The SCP Experience - Unholly Bush | SCP-046

Episode Date: March 13, 2023

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-046: Unholly Bush This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp. Go to betterhelp.com/scp today to get 10% off your first month! This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-046 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Discover the Author's impressive series of SCP Tales here: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0BVWJFGV3 Check out more of Mr. Click's work here: newpulptales.com 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

It's something else here now. Something new. From. Exclusively on Paramount Plus. It's the series Stephen King calls scary as hell. Everything here is impossible, but it's also real. Sci-fi Vision calls it the best show streaming right now. We're running out of time and we still don't know the rules.

Don't miss what the movie blog calls something you need to watch. Saving those children is how we all go home. From binge all episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. The bullet rips through Billy's back, just below his neck. The flannel outline of his shirt explodes, staining the yellow and checkered fabric red. He falls to the ground in a heap, and I pray it's enough. But I know it's not. I've done this too many times.

A bullet with this small a caliber isn't going to be enough to finish the job, not even from this close. But they're quieter, easier. for the sound to be swallowed up by the mountains for nobody to hear, and two to the back of the head is as dead as with a 357 magnum. Of course, that's assuming the gunman isn't bawling his goddamn eyes out when he pulls the trigger. The bird song and scurrying of animals vanish in the wake of the gun's blast.

It allows me to hear his shocked breath clearly. Billy fumbles, trying to stand, but he falls flat on his chest again. He flops on his back, momentarily hiding the blood, but it's already pooling beneath his body. There's no exit wound through his chest. The bullet must have bounced around in his lungs and is still lodged somewhere in there. His eyes widen as he sees me with a gun in my hand. Jim?

Comprehension replaces the shock on his face, but his eyes are still wide with fear. He shakes his head. No, no, come on, man, you don't have to do this. It's not true, whatever you heard. I'm sorry. For what? I'm not entirely sure. Maybe I'm sorry for dragging him into this mess.

Or for following Daddy's orders without question. Or for the tears that clouded my eyes as I squeezed the goddamn trigger. Shit. I know it's for all of it. I've only made a mistake like this twice, before. During my first execution, when my conscience was far from clear, and once, when I had to dispose of a witness, she was 16 years old. Billy's wail of pain snaps me out of my misery. Before he can say anything else to prolong his suffering, I raise my gun. I don't bother to wipe the tears away. Through

my blurred vision, I can almost imagine it's not my cousin, my best friend, writhing on the ground. begging for his life. Two shots to the head, that's all it takes. But I don't stop there. I point the gun, firing and screaming at the top of my lungs until the gun stops. But my scream continues, echoing back and forth on the abandoned Appalachian Trail. After several long moments, my voice dies in the wind, wrapping me in silence and shame as I hurl the gun away. Ragged breaths escape my lips, and I bend over and I bend over and, and heave, nothing but strands of bile come out. When Daddy gave me the order to take out Billy, I hadn't been able to eat.

Now though, I feel the aching need to fill myself with something to dull the pain. Walking the short distance to the truck, I pull open the cooler of beer Billy had packed. I popped the first bottle off with one hand and bring it to my lips. The cold brew is an instant relief from the raw agony of my throat. But it's not going to be enough. It's never fucking enough. Three more flow down my gullet before the pain is dull enough for me to do what needs doing.

I pick up the shovel, walk into the underbrush, and find my gun. Being sloppy got Billy killed, and I don't want the same to happen to me. Or do I? More and more, I've been thinking maybe that would be for the best. Maybe it's time to finally put an end to the violent madness of my life. Time to sit down with a bottle of Jack and finally work up the courage and use the gun on the person who truly deserves it. I take a shuddering breath and let the darkness wrap over me.

But I know I won't go through with it. I'm too good of a son, of a soldier, to defy Daddy and insult him by being a suicide case. I bury the thoughts and the doubts. I kick the shovel into the ground and start digging. Crime is everywhere in America. Sure, Hollywood and the small screen give you a certain image of it. Usually, the Irish or Italians in suits in big cities like New York or Boston, or Hispanic and black guys in red or blue fighting to the death on the West Coast.

Guys and leather riding atop Harleys has been another popular image lately. I'm not saying there's not a degree of truth. in those portrayals. But it all gets romanticized and sanitized through stereotypes and easy to recognize images. People need to know who to root for when they flip on the tube. In real life, the good guys and bad guys aren't so easily separated into visible categories. Mobsters, bikers, gangsters, politicians, CEOs, they're all the same goons, just in different outfits. You'll find crime anywhere in the good old US of A if you look hard enough. Take my family for example. You wouldn't think we'd have a list of dead bodies going back nearly a century just by looking

at us. Sure, some members of the family are more intimidating than others. I've got a couple of cousins who really buy into the make-believe shit. They've got more tattoos than common sense and fancy themselves the newest batch of rebel without causes. Myself, I always took out of after Daddy's example. He always says that you don't need to look the part as long as you act it. If you crossed him walking the street, you might mistake him for a pastor of some kind, buttoned up or polo shirts with a collar. He'll always greet you with a friendly smile and kind words in public. But if you ever meet him behind closed doors, or if you ever owe him money, look out. More specifically, look out for me. I'm equal parts beef, beef,

and Braun, a former high school superstar at the local level but without the smarts or skills to go pro. But none of that mattered to me. I always knew that I was going into the family business someday. My family got their first taste of crime during prohibition. We always cooked up shine in the hills away from prying eyes. Still do, even though it doesn't pay anything. But Daddy believes in holding on to our heritage. Almost overnight, there was a market for our our swill outside the haulers. Criminal outfits from Chicago and other northern cities were willing to pay top dollar for booze and went south looking for it. For the first time since we got off the boat, my family was finally making a living. No more breaking our backs on the coal mines,

or making pennies digging ditches or cleaning hillsides. Moonshine built our family houses and put food on the table. From what daddy says in those early days, days, we were content to sit back and take what scraps the mobs tossed our way. That all changed after the government woke up and smelled the coffee. Alcohol became readily available across the country, taking my family's livelihood with it. But after finally getting a taste of the good life, we weren't willing to sit idly by and live in the dirt anymore. Our portfolio has diversified over the generations.

Marijuana was our next big ticket item. We lacked the means and the contacts to get into the Coke game, but we knew plenty of ways to sneak the white powder up north for a cut. Meth and Oxy are our biggest sellers now. But we've got a hand in pretty much every crooked pot you can imagine. Daddy tells these stories with a grin and a knowing wink to the select few. I grew up on his knee, knowing that someday I would become a part of something important. I did small jobs, getting more responsibilities as I got older, until it was time to make

my bones, until the night Daddy dragged a sniveling man and me out to the woods and put a gun in my hand. I cried after pulling the trigger, but Daddy shushed me, hugged me tight, and told me that it would get easier. He was wrong. I dragged Billy toward the freshly dug hole, trying to ignore the memories of growing up together. Billy is, was the son of Daddy's cousin, that either made him my first cousin once removed or second cousin, depending on who you ask. From what I understand, for most parts of the country, this would have made us pretty distant relations, but in Appalachia, cousins are close as brothers. Me and Billy are, were no different. His father hadn't been connected to any of the family's criminal doings. I think he thought that would protect Billy from us.

But Daddy took care of his own, even those who didn't join us in the family business. Billy saw how Daddy tossed money around and how his dad worked himself to the bone to pay for a too small trailer for him and his sisters. Joining us was a foregone conclusion. That's all obvious now. But everything's obvious in hindsight. I couldn't see this day coming when Billy and I were growing up. Not when we were kids wearing Ghostbuster T-shirts and playing with Ninja Turtles. Or later, when we were in high school, playing for the same team and chasing the same girls. And certainly not when it came time for Billy to take his own walk in the woods,

with a gun in his hand with an order from Daddy. Somewhere along the line, though, things had changed. I blamed the drugs. Our family made our money through dealing and trafficking, but Daddy was adamant against using this shit ourselves. I obeyed like a good soldier, but Billy had always been more rebellious than me. Shipments started coming up short, and the people we deliver Coke for, well, you don't want to make them mad. Daddy might be a real big fish around these parts, but we're well aware of how small our pond is. That's why he had me bring Billy up here with some bullshit story about fish and wildlife poking around

and making sure our secrets stayed buried. I dropped Billy in the hole and start filling it, trying to drown out the sound of his screams echoing in my mind. Eventually, I have to stop and down another couple of beers before returning to the task, but his pleas never stop. There are a constant hum in the back of my mind. No matter how fast I fill the hole, They're still there even after I pat the fresh dirt and draped fallen tree branches over it.

I stand over his grave and try to think of something to say. Billy deserves more than this. He had his demons, but who in the family doesn't? Certainly not me. He deserves better than an unmarked grave and unanswered questions from his family. But I know any words I say are only for my benefit. So I remain silent. and turn back to the truck.

I freeze, staring at the boy staring at me. Do it. Daddy's orders have been hammered into my head so often that I don't need him here to hear his voice. My guts churn as I look at the boy. He can't be more than eight. Half the age of the girl I killed. God, no, I can't.

But I'm already reaching for the gun tucked behind my belt. My hand touches the cold metal. and a breath pushes past my lips as I remember it's empty. I let out of breath as the sweat freezes on my forehead. Oh, thank Christ. I have a reason not to kill the kid. He locks eyes at me, and I stare at him, at his torn shorts, his faded Ghostbusters T-shirt,

his dirty blonde hair wove into a rat tail at the back. Wait, it can't be. But there's no mistaking him. It's Billy, exactly the way he looked when we were kids. He smiles at me. Eyes, a lit with mischief like they've been his entire life before he turns and flees through the woods. Billy, wait! I chase after him.

A briar bush slashes through my hands. I ignore the pain and traces of warmth and blood as Billy races ahead of me. My lungs roar in pain as I suck air in and out, breathing in the smells of thick greenery around me. As I do, Billy changes. He ages years and men. His clothes changing with him as he disappears deeper into the forest. The black, white, and red of his shirt transforms into blue and yellow, are high school colors. The yellow 23 stands out brightly as the tight coil of hair bouncing on his neck grows into shoulder-length hair.

We turn around a bend, splashing my legs with cold, dirty water as we tear through a small stream. My foot wrenches painfully as my shoe sticks in the mud. I push, leaving the shoe behind. running awkwardly as the rocks and twigs jabbed through my soaking socks. Billy's changing again. Now he's just a few years younger than when I buried him. His hair buzzed short in solidarity when his daddy was diagnosed with cancer. He runs through a thicket of trees.

They don't slow him down, but they batter into my shoulders and hips at a frenzied pace. I haven't taken a beating this bad since high school football. I'm closing in on him when Billy turns to face me. His yellow and black flannel shirt is splashed with swathes of red. Two bullet holes stare at me through his forehead. His eyes are vacant and devoid of life. I scream, trying to stop. But my momentum carries me forward.

My world spins as I plummet down the drop-off. The ground isn't gentle as I spin down the hill. My legs, back, arms, crotch, and every part of me hit all at once from all directions in a revolving door of pain. Something tears across my face, coating the world red, when I finally come to a stop, unplastered to the ground, trying to suck fresh breath into my lungs. The world continues to spin as I force myself up. Squeeziness in my gut meets vertigo, and the beer comes up my throat in a hot spray of foam and blood. I cough, wipe my mouth, pull myself against a tree trunk, and scream my lungs out.

It does nothing to nourish my mouth. injuries, but it calms my mind. Calm. My mind hasn't been calm in years. Every day I force a look of grim determination or smiles, chasing the pain away with pills and alcohol. All it does is help me sleep. There's a dark spot in my mind that's always there. When I lie in bed at night, it wraps itself around me, engulfing me, swallowing me whole in its misery. I finally fucking I would have realized that if I had just stopped and thought for a moment. There's no way it could have been Billy. A guilty conscience and a fucked up mind, that's all it was.

Armed with the realization, I force myself to my feet. My knee bends as I put my full weight on it. I start back the way I came, unsure of what to do. The prospect of putting a bullet in my brain has never been sweeter than this moment. My foot lands on something sharp. A grunt of pain staggers me in place. It holds me tight in place without the chase to push me through the pain. Lifting my foot brings a spray of blood to the ground.

I swear and lean against the tree, turning back to the top of the clearing. Billy's back, but he's not alone. Two shadowy figures stand near him, growing with detail as they come down the hill. Unlike me, the steep drop off in the ground littered with wet dead leaves doesn't slow them down. As they come into focus, my heart drops from my chest. The girl on the left is wearing the clothes she slept in, long flannel pants and a tight, my little pony t-shirt. The purple highlights in her hair are stained red from the bullets in the back of her head. The hole in her throat pours out dark and thick blood. Sarah Stokes, the girl who witnessed a shootout

between us and a gang of bikers looking to hijack our shipment. The youngest person I ever killed. An innocent girl just trying to do the right thing. The man on the right is Kevin Connors, my first kill. A man who once won the lottery, then blew through his windfall and turned to gambling to try and reclaim his former glory. He never did.

And when it became clear, he wouldn't be paying back the money daddy loaned him. We dragged him out here. One of his ears is blown off from my first shot straying to the right. They're in front of me now. I turn, running as fast as my injured foot and knee can carry me. Shadows close around me, growing distinct the farther I move into the forest. And I start to recognize their faces. The one honest cop in town that defied the corrupt sheriff in our pocket pops out from behind a tree.

A distant uncle with delusions of grandeur who took a shot at daddy. Junkies, crooks, witnesses, threats. Everyone I've ever taken out and buried comes through the trees after me. My heart fills with dread as they surround me. They have a right to revenge, and I deserve to die, but not like this. Not deep in the forest, run amok with the dead. It's a trick. You're fucking insane, remember?

This is all in your head. It's not fucking out of it. The realization and logic are a wet blanket. swallowed up by the dark spot in my mind. It engulfs me like the dead chasing after me. But then, a song breaks through the trees. It's soft and old, like the lullabies that Mommy used to sing before she passed. I latch onto the melody and head toward it.

But the shadows of my murder victims are always looming close behind me. Two things happen with every step. The dead are trailing off, and the wordless. music grows louder, beckoning me forward, lightening the load of my injuries and evaporating the pain. A break appears in the trees, and I step into an open meadow. The dark grass is soothing, and the pain of my bloody feet is completely gone. It's so pleasant that I discard my remaining shoe and sock. With each step comes a sigh of relief as the melody pushes me forward. The fading sun catches the untamed grass and casts it in a different light.

The color is almost a dark and heavy blue, and I realize where I've seen it before. Bluegrass, where my state obtained its moniker, but it doesn't grow in this region. I've only seen it once when I was young and took a field trip far north to the state's capital. I push aside this memory as I come to the song's source. It's a riving mass of plants that shouldn't belong together. Long, tendrils of golden rods stretch out. thicker and longer than I've ever seen, almost like botanical pythons. Splashes of bright and purple flowers pulsate at the center.

Fruits blossom off the vines, and it takes me a moment to recognize the papas. Thick and soft fruits that Granddaddy loved, but were always too greasy for my taste. The air is thick with their pungent smell, and I breathe deeply, remembering how they used to mingle with the cherry tint of his pipe smoke. The plant pulsates again, and the song stops. I'm not disheartened by this, though. I know it's finished because I'm here and have nothing to fear. I lower myself to my knees, breathing in the scent deeper.

My head swells with the ambrosia, and I feel myself tottering back on my head. The impact isn't painful. It reminds me of swinging from the swings in our backyard. Daddy, encouraging me to jump, letting go of that fear, flying through the air, and him laughing as he caught me. The bluegrass is softer than any mattress I've ever owned. I take another deep breath, soaking in the moment, and feeling genuine happiness for the first time in years.

I don't know how long I lay there before I notice the itching. It's a dull sensation at first, like after a shot from the dentist before he starts drilling holes in your teeth. But the longer it goes on, the harder it is to ignore. I force an eye open, breaking myself from my dream, and raise my hand to my eyes. It's raw and red, gripping blood, the skin disintegrating before my eyes. I force myself up, but something grabs hold of my shoulder. Billy's blank eyes, the two holes I put in his head all stare at me.

The others soon join him. Sarah takes the other shoulder, Kevin Conner's my legs, and then all of them hold me down. I struggle against them, fighting for my head. my life when I realized something. They're not violent. The dead aren't trying to tear me to pieces or rip into my flesh. They're merely keeping me in place. And I realize that I don't want to move. I'm so goddamn tired of fighting. I can't bear to go down the hill and face Daddy or carry out another murder in his name. I'm done. I let out a shuddering breath as the bugs pour out from the mass of beautiful plants. I can't tell what they are.

They're black and indistinct as they wash over me in a wave of tiny legs and biting mouths. The pain is excruciating, but morphs into pleasure as a long sigh is drawn from my melting lips. I lie back on the grass with Billy and the rest of the dead. SCP 46 is a predatory botanical mass, located in southeastern Kentucky. SCP 46 is composed of two parts. SCP-46-1 is a large mass of vegetative matter, composed largely of plants indigenous to the region. SCP-46-2 is the land in the immediate vicinity of SCP-46-1, extending to a roughly circular area 20 meters in radius from its base. This area is SCP-46's primary feeding area.

SCP-46 is capable of attracting prey within a 50-kilometer radius, through hallucinogenic means, all evacuations of personnel should carry them outside of this radius to disable SCP-46's effect. Animals, including humans, suffering from potentially life-threatening physical injuries or diseases, or who are affected by psychological disorders that induce self-destructive tendencies, feel a powerful compulsion to come to SCP-46-2 and lie in a prostrate position facing SCP-46-1. Individuals lying in such a position are rapidly attacked by an unusually powerful combination of saprophytic organisms and opportunistic infections, including several

strains of MRSA, known to induce necrotizing fasciitis, also known as flesh-eating bacteria, a form of fungal spore which poisons prey organisms and induces paralysis. And finally, complete consumption by self-eastern. several here to four unknown species of insect that emerge from the inside of SCP-46-1 during the final stage of feeding. SCP-46 appears to derive nutrition through the complete digestion of affected individuals, particularly larger mammals such as humans. It is unknown whether SCP-46 is capable of growth.

As such, all steps are to be taken to ensure that SCP-46 is deprived of prey until more information is known about its abilities. These efforts are to include terminating individuals prior to their arrival at SCP-46 and disposing of their bodies in a separate location. Lasagne sur-gilled, puissance-molyne for 15 minutes. We're like it's their dojo.

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