Red Mist - SCP Foundation

Twelve figures move like specters across the front lawn of an empty suburban lot, silhouetted against a lone streetlight. They form an arrowhead, piercing the oppressive darkness of the night as they travel further into the destitute property; entirely focused on their surroundings.

"Xi-8, going dark." With that, each member crosses an imaginary threshold that completely absconds them from reality. No sign of their presence remains; an owl now hooting in disagreement atop the light-post that previously drew those phantoms into the light.

For them, however, the formerly barren property suddenly gives way to an imposing gothic estate ever wearied by age. All the windows are shuttered. It's two stories sag dangerously on tired foundations. Weathered timber warps outwardly, trying in vain to escape its timeless prison.

A certain feeling of abandonment… that wordless renunciation of this desecration to the laws of nature extends past subjective experience to something collective. That belief is held by those equally alien eyes now watching, observing with analytical precision for something beyond the norms of reality.

The group converges on the building's landing, stacking adjacent to the front door. It lies ajar. Beckoning. If this was unexpected, the visitors do not show it. Instead, the world around waits with bated breath before one single gesture from their leader, indistinguishable from the rest, cues their entry into its depths. Each are swallowed by the darkness without a whisper of objection.

What are little more than shadows pass undisturbed along room after room of cluttered, antiquated furniture, methodically sweeping each corner for signs of opposition. What meets them, however, has long since been retired.

Bodies of men are discovered in every room, mangled and bloodied from some unknown assailant. Sprawled about in once frenzied movement, here they remain, stuck in the thick tar of forever. It is a scene of palpable fear: tables and chairs overturned; doors thrown open without regard. Nothing coherent. Just animalistic desire. Survival.

Death hangs in the air, thick and viscous. It suffocates, burns the nostrils and dulls the senses; seeking more imprudent victims with outstretched limb. But it's not like they haven't grown accustomed to death. They are ghosts after all.

Underpinning every turn of events has insofar been latent expectation. Nothing can surprise these phantoms; as if they had belonged to these halls since before its very inception. A haunted reunion of ancestral proportions.

With the rooms cleared, all twelve assemble at the base of the stairs in anticipation for the ascent. Wordlessly, they begin upward, so methodically they seen to float. Halfway up, the first sign of life rears its ugly head through the stillness. An inhuman moan, reminiscent of a ragged, labored exhalation, escapes from the confines of some deeply ensconced room just beyond reach. The spectral apparitions, however, are entirely indifferent to this new revelation as they continue ever upward.

A pause as they stand before a doorway, its contents entirely unknown. With death on their minds, they spill across its threshold to stand face to face with a horrific amalgamation. Lying on a makeshift gurney, limbs strapped, is a human whose flesh has seemingly been grafted onto a deer skeleton. Its elongated skull pierces through the person's face, antlers visible through ragged hair. The creature raises its head in confusion; staring at the source of the intrusion with wet, beady eyes. It parts its jaws, stretching the already-taught skin and emitting that same guttural moan. Here now, contextualizing it in its rightful time and place, it bears a resemblance to a groan of anguish, as if the last remnants of humanity within that beast are spent pleading for help.

Without a second glance, each of the watchful attendants pull their eyes from the chimera to return to the task at hand. They move to enter the next room before a scuttle across creaking floorboards abruptly reminds them of the rampant, belligerent murderer. More lifeless bodies watch with agape mouth at their entry, as if crying out for retribution. A trail of blood leads to a grotesque mass of fur unidentifiable through the gloom. The thing is seemingly hunched over a corpse, feasting. It has no knowledge of the twelve pairs of eyes currently scrutinizing each minute movement; watching for the slightest display of hostility.

Despite belying all natural order, something instinctual, aided by millennia of biological programming alerts that rancid monstrosity to their presence. It stops, raises its head, and turns in their direction.

Souls have a curious way of showing themselves through an animal's eyes. A miniscule twinkle of intelligence, an indication that a spark of inquisitive life does truly inhabit that composition of celestial elements.

The same cannot be said for what is currently staring down twelve barrels of unadulterated pain. An empty gaze devoid of expression, looking past the physical frame into something deeper; their own souls in turn. It is a hypnotic trance, transcending the present into an ever-ceaseless continuity of now. All caught in its gaze are frozen, stuck in that same forever-tar the lifeless bodies are condemned to. They are no different to dead men.

For once, they lose their focus, and must surely pay for it.

Now clearly visible as it approaches unopposed, a wild boar - following the rules set out by its deer counterpart, bears distinctly human body parts grafted onto its skeletal base with amateur precision. The boar's thick, bristly fur protrudes through unmistakably human flesh, wide-set mouth wrapping around enormous tusks. Its abdomen so expansive that stitches mark places where the skin-mask has split under the immense tension, wet organs peeking through.

This blasphemous creation slams into the nearest threat with the force to match a freight train. Hurtling away into that immutably thick void of nothingness, a painful thud soon places the casualty back into perceivable reality.

A voiced grunt of pleasure escapes, thinking it has the upper hand before morphing into pained squealing as it is shredded in a cloud of red mist from all angles. Muzzle flashes plunge the previously pitch-black room into offensively harsh light, betraying the false security of the night.

It squeals as it writhes in its own blood, staring languidly at its killers. A death so coldly abrupt, so indiscriminate in its execution that it comes as a surprise to the pig. It is an accusatory look of betrayal. Those shadows, with weapons of unfettered destruction do not play by the rules. But then again, neither does it.

It seems so very small now as it lies, curled up, limbs fervently clawing empty air; its soulless eyes grasping for some comfort in the approaching vacuum. It will not die alone; but maybe that is a worse fate.

It almost looks human, as if its shared attributes extend past the physical realm to the wanton longing to live another day. A too-late pining; its movements become sluggish: the tar of death has begun to set. In that fleeting moment, it almost looks like the twinkle has returned.

No. That's fear. Enough adrenaline to kill an elephant, and most certainly this boar. A last-ditch attempt at survival.

Predator, becoming prey, reverting back to its most simplistic form of existence.

Some help their injured teammate, others remain entranced by the now lifeless mass slick with its own blood. The difference between them and it are negligible. An absolutely animal eagerness to kill, sure. But when it really comes down to it, when they're stripped of all conditioned mental safety nets and assistance, they too will revert to operating on fear. Just as the boar did, and its victims too. No matter of world-class training can rid anyone of it - especially not them.

They're not so sure they have the twinkle anymore.