The SCP Experience - The Old Man Fed Me to His Garden | SCP-307

Episode Date: June 29, 2026

When a hardened procurer delivers a sealed SCP specimen to a reclusive former Foundation insider in a crumbling Gothic mansion, he expects a straightforward payday and a quick exit. Instead, he unleashes something far worse than he imagined: a carnivorous, intelligent vine with a hunger that won’t be denied—and a host who finds endless entertainment in watching it feed. This story is derived from ⁠The SCP Foundation Database⁠ and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0.⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ ⁠⁠⁠ Author: Jake Bible * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The house looms before him, suddenly revealed like a giant cresting a hill. Nicholson slows the car, the tires crunching languidly on the gravel driveway. The massive oak trees that lined the drive are over a mile thin, then disappear, leaving only a circular drive that Nicholson maneuvers until he stopped directly in front of the house's wide stone steps. The place is straight out of an old Gothic horror movie, all brick and stone and ancient timbers, windows are half-shaded by lace curtains, several of them blowing in the breeze, the rooms beyond, exposed to the elements to freshen any staleness, or perhaps because the help simply forgot to close the windows. By the look at the place, though, Nicholson isn't sure there is any help left. The house is old and crumbling, just like Nicholson's client. It could have used a new coat of paint a couple of decades ago. One of the turrets is leaning at a dangerous angle, ready to be.

to topple onto the circular drive at any moment. And as Nicholson opens the door and steps out of his car, he realizes that the windows aren't open. They are broken, leaving the remnants of the lace curtains to billow out into the night air, their edges being slowly torn to shreds by the jagged teeth of the shattered panes. Just as Nicholson wonders if perhaps he has the wrong address, since no one in their right mind would live in a dump like this, the sound of music trickles from the front door, which stands partially open in wary invitation. Nicholson recognizes the tune. It's Box, Takata, and Fugue in D minor. He remembers first, hearing it as part of the soundtrack for the old silent version of Phantom of the Opera.

Nicholson tries to recall the name of the actor who played the Phantom. He keeps wanting to say it was Boris Karloff, but that's not right. Not Bella Logosie either. It's that other guy. Nicholson snaps his fingers, trying to get his memory to obey. Echoes of finger snaps reply, bouncing around the nightcape. Lon Cheney, that's it. Nicholson is very pleased with himself for remembering, but his happiness is short-lived as the echoes of his finger snaps start up again, except that he isn't snapping his fingers.

Slowly, Nicholson reaches into his jacket and removes his 45 semi-automatic pistol. He checks the chamber to make sure around is ready to go, then turns toward the house's grounds, and the sounds of fingers snapping that aren't his. It's late, close to midnight, so while Nicholson can see are shadows when the clouds move, and the moon shines, then pure darkness when the clouds shift once more,

and the moon is lost. Hey! Nicholson shouts. Who's out there? Mr. Nicholson? Nicholson spins and faces the house where an old gentleman dressed in a maroon smoking, jacket and black slacks stands at the front door. Nicholson recognizes the old guy as Mr. Manser,

the man who hired Nicholson to procure the specimen. He'd only met him once at a small out-of-the-way cafe halfway across the state, but with his huge eyes that bald pate and skin like mottled cheese, he's hard to forget. Mr. Nicholson, is something to matter? Nicholson takes the question seriously and thinks for a moment, waiting for the snaps to echo again, But they don't. So he nods, puts his 45 away, then slams his car door and walks around to the stone steps. Thought I heard something, Nicholson says, ascending the steps with his hand outstretched. It's good to see you again, Mr. Mansor. Likewise. Nicholson reaches the old man, and they shake hands.

It feels like he's gripping a work glove filled with sand and dirt. The old man's large eyes blink up at him. Do you have the specimen, Mr. Nicholson? In the car. Mr. Mansor glances around Nicholson. In the car? Yes, in the car. Mr. Mancer clears his throat, and his brow droops over those large eyes of his.

Shouldn't you fetch it? Bring it inside, so I may examine the specimen? Not quite yet. We'll get to that, sure. But first we settle up. Oh, yes, of course. Payment. Mr. Mancer turns and pushes the front door all the way open.

Do come in, Mr. Nicholson, and we shall get you settled. That'd be great. A bit of a drive out here, and I'd like to get back to my hotel before dawn. You are welcome to stay here for the night, Mr. Nicholson. You are correct. It is a long drive, and I would hate for something to happen to you on the road. Nicholson has been doing what he does for a while now. over a decade of finding and procuring items for those with money to burn.

He's delivered everything from an ancient Egyptian mummy to a plain wooden box with a single button on it. But the item he has in the car, the one that he spent, a good amount of money, sweat, and even blood to acquire is different. While he's heard of the SCP Foundation, he's never personally crossed their path before, until yesterday, that is. Nicholson presses the lock button on his car's key fob, takes one last look around the grounds, then steps past the old man and into the decrepit house. Not sure what he expected of the place, Nicholson is pleasantly surprised that the Grand Foyer doesn't reek of mold and mildew.

Nicholson hates mold and mildew. Once that smell gets in his nose, he can't shake it for days. Nice place. Nicholson lies. It may not stink of rot, but rot. is present everywhere, stains on the peeling wallpaper, discoloration on the wood parquet floors, black streaks running up the handrail of the grand staircase directly in front of him. And there's a dripping noise seeming to come from all directions, as if a faucet had been left

on in every room of the house. Cozy? Nicholson lies again. He turns as Mr. Manser closes the front door. So, where do you want to conduct business? I'm good with right here. No, no. Let's retire to my office, shall we? Mr. Manser produces an ornate cane from somewhere and slowly limps his way across the foyer and over to a side corridor that Nicholson hadn't noticed. Following closely, Nicholson trails the old man down the hallway to the single door at the far end.

Opening the door, Mr. Manser gestures with the cane for Nicholson to go first. After you? Never going first into an unfamiliar dark room is an unspoken rule for Nicholson. It's a good rule to have. Nicholson can't think of how many times it saved his life. You go ahead. No, no, I insist, Mr. Nicholson. The light switch is to your right. Yeah, I'm good. You go first. It's your house.

Mr. Mansor looks as if he'll argue, then shakes his head and chuckles as he limps to the door, shoves it open, and steps into the darkness beyond. Nicholson waits for the lights to come on, and when they don't, he calls out, Mr. Mansor, are you all right in there? The old man's face appears from out of the gloom. Light switch isn't working. Let me turn on the desk lamp. Be but a moment. Nicholson can hear the old man's cane tapping on the floor as he crosses the unseen space. Then light flares, and Nicholson has a partial view of a huge space lined with bookshelves

on the corner of a large desk. Come in, Mr. Nicholson. Please, please, sit, sit. Nicholson follows the old man's voice into the room and tries not to let his jaw drop at the sight. Everything, every surface, piece of furniture, most of the floor space is covered in books. Old books.

Cracked spines and flaking leather. Bloaded pages wet with damp. Titles worn, titles faded, titles indecipherable. Except for Mr. Manser's son. desk. There is only one book on the desk, lying open to what look like illustrations of some sort. Dear Canadian exporters, our ambitions, our ideas, and our potential were never meant to be boxed in. Nothing can contain us. With the support of export development Canada's market

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So, are you ready to talk to fans? Spotify advertising. You're among fans. Sit. Nicholson pulls out a chair from in front of the desk, looks at the cushion to make sure he's not going to set his ass in a patch of mold, then sits down. I have been studying the specimen's history,

Mr. Manser says, hobbling around the desk. He struggles to pull the chair out, finally manages it, and sits down with a heavy sigh. Did you get to see him? the specimen, Mr. Nicholson? No, it was already contained on delivery. Ah, well, perhaps

I shall show it to you once our business is done. Really need to get back to town. Got an early morning tomorrow. Head it off to another job, I take it. Always. May I ask what the next job of yours is?

No, Mr. Mansor chuckles and taps the book in front of him. Common English Ivy. Hedera Helix, that's the scientific name. The specimen you have brought me is similar. In fact, from what I have gleaned over the years, it is nearly identical genetically. When looking at the cells under a microscope,

one would be hard-pressed to tell the difference. The old man's large eyes narrow. But there is a difference, Mr. Nicholson. Quite a difference. Yeah, that's what I heard. My contact told me that if it gets out into the wild, it would be catastrophic. Your contact is not incorrect. Although knowing the foundation as I do, it would not be as catastrophic as they believe.

I am more than positive that there are other specimens out there living free as they should. Then why not find one of those? Why pay me to procure one for you? It wasn't cheap. No, I suppose it wasn't, which brings us to your very important subject, payment. That's why I do what I do. Oh? Mr. Mansor chuckles.

And here I thought you did it for the thrill of discovery. Nicholson knows when he's being mocked, so he keeps his mouth shut. The old man opens a drawer and pulls out eight stacks of bundled cash. We agreed to $30,000, yes? That was the deal. plus expenses. Mr. Mansor shoves the cash across the desk toward Nicholson. That will cover your fee plus your expenses, I believe.

Nicholson reaches out, takes the cash, and dies the amount. If the stacks are true, then he's staring at $80,000, which makes him very nervous. 50 will cover it, he says, plucking three stacks from the pile and tossing them back to Mr. Manser. I appreciate your generosity, but I'm not a greedy man. Oh? The old man chuckles again. Nicholson ignores the mocking again. It seems to be their dance.

Taking the cash, Nicholson tucks the stacks into the inside pockets of his jacket, then stands. I'll go and get the item for you. Do you want me to bring it in here? Oh, no, no. I'll come with you to your car. The old man takes a deep breath and looks about the library. But stay a moment longer, Mr. Nicholson. No need to hurry off.

Yeah, well, like I said, I need to get back to the hotel for some shut-eye before my early departure tomorrow. Flying or driving? I always drive. No one searches your bags when you drive. That must put a burden on you time-wise. Yep, which is why I need to leave early tomorrow. The chuckle again. This one is harder for Nicholson to ignore. The way the old man is staring at him with those large eyes has Nicholson's nerves on edge. He doesn't just want to get out of this crumbling house.

He needs to get out. To get back on the road, back to the hotel, take a shower and wash off the mildew, then sleep for a few hours before he has to get up and head to Tulsa. Chatting with the old guy wasn't part of the itinerary. Listen, Nicholson says. I get that you may not have many people to talk to about this stuff, and I appreciate you wanting to share your knowledge with me,

but I'll be honest. I don't really care. There could be the world's largest diamond in that metal, box in my car, and I wouldn't care. It could be a dragon egg, and I wouldn't care. My job is to find and deliver. That's it. Mr. Mancer licks his lips as he studies Nicholson. Is that so? How mercenary of you. Nicholson shrugs. I am what I am, and it served me just fine so far. Until it doesn't. Again, Nicholson shrugs. He hasn't sat back down, and Mr. Manser makes it clear that he has noticed. Very well, Mr. Manser says, pushing back up to his feet.

He grabs his cane and taps the tip on the wood floor. Take me to your car, Mr. Nicholson, so that we can conclude our business. Great. Thanks. Of course. The old man leads the way out of the office, and Nicholson follows close behind, but not too close. He makes sure he's out of swinging distance in case Mr. Manser gets any ideas with that cane of his. Nicholson also keeps a hand on his jacket, ready to pull out his 45 if needed. The two men get to the front door where Mr. Mansor pauses. If you were to go missing, Mr. Nicholson, would there be anyone to notice your disappearance?

Nicholson's hand slips inside his jacket, and he wraps his fingers around the grip of his pistol. The old man sees this and nods. I'm sorry, that had to sound threatening. It wasn't my intention. He opens the door and walks outside, carefully placing the tip of his cane on the top step. I am a man who lives alone. I have no friends, no family. I let the staff go years ago. It is just me and the occasional delivery from the grocers in town. I wouldn't say that I am lonely, but it isn't exactly a full life. I was simply wondering if you and I are more alike than you think. I've got people.

Nicholson lies. He doesn't have anyone. Family all dead. Friends, all dead. Business associates are just that. Business associates. If he fell off the end of the earth, no one would go looking for him.

He doesn't say that, of course. The look in the old man's eyes warns him off. I doubt that you do, Mr. Mansor says. Then he smiles, and Nicholson doesn't need him to say the rest. Pressing the button on the key fob, The car's trunk pops open. The two men stare at it from the top of the steps. Would you mind?

Mr. Mansor asks. Of course. Nicholson walks down the steps and lifts the trunk lid, pulling out the shoebox-sized, completely sealed metal container. He walks it back up the steps to the old man. I have no idea what's in here, but I hope it was worth it. Would you like to see? No, thanks.

Got to get on the road. Please, let me show you. The old man gestures for Nicholson to set the metal box down on the steps. Nicholson hesitates, then does, as instructed. Before he can take a step away, Mr. Manser brings his cane down on the box, the metal container bows. The old man strikes it again, the top buckles and one of the welded seams pop. Watch closely, Mr. Manser says, moving away from the box and back toward the front door.

It can move quickly, and you don't want to miss it. Nicholson doesn't even have time to ask about what can move fast, when a green tendril of ivy slithers out of the broken seam, followed by a second and then a third. What the hell? Nicholson mutters. You should run, Mr. Nicholson. The old man says, then he chuckles, and Nicholson's blood runs cold. Run?

He asks the old man, but when he glances toward the house, Mr. Mancer is gone, and the front door is closed tightly. Nicholson's attention is quickly drawn back to the metal box as it topples onto its side. The three tendrils of ivy have already grown into finger-thick vines, and those vines are moving at an alarming rate toward Nicholson. What the hell is this, ma'am, sir? Nicholson is surprised by the old man's voice coming from an upstairs window.

I grow bored, Mr. Nicholson, and as a former O-5 council member of the foundation, my taste and entertainment tends toward the perverse. But it has been a pleasure working with you, Mr. Nicholson. If you survive tonight, which won't, come see me. I am sure I can get you hired by the foundation. You, sir, have what it takes. This spring, denim gets a softer, lighter update. Introducing Old Navy's drapey denim wide leg,

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The chuckle echoes down, and Nicholson is about to scream at the man when he feels something on his calf. He stares down in horror as one of the vines has climbed up his leg and wrapped about his trousers. You old bastard! Run, Mr. Nicholson!

Run before it sucks you dry! Nicholson has no idea what that last sentence means, but he obeys the first one, turns and runs straight for the trees. He swears he hears the swooshing of heavy vines behind him, but doesn't waste a second to look back. His eyes are focused on the tree line and the tree line only. Once he hits the trees and is consumed by the encroaching shadows, he then ducks behind a trunk to assess the threat level coming at him.

A single vine, impossibly long and stretching all the way back behind Nicholson's car, is stretching, growing, moving straight for Nicholson. The man pulls his 45 and flicks off. the safety. God, I hate this job, he says, not really meaning it, but also completely meaning it at the same time. It is dark out, but the vine hasn't reached the real darkness of the tree line. So Nicholson takes aim, sighting for a thick part of the vine about five feet down its length. He squeezes the trigger. Gravel is kicked up, only an inch from the vine. Damn it! He takes aim and fires again. This time the vine is hit, and it jerks back,

squirming around its new wound. Nicholson watches in horror, As the vine tears its own wounded portion off, leaving the severed part to flop for a moment, then lie motionless while the still-connected part resumes its pursuit. That's different, he says, and fires once, twice, three more times, each bullet impacting the vine in a new spot, turning the single vine into multiple pieces. Yet the vine continues its hunt, never wavering from its path toward the trees and Nicholson. I can do this all night, he shouts, hoping the old man can hear him. But I'd rather come and put a couple of slugs between your huge.

You juggly ass eyes, you son of a bitch. All Nicholson hears in response as Mr. Mansor's chuckle. That damn chuckle. Then the vines move faster than he thinks any plant should be able to move. Not that he thinks any plant should be moving. Nicholson starts backing up, but it's too late. The vine whips into the tree line and grabs him about the leg, yanking him off his feet and pulling him out into the driveway.

Nicholson points his 45 at the vine and fires until the magazine clicks empty. Still being pulled along the ground, he ejects the spent magazine, reaches into his jacket for a fresh one and slaps it home, racking the slide to chamber around. Nicholson can feel spikes or thorns or teeth or whatever trying to puncture his trousers. Screw this! Nicholson kicks at the vine with his free leg until part of it turns to mush, and his dragging stops. Then he staggers upright and takes several steps away before he opens fire.

Systematically, surgically, he walks down the length of the vine, firing and cutting the thing into a dozen pieces. It finally stops moving. spent 50 grand on this? Why? An old place like this needs a little ivy, don't you think, Mr. Nicholson? The chuckle. Nicholson's rage builds. He switches out for a fresh magazine, then turns and aims up at the window. Mr. Mancer stands there, smiling down at him, staying put. You think you can take me out? Nicholson yells. Did someone pay you? Is it an old client? Is it Jessup? Oh, I assure you, Mr. Nicholson, this evening is purely for my own. entertainment. The chuckle. Well, I may be recording this too, for scientific study only, of course.

You can take the man out of the foundation, but you can't take the foundation out of the man, as they say. No one says that. The Nicholson feels a prick on his calf, and he looks down just as he feels a second prick on his other calf. Two vines have a hold of him, one for each leg. They yank, and his feet are pulled out from under him. His head hits the side of his car, and stars flash in his vision, then more stars join them as his head meets the ground. I am so going to take my time when I kill you. Funny, you should say that, because that's what divines are about to do to you. The chuckle.

Take their time as they kill you. Nicholson tries to roll over and push up onto his hands and knees, but he finds that his arms and legs don't exactly want to obey. In fact, they would prefer to quickly go completely numb, leaving Nicholson paralyzed in the circular drive as two vines slowly creep up his legs, his torso, and to his neck. Stop, he tries to say, but even his vocal cords and lips have betrayed him, all refusing to move even a micron. One vine latches onto the right side of his neck, while the other latches onto the left.

There is no pain, just a heavy tugging, and after a moment, Nicholson no longer feels even that. Thank you. You have truly lifted in old man's spirits. Nicholson wants to tell the man what he can do with his spirits, but he's too busy dying. All he can do during his last few moments, as his insides are liquefied and devoured by the two vines, is think about where it all went wrong. He believes he almost has an answer, but then a vine slaps onto his forehead, and his thoughts turn liquid, most of them leaking out of his ears and onto the packed gravel of the circular drive.

SCP 307 is a creeping vine that closely resembles common English ivy, though it can be identified by its greenish thorns and purple-tinted leaves. Plant roots itself roughly every 12 inches, and those roots are capable of penetrating nearly any porous material, though they cannot penetrate metal. SCP 307 is carnivorous and appears to display a limited form of intelligence. When a warm-blooded animal comes nearby, the vine grows toward it at an alarming speed, often sending out multiple tendrils at once in what resembles a coordinated flanking attack. Once it makes contact, the victim is paralyzed. SCP 307 then consumes the body from the inside,

draining the organs, muscles, and blood through an unknown process. Because of this behavior, researchers have informally nicknamed it spider ivy. The plant was first discovered after an agent witnessed it climbing a tree and consuming a nest of American Robbins. Further investigation revealed that SCP 307 may be spread throughout North America. It has proven highly resistant to herbicides, poisonous plants, and even formaldehyde. Foundation personnel burn any wild specimens they encounter, but it is likely that many remain outside containment.

The foundation currently keeps one sample alive in the hopes of developing a biological agent capable of destroying the rest. Thanks for listening. Be sure to click that follow button with all notifications on to get notified every time a new episode is released. Hey y'all, it's Kelly Clarkson with Wayfair. Ever order furniture online and wonder what if? Like, what if it doesn't hold up?

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