops open in a silent scream. The warmth contracts and races away from me like air from a vacuum. I look over at Aneta. seeing that her skin is developing fissures all through it. Black blood pours from these wounds. She opens her mouth, bugging eyes, staring at me. Her teeth turn black and then fall out. She still has her hand on my thigh,

but the fingers are little more than bone now. They're sharp, breaking my skin and digging into my leg. My father's hand does the same on my shoulder. The Volga is suddenly filled with tortured souls. Every one of them laying a hand on me, sinking their bony claws into my flesh. I'm vaguely aware that the car is coming out the other side of the pond now. Water pours out of it, and as it does so, the hundreds of souls in the vehicle with me find their voices. Their shrieks fill the air.

Propelled by a compulsion, I work the pedals and shift the wheel, directing the Volga back onto the road. Even as I do this, the pain becomes so complete and so unbearable. I open my mouth to scream. But what comes out of my mouth is not a scream at all. It's the sound of the vulgar's horn. I stop screaming, knowing it's no use. But the tortured souls do not. They scream in my ears and tear at my flesh.

I guide the vehicle back onto the road, propelled by pain and anguish and, above all, unfathomable evil. Up ahead, there's a woman on the sidewalk, a jogger, raving the cold for her nightly outside. exercise, I fix my eyes on her, and I hit the gas. SCP 265 is a Series 1 GMZ M21 Volga automobile, devoid of any license plating, logos, or other identifying marks. It is painted black with white-rimmed wheels and appears to be in pristine condition,

regardless of environment. The instance is absent of human occupants and appears to travel under its own power. Other details vary between encounters. It's common for individuals to report that SCP-265 is silent while traveling, while others hear its engine idling for an extended period of time before noticing it nearby. Similarly, some encounters result in the vehicle leaving physical evidence, such as treadmarks on the road, where other encounters leave no physical traces. The instance has been encountered throughout rural Poland, far from urban centers, but occasionally passing through small rural communities with populations under 500.

It normally moves at about 40 miles per hour, but it has been recorded exceeding 250 miles per hour in isolated instances.