Death at Sennet Manor | SCP-6767

The second the lights go out, I know we are in the right place. The lights going out also means we are probably about to be in deep shit too. But that's what we're trained for. So I keep the creeping dreaded bay and focus on the job. Plum fuse? Crews asks over the comms. The place is pretty old. Our tack team is six deep. The three to a team, Stavits and Drill are on me in the north end of the mansion, while Ramell and Knox are backing up crews in the south end. Nah, I say. We had the tech sweep the place. They'd have picked up the faulty wiring. Yeah, well, they swept from outside. Stavits adds as he moves slowly, carefully on my three. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to. We've been a tack team for three years now, and we know that an external sweep by the techs don't mean jack shit once you're inside a site. Because inside, a site can quickly become a whole other world, sometimes literally, depending on the assignment from command. So far, this place just goes dark and stays an old spooky mansion. It doesn't end up transporting us to some parallel dimension or hellscape. I'll take the inconvenience of lights out over an army of screaming demons any day of the week. And the bronze lizard say. Knox asks, his voice tightened controlled over the comms. The anomaly sticks to the shadows? Well, it's got plenty of those now. I wish it said what the alley thinks the thing is. Drill says, couldn't it give us a hint? It said it was dangerous and old. Ramell responds over the comms, not good enough. Drill says, it couldn't make a guess. It can, but it doesn't like to. And let's keep the chatter down, I respond. Because the bronze lizard also said the thing has heightened senses. It can hear us coming. What I don't add is that it probably already knows we're here. We're professionals. We have to always assume we're being watched or tracked or, on too many occasions, hunted. At no point do I think any of us believes the lights going out is a blown fuse, no matter how old the mansion is. One of New England's most notorious old houses. Built by a shipping magnate in the 19th century, the mansion hosted an untold number of parties and events for the region's wealthy and elite. When the bronze lizard said we were coming here, I made everyone bone up on the place's history. Standard practice for a tact team sure. But the bronze lizard says that what we may encounter is far from standard. In other words, just another day at the office. I approach a corner and hold up a fist. Stavits and Drill come to an instant stop behind me. Peeking my head around the corner of the corridor, I duck back quickly and take in what I saw. Blood. So much damn blood. We've got a massacre in the Northwest corridor. Just after that third junction with the main hall. I whisper into the gums. No one responds, but I know they're listening. I hold up a finger and point forward. Stavits grabs my shoulder and I look back at the man. His helmeted head shakes back and forth. I frown. I'll take point. Emouths. You keep us on track. He's right. And he knows he's right. Because he doesn't even wait for me to give the go ahead. He just slips past me and eases around the corner. In any other tact team, he'd have his ass handed to him by the team leader. But I'm not that kind of T.L. And we're not that kind of tact team. Drill and I fall in step behind Stavits. Our rifles sweeping back and forth as I cover our three and nine. And Drill covers our six. There are three clicks in my ear and I give three clicks back over the comms in response. Letting the rest of the team know we're good. Stavits walks us up to the bloody mess, pausing just before the toes of his boots touch the congealed pool of blood, spilling off a rug that is so saturated that he can't hold any more in its pile. Jesus. The rug was probably worth as much as we all make in a year. The fact that this mansion hasn't been completely looted tells me almost as much as the rumors and legends surrounding it do. 1929 and the party stopped. The political events and charity auctions, the holiday celebrations like the Christmas tree lighting or the Easter egg hunt. All of it ends in 1929. Could it have been the crash in the stock market? That is likely, especially since all the local newspapers and even a couple of national ones seemed to think so. Every time a yearly event was missed, some reporter took note and wrote it up in the society pages. But no one was ever given an answer and the owners of the mansion, the senates, went completely silent. So after a few years, the press moved on. The Great Depression was raging by then, so there were many more pressing stories to report than the decline of one of New England's great houses. I'm guessing this is what the bronze lizard picked up on. Drill says, his voice low as he looks at me. What do you think, Anders? That looked like six or seven people's worth of pup to you. More like over a dozen. Staff it's response. The bronze lizard said he was getting a flood of memories so fast it was hard to count. You can count six or seven. This mess is way bigger than that. You an expert on spooky immortal bronze lizard, Staff it's. Drill asks, chuggling. Because I'm not. SCP-6767 has yet to steer a tag team wrong, I say. Surprised at myself, for sticking up for an anomaly like SCP-6767. I've never met the bronze lizard in person, but the thing has a good reputation back on sight, so I'm willing to give it the benefit of the doubt. Also, unlike SCP-6767, I don't absorb the memories of all the dead on Earth, so not only do I give the bronze lizard the benefit of the doubt, I give it a freaking break. That can't be fun. Having dead people's memories shoved into your head all day and all night. I mean, how many people die on this planet every damn day? And something like two or three people a second, which means it's got to be close to 150,000 every 24 hours. That's a lot of damn memories. I'm guessing that being made entirely of bronze must help keep the creature from going mad, unless it is already mad. In that case, we're royally screwed. I count 28 different bodies. Staff it says. Approximately. I could have double counted some of the eyeballs, but I don't think I did. There are more than 28 different hands, so we could be looking at 30. Before I can say anything, a short, sharp squeal erupts over the comms and I hiss. Quiet on the comms, I say. Well report as soon as we have something. Uh, T.L. Anders, this is SCP-6767. Can you hear me? It's the bronze lizard on comms. This can't be good. What the hell? A whisper. This is a secure line. And only for Tak team Delta 309. You aren't authorized to be. I know, I know, and I apologize. But Dr. Callahan gave me permission and helped set the equipment up in my terrarium. So this has been sanctioned by higher channels of that helps. No, that doesn't help. Since any distraction could get me or members of my team killed. Yes, that's what I'm communicating about T.L. Anders. I hear the bronze lizard gulp loudly before clearing its reptilian throat. As you may have already discovered, there is no one left alive inside the mansion. I study the blood-drenched rug, the gores splattered walls, and the dripping ceiling. Yeah, I can't argue against that assessment. Cruise, what do you have? We aren't seeing anything yet, but that doesn't mean we won't round a corner end. Oh, nope, I spoke too soon. We've got our own mess here in the south end. Cruise replies over the comms. That is unfortunate for those poor people. I think none of you have time for sympathy right now. SCP-6767 says. I have some troubling news that you all need to pay attention to. Go ahead, SCP-6767. I say. Are you have a different name? Can we call you SCP-67 instead? I'd rather you didn't. The bronze lizard replies. Due to all of the unvaccinated young people dying from measles, I have a wealth of knowledge on youth trends. And there was currently a trend called SCP-67. It is best to refer to me as SCP-6767. It's your name, so it's your call. I say. Now, what's this news? Troubling news. Got it. What's the troubling news? The bronze lizard gulps again. As you all know, I absorb the memories of all the dead. Usually, at least 95% of the time, those memories stick with me for eternity. Or the peace of eternity I've navigated so far. You must have a lot in there. I say, entwirl my hand in the air, showing my impatience to drill and stab it. Are there any memories that pertain to our guard situation? Yes, and quite a few that no longer exist. I share a worried look with my teammates. What do you mean by no longer exist? Did some of the people not die? Oh no, they all died. Every last one of them. I saw it all. I wait. And wait. SCP-6767, you're still there. Because I have an operation to complete. And my demon icon need to focus on that. 36 people walked into the mansion this evening just as the sun set. The bronze lizard says, finally getting to the point. All 36 of them were killed not long after sundown. The lizard's gulp is almost like a gunshot in our ears. But I have retained only 24 sets of memories. That means that 12 of the victims are now in a state that negates my collecting of their memories. Because they are alive? If that's the case, then we need medical backup immediately so we can set up a triage area. And no, no, TL-anders, they are not alive. Even bigger gulp this time. That's the problem. They are quite dead. Yet no longer dead dead. As I echoes over the comms. I wish I could say that I have not witnessed this before. But I most certainly have witnessed what? I ask, my insides going cold. You said we're here to take out one individual. That's what we were told back at the facility. Are you saying we have 12 more to deal with now? At least 12, yes. SCP-6767 answers. I'm afraid that you and your team have stumbled into a brood. A brood? What kind of brood? I ask, knowing already that the answer to that question will not be good. Please, stand here with a gap. Another morning. Another reminder there's a gap to be careful of. But maybe it's time to bridge the one between your 9 to 5 and your dream of living life on your own terms. At HSBC, we know ambition looks different to everyone. Whether it's retiring early or leaving more for your family, we can help. Because when it comes to unlocking your money's potential, we know wealth. Search HSBC-wealth today. HSBC-UK, opening up a world of opportunity. HSBC-UK current account holders only. The more information you can give us, the better my team can. I don't get to finish the sentence as gunfire and screams erupt over the comms. It's so loud that I yanked the earpiece out of my ear before I go deaf. But even with the comms, earpiece removed. I can still hear the gunfire and screams echoing through the building. And it's all coming from the south end of the mansion. I adjust my comms unit and jam my earpiece back in as drill and stab its take a knee, each facing a different direction. Covering our position completely. Crews report. The screams stop. And our light here is gunfire. The knot stops too. Crews, remel, knocks. Report now. I cycled through our team channels. Just in case they switched it up. But there's nothing. No responses. Only silence. Oh dear. Oh dear. I am so sorry. SCP-6767 says. I should never have mentioned Senate Manor to the doctor. It is beyond your team's capabilities. What is? What exactly are we dealing with? A shout as I spin around. Still on my feet. I aim at the far end of the corridor. Then I aim at the wall to my right. Then at a fixed shout out where the ceiling meets the wall. I squint into the gloom and bring up my helmet's HUD, making sure I'm locked on the thermal imaging. There's nothing there. As far as the AI and my HUD can tell. But I've been at this a while. And I know not to rely on tech. I switch to night vision, plunging the environment into deep greens and grays. There. Movement. Above us. On a clock. My whisper. The moment that Drill and Stavits both pivot on their knees to look in the direction of whatever it is, it strikes. Drill screams as he is plucked up off the floor by his head. The sound of his neck snapping tells me everything, even as his body goes limp as a ragdoll. And his head is separated from his body. And Drill's blood, geysers out of the next stump, as his headless corpse tumbles onto the already blood-drenched rug. I am so sorry! SCP-6767 shouts over the comms. I hear an argument. Then the comms go dead. Deal. We gotta move. Stavits says as he jumps to his feet and grabs me by the arm. Go, go, go! He's right. And I don't argue. We both turn and race back the way we came. The map on our hoods, showing us the path to the mansion's front entrance. Command, this is T.L. Anders with Delta 309. We need immediate ex-fill. Confirm location. We should be there in less than three. All the wind is knocked out of me. And I can't keep track of what is happening until I slam into a side table, shattering the piece of antique furniture with my fall. I am not a small man. So for something to slam into me so hard that I fly across the corridor and destroy a piece of what looks like heavy oak. Well, let's say that I don't need to piss again anytime soon. T.L. Stabbit shouts, then unloads his rifle. Shaking off the impact, I get to my feet and pull my sidearm since my rifle is yard's away. And looks like it's been twisted into a pretzel. Christ almighty, what is attacking us? I rack the slide on my pistol and hunt for a target. The corridor is lit up in bright flashes of muzzle fire, and I can hear the bullets whizzing by my head. Watch it! Shout at Stabbit's, just as his magazine clicks empty. Without missing a beat, Stabbit's ejects the magazine and slams home a fresh one. But he never gets a chance to fire again. I watch in horror as he is lifted up off the ground by the back of his neck. What's behind him has to be seven feet tall since I can see its boots on the floor, even with Stabbit's dangling in front of it. Boots. It's wearing boots. And if it's wearing boots, then it wears clothes. And if it wears clothes, then we're dealing with a human. Or humanoid, considering the line of work we're in. I aim for the boots and fire. A hissing screech fills the corridor, and Stabbit's is tossed aside. His body hits the wall with a sickening crunch. Is he dead? I don't know. SCP-6767 could probably tell me, but it sounded like that end of the conversation got cut off as things started going south. South. Shit. Crews and Ramell and Nox. I have no time to mourn my teammates as a violent shadow races at me, then picks me up off my feet and carries me at a dizzying speed down the corridor. The ride comes to a painful end as I am slammed into the end wall. Stars fill my vision. As does a face. Hello, food. A voice made of evil and mucus snarls. Thank you for coming. The man is pale as a sheet, with incisors larger than a German shepherd's. I don't need SCP-6767 or any of the eggheads back at the facility to tell me what I'm dealing with. And the bronze lizard was right. This is beyond our capabilities. This is an ancient evil that even the foundation is wary of confronting. Our father, who art in heaven? I begin. But don't finish as I'm flung 30 yards down the other corridor. 30 yards gives me time to tuck my shoulder and roll with the impact when I hit the floor. It still hurts like all hell when I slam into the old hardwood, but I don't feel or hear anything break. I know SCP-6767 was prevented from giving us its theory on what we might find, especially after the brass gave wrong intel a few months back to team PSI-1108, resulting in the obliteration of that team, as well as several square blocks in Minneapolis. So I don't blame the lizard for not saying what was probably obvious. Senate Manor has got one serious vampire problem. It's coming for me so fast that I only have time to pull my combat knife from my right boot and hold it out blindly. A bit of luck comes my way, and I hear the howl as the creature gets a piece of the blade. That hurt me! It screeches in that nasty, flimmy voice. How did that hurt me? Now my first rodeo, you piece of vap trash! A shout as I stumble up onto my feet, and keep the knife pointed at the shadow, hunched, and crouched on the floor a few yards away. I added a streak of silver to my knife years ago! Wanna close her look? The streak of silver has saved me on more than a few occasions. You have no idea how many cryptids are allergic to the stuff. Not that this is a cryptid. No. This is something weight worse. I slash at the air, and the creature hisses at me. But it doesn't lunge or make a move in my direction. Which gives me a little time to study it. And I don't like what I see. Senate Manor went quiet in 1929. This guy before me is definitely dressed in modern clothes. Bloody and torn modern clothes. But obviously made by Vietnamese kindergarteners, and not the small fingers of Irish sweatshop kids, like back in the early 20th century. A fucking drone is what is in front of me. Not the boss I need to take down, if I'm going to cleanse this place of the evil that has taken up residence. Where's your maker? A snarl at the drone. It says, then spits a wad of bloody snot at me. The glob lands a couple of feet away from me, and turns the part of the carpet runner it lands on pure black. I'm the only one you'll be dealing with. The thing is probably right. He's the misdirection, not the actual attack. And I highly doubt there was ever going to be an actual attack. This guy is stalling so it's broodmates, and possibly the maker can get away. Come on, we need a full cleanse at this site now! I shout into my combs. The vamp leaps at me at the same time, but I'm ready. I tuck my shoulder, letting the creature sail past me, while also stabbing upward with my knife, gutting the thing from stem to stern. Cold, putrid entrails spill out over my arm, and I shake them off quickly, but not quickly enough. A vamp's body is one cost to conquer undead flesh. The entrails and black blood start to dissolve the sleeve of my uniform, like one of those xenomorphs in that alien movie. I drop my knife and strip off my gears, fast as I can. I'm standing in the corridor shirtless, with a forearm that looks like it was stuck in a microwave for about 30 seconds too long. But the blood and goo's violence has already abated, so I don't lose any more skin or flesh. I'll have a bitch of a sunburn on that arm for a while though. Deal! I'm going to get some of it's croaks. Startled, and more than surprised, I rushed to his side. Careful to side-step the bubbling and dissolving vamp corpse in the middle of the corridor. Staff, you good? How bad is it? I ask, as I kneel next to him. My finger goes to my earpiece. Come in, come in. We need medical e-back in a full-site cleanse now. No. Staff it says with the cough. Dark blood splatters the inside of his helmet's visor. I say and wrap my arms under him, ready to lift him up and around my shoulders. He screams and I yank my arms back fast. Staff it looks down at his body and I follow his gaze. He's got a table leg sticking out of his midsection. It was hard to see in the tangle of his tactical gear and torn bloody uniform. Ah, shit, Staff! I say and shake my head. He reaches up and pats my body, which confuses the hell out of me until I see what he pulls from the cross-straps on my chest. A grenade. I nod. E nods. I help him pull the pin, then I get up and run as fast and as far as I can. I'm in the next corridor when I hear snarls and hisses behind me. Then the grenade goes down, which puts an end to those snarls and hisses. It also puts an end to Staff it's. There's a crackling in my earpiece. Delta 309 come in. A voice echo is over the comms. Delta 309, are you still active? With my back against the wall and the stink of charred flesh and my nostrils, I sigh and answer. No, I sigh again. Delta 309 has been eliminated. Anders, that you? The voice asks. Yeah, and no need to send medical. I'm good and there's no one else left. I'm heading to the closest exit. What's the ETA on the cleansing drop? Is a long pause. Long pauses and times of crisis are never a good thing. ETA is two minutes, Anders. But I can hear a button your voice command. Yes, but you do not need to find an exit. The implication hangs in the ether of the comm system. A heavy weight between command and me. Understood. I say as reality hits home. I can't say that I blame you. I cannot risk an infection getting outside send it manor's property line, Anders. You already said you understood, so I won't explain it to you. No, I get it. These vamps spread fast. I slump to the ground and take my helmet off. The air isn't exactly fresh, but it's real and not recycled. I want real for my last few breaths. Hey, command. Yes, Anders. Can the bronze lizards say goodbye for me? How do you mean Anders? It'll get my memories, so can it say goodbye to my girlfriend and my siblings? Doesn't have to be a call. A letter is fine. But I want a writer to dictate it or whatever. Not you or any of the brass. It'll know what to say better since it'll have my memories. Another long pause. I'll see what I can do, Anders. I laugh. I'll see what I can do with shorthand for not a chance now. I tried at least, I say. The snarls and hisses echo through the mansion. I can tell they are converging on me. Command, you better get a move on with that cleansing drop. I say and pat my body. This time looking for my own grenade to use. The last thing you want is for me to get turned and find a way out of this place. We've already instituted a breach protocol here at the site. As if you have been compromised, Anders. All codes have been changed. You couldn't get in if you wanted to. Good call, Command. I look down at the grenade in my hand and pull the pin. I let the catch snap off and fly away across the corridor, where it clatters against a painting that looks suspiciously like a real Rembrandt. To bad this place will be nothing but smoldering rubble in a few seconds. I bet there's a couple of fortunes worth of goods just hanging on the walls. The hisses and snarls grow louder, And I see shadows up the ceiling crawl around the corner. Hey, Command. Tell the bronze lizard it's not his fault. I say he tried. Will new Anders, ETA is now 20 seconds. I don't have that. I say as the shadows leap at me. Then the world is a bright flash, and my last mission comes to an end. SCP-6767 is a small sapient reptile composed entirely of Burillion Bronze Alloy. SCP-6767 has exhibited neodymium and functional immortality via the involuntary shedding of its outermost layer when severely damaged or oxidized, revealing a younger instance of SCP-6767 underneath. SCP-6767 is capable of communication via both vocalization and telepathy. However, prefers the former due to the difficulty of evocative telepathy. Due to SCP-6767 being entirely composed of Burillion Copper Alloy, and the fact that it regularly sheds its outermost layer, most radiological dating methods are unfeasible. SCP-6767 has stated that it is currently in its early 4,600s after Dr. Callahan asked it directly. SCP-6767 claims to have access to the collective memories of all currently deceased individuals. This includes in-depth knowledge in nearly every field of study and craft, as Otaric or otherwise, as demonstrated by SCP-6767 when prompted. This is further corroborated by its knowledge of highly classified information.