The SCP Experience - The Orchestra of Erich Zann | SCP-333

Episode Date: June 15, 2022

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-333: The Orchestra of Erich Zann This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-333, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Victoria Snaith DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drscp #scp #scpfoundation #doctorscp #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Since that cursed night in Paris, I have tried in vain to find the Rue de Cé again. I have trawled the internet, visited libraries in search of old and outdated maps, spoken to locals who have lived in Paris their whole life, and yet the Rue D'Aseille remains a mystery. I'm no fool. I know that street names change, cities grow and move, and what once was may no longer be. and yet, to my great embarrassment, I have found no area of Paris that has ever answered to the name Rue da Cé. This is the street I lived on during my last few months of studying at university. This is also the street where I heard the dreadful orchestra of Erich Zahn. The orchestra was organized by my then-roomate Bastion.

Bastion and his orchestra would have practices at our residence. One night, I listened to them play, and all hell broke loose. I escaped and fled to the heart of Paris. Since that day, I can't find the street, Rue Dose, nor my old apartment. It has been suggested to me that perhaps I'm misremembering the name of the street, that perhaps I'm suffering some kind of nervous breakdown. I'm not. My mind is fully intact, but I do admit that after my experience and my apartment,

with the orchestra of Erich Zahn. I was afraid to return to my apartment on Rue D'Eauce. After the ordeal, I found myself a new residence and continued my studies of metaphysics at the university. I tried to put the memory of that ghastly night out of my mind. But as the weeks drew on, I found it harder and harder to sleep at night. As I drifted into sleep, I heard the uncanny sounds of my housemates' viol de gamba, which is based on the same. a large violin. These sounds terrorized my dreams. I would wake up with nothing on my mind except the intense, all-consuming need to find the Rue dosé again. Eventually I lost interest in my studies, quit university, and ceased my education in metaphysics. The constant

lack of sleep made it impossible to focus on anything other than the memory of that night. If I could only hear the piece of music they played just once more, I am sure I would be cured. I am sure I would be able to sleep. One would imagine the smell of the river nearby would help me locate the Rue d'Ase. Its murky waters hidden under a film of grime and trash. It produced the most fetid and putrid of odors. The footpath running alongside the river was also shadowy. The air was always thick, as if the fact of the fact that it was very far.

The factories that bordered it were blocking out the light with their chimney smoke. Yet the factories had closed down a century ago. Some of them had been earmarked for development into luxury two-bedroom apartments. The impending gentrification of this filthy industrial district was hard to imagine. If you continued to walk along the footpath, you would eventually find a footbridge made of dark stone, and upon reaching the other side of the river directly before you, before you was the entrance to a narrow and steep cobbled lane. This was the Rue de

Cé. In all my time living in Paris, I had never seen another street as narrow and steep as the Rue Docee. There was no access to vehicles. The street was only accessible by foot, and by traversing the endless steps. The paving of the steps was irregular, sometimes stone slabs, sometimes cobblestones, but always uneven and incredibly dangerous. When my housemate, Bastion, would invite his musician friends to rehearse at our home, I would often wonder how they managed to lug their instruments up the steps. The buildings either side of the endless staircase were tall and incredibly old, leaning in every direction,

sometimes leaning across the road towards each other, the top stories inches away from meeting and creating an arch across. the street. When I think back, I'm puzzled as to how I never noticed the complete lack of neighbors on the road. They must have existed. I would see their windows open, the smell of dinner cooking inside, the soft sounds of voices from the TV or a radio. Yet I rarely saw them in person. I can only assume they were elderly and did not get out much. How I came to live on such a street, and in such a shabby part of the city is not that remarkable of a story. Paris is an expensive city, especially for a foreign student.

I had been living in other run-down places across the city, repeatedly getting evicted for late payment on my rent. I had mentioned this to a friend in my metaphysics course at university. They knew someone who knew someone who was looking for a housemate. That someone was Bastion. Bastian also studied at the university, a student of music, and as such he needed accommodations that were suitable for playing his music aloud. A place where no meddling neighbors would complain about his viol de gamba. Bastian was living alone in a large building, and he needed

someone with whom he could split the rent. I agreed to meet with him. Bastian and I met at a coffee house. He was cool, and the rent was cheap. I agreed. agreed to take the room without even seeing the building. I didn't have many belongings, only two suitcases and a box, which I carried up the long and narrow steps to my new home. The building was the third house from the top of the street, and easily the tallest, too. My room was on the third floor, although in reality I could have chosen any of them. Bastion and I were the only ones living in the place.

On the night I moved in, I heard Bastion playing his viol. Softly, it drifted down from the top floor, possibly the attic. It was a strange and unusual melody, but not at all unpleasant. I could see why Bastion had chosen this area of town to live. The walls of the building were so old and thick, he would hardly bother another soul, even if he stayed up all night to play. Our building, being the tallest on the street and at the top of the steep hill, meant Bastion would have unrivaled views of Paris.

Every night for the following week, the sound of Bastion's playing kept me awake. I must stress. It did not keep me awake in the sense that it was too loud or intrusive, but rather I was so entranced by the sounds that my mind was unable to drift off. I am by no means a musician or artist of any kind, and so I am unable to truly explain what Bastion's music sounded like, but I was certain that none of his harmonies were like anything else I had ever heard. I wondered if he had composed the music himself,

and if so, he must be a musician of enormous talent. As the week went on, the more I became fascinated by his playing, until I decided to confront him and ask about the music. One evening, as he was returning from university, I stopped Bastion in the hallway. I explained I would like to get to know him better and asked if I could sit in while he rehearsed. He was more than happy to oblige

and was thrilled someone was showing an interest in his work. He invited me up to his rehearsal room. I followed him up the dark and rickety staircase. to the attic. His actual lodgings were on the floor below, but he explained as we ascended the creaking steps that he and his musician friends liked to rehearse in the attic because of the acoustics. The attic was quite charming and rustic, large but very bare. The brick wood was exposed and neglected. In the room were a few chairs, a small table, a large bookcase, and a couple of iron music racks. Sheets of music were piled in,

disorder on the small table and across the floor. I picked up a piece of sheet music. It was handwritten, the paper yellow with age. Bastion excitedly explained the sheet music was found in the building when he moved in. He wasn't sure of the age, but somehow was able to discern it was over a century old. The only clue as to who may have composed it was the name Erich Zahn, written on the top left-hand corner of each page. This was how his group had chosen the name, The Orchestra of Erich Zahn. Bastion motioned for me to sit down. He closed the door to the room and returned to his seat where he unpacked his viol. He set up a music rack in front of his chair and chose some sheets of music from the haphazard pile. It was beautiful. The haunting notes and melodies

waved their way into my brain, and for weeks after, I found myself whistling and humming them. I sat in the chair for some time, listening to him play. The sun began to set across Paris, and I thought how lovely it would be to draw open the curtains of the attic window and see the twilight spread across Paris. Bastion continued to play as I rose from my chair and headed towards the window. I placed my hand upon the curtain, ready to pull it back, when Bastion stopped playing quite suddenly, and shouted, No! I turned to look at him. His eyes were stern and unblinking.

Don't do it! He urged me. The hairs on my arms prickled. We stared at one another for a moment in silence. To break the palpable tension, I smiled and replied, Okay, you're the artist. You know best. I returned to my seat and let Bastion continue his peace. When he finished playing, we sat in silence for a moment.

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Villaray, the voice that we love. And then there came a slight sound from the window. The old wooden shutter must have rattled in the evening breeze. But for some reason, we were both startled. I recalled how funny he had been about me opening the window earlier. and began to feel a little uncomfortable. I made my excuse to leave and asked if I may join him again another night.

He agreed. It was difficult to find time over the next couple of weeks to hear Bastion play again. I was busy with my studies and had also taken on part-time work to help pay the rent. Bastion was away during the day at university and in the evenings he would rehearse with members of the orchestra in the attic.

A few times I met him and his colleagues in the hallway and suggested I come up to listen and hang out afterwards. His response was unfavorable, giving me excuses that the piece wasn't quite ready yet. He seemed almost shifty, like he didn't want me to be there. At first he invited only one other musician, then another,

and by the time two weeks had gone by, he must have had 20 or so people up there. I didn't mind. I enjoyed hearing how the music changed, with each new member of the group added. Towards the end of the two weeks, the music had changed dramatically. Its haunting and beautiful melodies were different now,

but I still wanted so desperately to sit in on the rehearsals and look out over Paris through the attic window. I decided one night when it was late, to sneak up to the attic floor. I tiptoed my way up the stairs, making sure to step lightly to avoid the creaking wood. I knew that Bastion was quite precious over this composition, and I didn't want him to know I was listening before it was ready.

There in the narrow hall outside the attic door, I listened. I was not prepared for what happened next. The sounds within filled me with an indefined, definable dread, dread and vague wonder. It was not the sounds themselves that were hideous, but what their vibrations held. As I stood there, the playing grew wilder. The shrieking viol of Bastion swelled amongst the chaotic bedlam of the orchestra. Just as I thought the pandemonium of sounds could not get any more untamed, there came a cry from inside the room. I recognized it as being Bastion. I began banging on the door, calling for someone inside to open up. The orchestra

ceased their playing. I heard the sounds of hushed discussion, the curtains being drawn shut, and footsteps approaching the door. It opened. Bastion greeted me with a warm smile. My dear friend, welcome. I'm glad you're here. The piece is finally ready for an audience. come in. Shaking pathetically and confused, I stepped into the room. Bastion led me to an empty chair near the window. None of the other musicians spoke.

They only sat in silence. Instruments at the ready. Bastion picked up his viol and announced, From the top. And the orchestra commenced their performance. It would be useless to describe the playing of the orchestra of Erich Zahn on that dreadful night. It was more horrible than anything I had ever heard, or even overheard, because now I would see the expression on each and every one of the

musicians' faces. Their eyes bulged, glassy, and sightless. Their playing had become fevered and mechanical, as if driven by something beyond human comprehension. It grew more frantic, delirious. Louder and louder, wilder and wilder, the or more. The orchestra played, their instruments shrieking and whining. Each player was dripping in sweat, their bodies twisted and contorted, looking frantically towards the curtained window. The wooden shutter on the outside began to rattle in the tempestuous gusts of wind which had sprung up outside, as if in response to the mad playing within.

The orchestra's instruments continued to scream, emitting sounds that no instrument should be able to emit. A shutter over one of the windows rattled loudly. windows rattled loudly. It unfastened itself and began slamming against the window frame. The curtains flapped uncontrollably. A gust of wind, stronger than ones before it, came through the window and whipped up the musical manuscripts. Hastily I followed the flying sheets of music, and in desperation I tried to grab them before they were lost to the city below. I remembered as I reached the window. My old wish to look out upon the twinkling lights of Paris while

listening to Bastion play. Instead, I stood in terror. There were no twinkling lights of Paris below. No Eiffel Tower in the distance. There was, however, a city. An uninhabitable wasteland of neither past, present nor future. The buildings were tall and of what material they were made, I could not say. The shrieking and wailing of the orchestra continued behind me as I gazed upon this unfamiliar landscape. I fancied that in the distance. I saw something humanoid in shape crawling through the city streets. It was black like a shadow, and its limbs were long and spindly. It moved with such speed and grace I couldn't be sure if it was there at all. I felt something called brush up against me. I screamed, but I could not be heard above the hideous din of the

orchestra. I staggered back, crashing into a table. overturning a chair and landing on the floor. I looked up. Bastion sat in his chair beside me, continuing to bow his infernal instrument. Perhaps they were still time to save him. I got to my knees, my face leveled with his, and shook his shoulders in an effort to break his trance.

He did not respond. His instinctive and relentless bowing continued. I placed my hands on either side of his head and screamed into his ear that we have to leave. Now! His face was ice-cold and stiffened. His glassy eyes were unseeing. I stood, determined to end this, and grabbed the bow from his hand.

His body slumped backwards in the chair. His breathing non-existent. His viol slipped from his grasp and onto the floor. There was nothing I could do to save him. As I ran down the stairs, out of the apartment, and into the night, I heard the music behind me, mingling with the nightlife of Paris. I ran further down the street. The hideous sights and sounds from that night

faded into the clinking champagne glasses and raucous laughter from restaurant goers. Despite the temporary relief, nothing could drown out my memory of that night. The sounds of the viol, the look in Bastion's eyes, the window overlooking the dashed and hideous landscape of an indescribable city,

the shadowy figure, it stays with me. Even now, it stays with me. I am convinced that this Zon character who composed the music knew about the mysterious world through that window. What magic do those melodies weave? When I think back to those early nights of listening to Bastion play, long before that dreaded final night, I wonder if the shadowy creature was listening.

Was the music inviting him in, or was the music keeping him out? In the end, I never did find my old street. Rue de Salle, it was like it vanished that fateful night along with my old apartment. I am convinced that this Zahn character who composed the music knew about the mysterious world through that window. What magic do these melodies weave? SCP 333 are 1,618 identical copies of a music score of unknown title and origin. When the score is performed by an orchestra of sufficient size,

SCP 33-B manifests. SCP-33-B appears to be a metropolitan area, devoid of any signs of habitation, past, or present. Due to its nature, it is unknown when SCP-33-B was constructed, using what materials, by whom, or even if it was constructed in the conventional sense at all. SCP-33-C is a highly aggressive entity of variable appearance and composition residing within SCP 333B. Should the creature manage to escape SCP 33-B,

it will remain until the next time SCP-33-B manifests unless terminated.