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Chapter I.XVI

I think I've gotten offtrack. Somewhere in here, I forgot that I was supposed to be writing about stories my dad told me, and it turned into stories I had about my dad. Sometimes, it wasn't even about my dad. I think I tried to make a tribute, and it started to be about me. Wasn't that exactly what I got upset at Dad for, when he tried to make excuses at Mom's funeral? Wasn't it that behavior that made me so angry? Well, it might have been a couple things.
I know now that no one is going to read this. It doesn't do what I want it to do. But to trim it, to polish it, would be insincere. I just have to accept that this isn't about Dad. It's about me. I guess I can live with being selfish behind closed doors. I don't want to. But I wouldn't do myself any favors if I pushed it down.
Dad died on the 12th of July, 2024. It was a nice, warm day, and he had finally taken some time to himself to go on a hike down in Sandy. He found a trail by Tickle Creek, and took it. It's a flat path. Nothing strenuous in the slightest. But it doesn't matter. Whatever it was, it had already begun its cycle. He suffered a heart attack, and fell face first into the shallow water. Seems he never took time out of his schedule to get that surgery. He lived to be 68. Not a short life, but not a long one. He is survived by his wife, Alice, his sons, Anders and Robin, and his one remaining daughter, Faeowynn. I have no solid conclusion, here. I have no good or bad ending. I have no crescendo, I have no epilogue. I have no closure.
Today is July 16th.

Brrr, brrr, brrr… brrr, brrr, brrr…
"Fae?"
"Hey, Anders."
"Hey. If you're calling, does that mean you're coming home?"
"I think so."
"That's wonderful. Mom and Robin have been really worried."
"Have you?"
"A little bit."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Everyone grieves in their own way."
"Right. Did you tell them?"
"No."
"Thank you."
"It's nothing."
"It's something." … "I'll be home in some hours. I have to check out of a hotel and drive back. I'm just gonna say I needed time to myself, came down to Sandy to walk the trail and have the experience."
"That's close enough to the truth."
"Yeah. Seriously, thank you."
"Seriously, it's not an issue. You'll be home for dinner?"
"I will. What's it going to be?"
"I don't think anyone's in a headspace to cook, we're ordering Chinese takeout."
"Sounds right. Are you doing alright?"
"Am I doing alright?"
"Yeah."
"I think I am."
"Are Alice and Robin?"
"I don't think anyone's made it to the recovery phase yet. That said, Mom is keeping it together. Robin, no."
"Mmm."
"They will feel better with you home, though."
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm on my way."
"Good. See you when I see you. Mom and Robin are out, you might get home with just me here."
"What are you doing?"
"Watching Sesame Street."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Alright, see you."
"See you soon."
Click.

The sun was warm, the sky was clear, the day was beautiful, and I felt none of it. The place in front of my eyes was the same to me as the earth beyond this town was to Boring. To think that it existed at all felt wrong. Was there anywhere that rats couldn't grow wings? Was there anywhere that was unaffected by the death of Tim Wilson? Anywhere that people went on living life as normal? Did it exist? Or was it made up? It was hard to believe that there was any time but now. Hard to believe that there was a before or an after. A cause to effect. Anything to do.
These were the thoughts passing through my head on the way home from Sandy, through the woods and backroads that were then familiar to me. The sun was shining on me, but it didn't penetrate through the skin. I lived in my own private world, for the moment. I sometimes pulled onto the side of the road when I noticed I was spacing out and feared that I might begin to veer into woods or the wrong lane.
I eventually passed beyond the treeline and into the farms and fields of my hometown. I took in no sights while making my way down the simple, straight roads towards my house. I parked, stepped outside, and found a familiar sight. Anders was standing inside the open doorway, awaiting my return. I grabbed my satchel, closed and locked my car, and plodded towards the door. Once we met, we hugged.
"Glad to have you back home."
"Glad to be back home."
"Did you get your writing done?"
"I did."
"Did it help?"
"I'm not sure."
"That's alright."
"Is it?"
"I think so."
We pulled away from each other.
"Wow, Anders," I smiled weakly, "I didn't even know you had sweatpants."
He looked down at himself. He was wearing a dress shirt, a very loose tie, and lightly stained sweats. A less humorous observation was on his scent — he wasn't particularly unclean, but he had always had a problem with body odor, and it smelled like he had, for the time being, given up on covering it.
"They're pajamas. Great for laying on the couch and doing nothing all day, though. What are we standing in the doorway for? Come in, I made us hot chocolate."
"Oh, thank you."
I walked in and followed Anders through the left archway, and into the lounge room. A stack of Anders' books were on the table between the couch and the TV, including the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Mona Lisa Overdrive, and Dear Fang, with Love. Each had its own bookmark, but they weren't put very far in. The couch also had a pillow and a yellow, scratchy blanket.
"This is your station?"
"Has been for the past few days. Robin's mostly locked up in his room. Alice can't pick one place to stay, but she's spending a lot of time in the backyard practicing with the fencing dummy. It's a little manic, but I'd rather she be doing something than nothing. It's Robin I'm really worried about." He sat down, and motioned to two mugs on the coffee table. One was dark brown, and the other was a creamy white. I picked it up and gave him an inquisitive look.
"Try it," he said.
I sipped, and raised my eyebrows. "Did you melt one of my chocolates into it?"
"Nope. I just found an unlabeled pack of hot chocolate behind some cans, and it made that. You can find it for yourself in the pantry. Purple and yellow box."
"Unlabeled?"
"Mhmm."
"Damn it. I recently discovered that stuff doesn't come from the local candy store. I never asked him about it, not really sure why. He took that secret with him to the grave."
"That he did. Maybe it's all homemade somehow."
"And he'd make something for me and not you guys?"
Anders shrugged. "You and uh… Tim always really loved you, you know."
"More than…?" I shut myself up before finishing that thought.
"Oh, no. No, just. I think he thought he had to work harder for you."
We entered a silence, and took sips of our cocoas. "You're already speaking in past tense. I thought you were supposed to have a period where that comes difficult."
"I know what you're talking about, but I'm not sure that's true."
"What are Alice and Robin out doing?"
"They're picking out a coffin right now. The funeral is supposed to be in just under a week, on Monday."
"We can organize it that fast?"
Anders smiled, neither inauthentically nor happily. "It's an 'all hands on deck' issue at Wilson's Wildlife. We're not organizing it alone. Whole organization is helping out."
"Wow." Another moment endured while we looked out window at rows of corn beyond our fence. "Well, I think I'm going to go to the shed. I'm not totally out of a need for time to myself."
"I get you."
I started to rise, my weak will powering weak legs.
"Hey," Anders began, "should I bring your takeout to you, or will you be joining us for dinner?"
"Still doing family dinner?"
"Myself and Mom, at least."
I thought for a second. "I'd appreciate it if you brought it to me."
"Can do."
And thus I left. I passed by the glass table in the front yard, the fencing dummy in the backyard, some flowers that Robin was taking good care of, and then entered the left door to the shed, the door that went into my room. There, I unloaded my bag, and plunged face first onto my bed. My right arm over its side reached into my satchel and pulled out the tablet. I then rolled onto my back and held it up while it turned on. My password was entered. My homescreen unlocked. My files were available to me. I opened up Stories My Dad Told Me, and read through it all. Or, my eyes passed over every word, but I was lost in my own head. Often, I had to reread a paragraph three or more times to understand it, or otherwise give up entirely and let myself rattle through without recognition or feeling. It was a lot of words. More words than I expected I was capable of writing in four days or so. How much had I eaten in the past few days? How much had I drank?
I guess dinner was sooner than I expected, because I heard a knock at my door. Once I had finally gotten the energy to get up, I went and found a styrofoam container with a sticky note on top, reading:

Please get a good night's sleep tonight.
-A
P.S. You never saw the body. If you want to, meet me for breakfast at 8:00

I put the food in my minifridge, and left it. For a moment, I stood at the foot of my bed, just holding onto the posts, eyes closed, breathing deep. What good was this doing me? What was it I was really after?
I pictured Tim. The man in the morgue. The man with his right hand on a pen and his left hand on his chest. The founder of Wilson's Wildlife Solutions, the Californian immigrant to Oregon, the animal-lover, the letter-writer, the man who never showed up. Tim, who made me complacent, who took all the fight out of me by giving me a home and a job when I was listless and drifting. Tim, who never fully grasped my name or my womanhood. Tim, whom I had so much to say to and ask of. Tim, who I could never talk to again.
I pictured Dad. Not Tim, but Dad. The slightly chubby, on the short side, bearded, round-faced, brown-eyed, brown-haired diver. The man on the boat. The man under the waves. The man in the bay, the man at home. Home in San Diego, Mom and Dad and the city and the ocean. I tricked myself into smelling saltwater, and into hearing high traffic. I momentarily forgot the smell of pine, the field of one-story buildings, the mountains, the cold winters, the rainy season, the squirrels and deer and everything else. I deceived myself into a state of simplicity. Of when I didn't question what being a boy meant. Of when I didn't feel the need to leave Mom on the West Coast. Of when I wasn't making it in the business world of New York. Before everything. In a perfect world, I would remember that time before I was born, and picture that, but there was no such file in memory.
My face contorted. I lifted a hand, grazed a finger under my eye. I felt for tears. But I found none.
I opened my eyes. I was still here. I was still in Boring. Life had happened, whether I wanted it to or not. I was Faeowynn. I was alive. I was the chief financial officer for Wilson's Wildlife Solutions. An organization which now was headless. An organization under the thumb of the Supervisors, and full of magic animals. My life was absurd. My present was so dominant over the past that I felt like it might have never happened.
Whatever I was looking for, it wasn't in those files, and it couldn't be confined to words.
I opened my tablet, deleted the doc, and stuck it back in its bag. I laid on my side above my covers and closed the blinds over the windows. The whole night, I was wide awake on that beach, the surf pulled back, the town evacuated. The whole night, I looked out at the horizon, where water was visible, yet so far away. I walked through a desert, the shoreline receding with each approaching step, like a mirage that you can never get to. I was that house. My panes were clattering, my windows threatening to break, my door barely holding onto its hinges, and yet it stayed together. The hurricane promised to pull me apart, but I wouldn't. It promised to turn me to shreds, but I wouldn't. It wanted to flatten me out, but I wouldn't.
I wanted to let it, but I couldn't.

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Chapter I.XV

"Well, you see, Caterpillar," Tim started. "There are rules, alright? Do you remember when I was telling you about some large, anonymous donor we had? Do you?"
I stared at him like a newborn baby, eyes passing between his and Schut's.
"W-well," he continued without response, "they're not anonymous anymore. I introduced you two earlier, but, this is Captain John Schut. And he has some things he needs to… to say to you."
Tim stepped aside, or was pushed aside, as the captain walked past and through him like he was air. Schut made it very clear that personal boundaries meant very little to him, and though I am slightly above average in height, I still found myself having to crane my neck to look at him properly. I almost expected him to crouch down to make eye contact; he seemed like just the type of man to consciously condescend in that fashion.
"I'm captain of the Castaways, a group that helps your father with all manner of operations." Every word out of his mouth spat like an accusation or a threat. "But the Castaways are a gift from a bigger organization. We have many names. You will know us as the Supervisors, as that is our role with your family's organization. Think of us as supporters. And think of our conditions as requirements for our continued support."
He didn't change his posture or expression once. Every word sounded the same. Every sentence sounded the same. I would say he sounded like a robot, but if he did, it was an angry machine — not emotionless, but only capable of contempt.
"Our primary concern," he said, straightening his neck, now talking over me instead of to me, "is with the Veil. What you have seen today can not be allowed to leave this nexus — this town, Boring. And that means," he looked back down to me, "neither can you. That is, you can not leave with your memories of this day."
"What…?" I whispered.
"Do you doubt me?" Finally a question that seemed appropriate for his tone. "You have a week to make your decision. Here are the papers that you are to sign, or ignore." He reached into an unseen pocket under his thin jacket, and retrieved a sheaf of papers. In my daze, it felt like I took them in slow motion. "If you leave Boring, your decision has been made. I trust that Mr. Wilson can fill you in on any questions you may have."
Captain Schut turned and departed, disappearing around the bend of the redwood, leaving myself, Tim, and Feather alone outside of Henry's cage. Once I had finally accepted that Schut was well and truly gone, I was able to look back down to the papers in my hand. The stack was meaty — I could only imagine that a full day would go into reading through it, and unlike the many legal papers and waivers I had signed at a moment's notice before, something told me that I would have to absorb each and every word contained within.
A silence reigned for somewhere between several seconds and a minute, as I simply stared at the forms, and was stared at by Tim and Feather. I began to page through them, but I wasn't absorbing anything. "You didn't warn me against coming?"
"Would you have believed me any more than my stories about animals?"
That stopped me for a moment, but: "Then the Supervisors aren't so strong, are they?"
"No, they're…" Feather shut herself up, thinking she might be interrupting, but Tim motioned for her to continue. "They're selective. Special accommodations are made for family members and close friends."
"But you may remember that a good many pictures I mailed to you went missing, as well as some other letters entirely…"
I spaced out for a moment, turning around to take in my phone case again, laying on the floor of Henry's birdcage. "Tim, I never knew that grandma died. Did you send me anything about that?"
There was a pause, but I couldn't read anyone's body language. My eyes were fixed on that plastic, spirally reflection of myself.
"I sent an email that very same day."
Feather responded to my staring by unlocking Henry's cage.
"I know this visit hasn't started like how you wanted it to start, but…" Tim trailed off. "Where are you planning to stay? I'm certain Alice wouldn't mind taking you in — we have a guest room, it's yours if you want it."
"I wasn't planning on staying."
"You…"
"Might not have a choice, right."
Feather stroked Henry's head as he leaned into her hand.
Now was not the time to have that conversation with Tim. Things had changed. In the blink of an eye, they had changed. This was entirely unaccounted for. My brain felt like it had entered a stasis — like someone had clogged the drain. My pipes were clogged with all this new information, all these new ideas, and I had yet to dislodge any of them. Questions without answers came one after the other. What did the rest of that day look like? What about the next day? What about the next week, the next month, the next year? Where was I going? I had so little momentum and direction to begin with, the slightest pebble might have sent me drifting into the great unknown, but just now an asteroid had knocked me full force into the stars.
It took Feather pushing the phone case into my arm for me to come back to reality. I grabbed it and nearly forgot to thank her, stuffing it into my pocket without bothering to put it back on my phone. In an overload, I could only make the simplest of decisions. With no idea of the future, I could only pick the easiest available options. With no possibility of recovering long enough for an extended conversation, I could only communicate the simplest of ideas.
"I'll take the…" I cleared my throat. "I'll take the guest room."
"W-uh, good, heheh. Ahh, do you know my address?"
Tim plugged it into my phone, explaining that he couldn't come home just yet. Today, they were finishing another aquatic enclosure, and the reason there were so few people in the main building or the "courtyard", as he called it, was because everyone was at their second location just ten minutes away.
"All hands on deck, you know, heheh," he said, and sent me on my way.
The walk from the Shelter to my car was from a different world than the walk from my car to the Shelter. As soon as Henry was out of my direct sight, I was faced with the curse of an unsure memory. If I'm not there, at that very moment, staring directly at that which breaks my world, can I be sure it wasn't a figment of my imagination? What had I really done beyond the front door? Could I trust my senses?
But Schut's papers were on my passenger seat, and Tim's address was still in my phone. My phone which now looked like some dug-up relic merely appropriated for modern technology. Once again, I felt that pressure in the pipes. No, thinking was not helping at the moment. It was all I could do, and I couldn't do it. Just drive, I told myself, just go and it might get better.

* * * * *

The Wilson household is nothing like I expected it to be. I know Tim had mentioned his neighbors' farms, but I could never shake the image of his house being tucked away between the trees, in some forest grove somewhere. But no. He lived in a modern-looking two-story house, painted a shade of salmon, surrounded only by grass and two poplars on the front lawn. The unpainted log-fence reminded me of a national park, and right by the gate there was a sign that read the Wilsons, in cutesy, curly font.
I parked on the street, and opened the car door, greeted at once by an easy breeze and a chilly world. Among the trees, you think it might be the shade, but it was cold in the direct gaze of the sun. On the front porch, leaning against the inside of the open door, was my stepmom. From a distance, she was recognizable by the bun at the top of her head, and the pointed chin at the bottom. She looked like if she walked through the park, squirrels would pounce on her and try to take her head.
"Faeowynn?" her nasal voice called across the yard as I pulled a suitcase from the trunk of my car.
"Yes. Alice?"
She didn't respond, and instead turned inside the house, disappearing from view. I didn't think much of it, and simply proceeded to grab as many bags as I could carry at once.
I opened the creaky gate, walked to the front of the house, and stepped through the open doorway. Their house's entryway is a long hallway, with rooms splitting off to either side. On the right, an archway goes into the dining room, and to the left a similar archway opens into a small lounge with a TV and a console. Straight ahead are stairs to the upper level. Within the hallway is a line of hooks to hang coats on and a myriad of pictures of the family. I put bags down by the door, and started to peruse the images. There are graduations of both Anders and Robin. There is Robin standing next to an art project; there is the family on the top of a mountain; there is Alice with a fencing trophy; there is a scholarship Anders won for writing an essay; there is a comically large pizza that Tim stands next to with a fat chef… all this and more line the inside of the hall, and I found myself unable to look away at all these snapshots of the family life.
"Do you want mac and cheese?"
"Huh?"
I walked into the living room, and saw that there is a kitchen just behind it. Alice was standing by a pot of water over a hot flame. "It's either macaroni or rice and chicken. Which do you want. I wasn't planning on making dinner for two."
I stood there dumbly for a moment. It was a stupid thought, but it occurred to me anyways: she looked nothing like Mom. Not her hair, not her skin tone, not her height, not her build. She didn't sound like Mom either. Her way of speaking, her tone of voice. Her eyes were a different color. Her lips had a different thickness. Her posture. What was the through-line? I had always thought that all people everywhere had certain "types" that attracted them. What possible similarity was there between Audrey and Alice?
"Hi, Stepmom."
She looked at me strangely. "Hi, stepdaughter. Are you vegetarian?"
I shook my head. "Mac and cheese, please."
"Mac and cheese it is. The guest room is actually in the shed."
"In the shed?"
"It's insulated, has electricity, its own bathroom; it's like a mini house, you'll be fine. But yes. It shares the same building as the shed."
"Alright," I muttered, and went through a door in the living room to the outside of the house. The yard had clear views of all the neighboring farms. Wheat, vines, animals. It smelled like the countryside; manure and fertilizer and pesticides and grains. The shed looked like how Alice described it; a tiny house, hidden from view of the road, right next to a little playground that I imagined wasn't really used anymore.
I opened one door and found a storage space, crammed with all sorts of unnameable knick-knacks. I closed that door and opened one next to it, to find what looked and smelled like a hotel room. Setting my bags down, I wondered if this was sold out to people; and then I remembered that there likely weren't that many tourists coming in and out. Not staying, at least. Not with the Supervisors around.
The papers went immediately into a drawer under the TV (the guest room had its own TV?), where I decided I would not think of them for the rest of the day. I had a week. And I needed at least twenty-four hours to myself.
Several trips between the car and the room, and all my bags were ready to be unpacked, although I wasn't ready to unpack them. Once I was done, I went to the dining room, and found a healthy serving of mac and cheese waiting for me, orange and creamy and smelling delicious.
"Thank you, Alice."
"I guess now that you're here, you're going to stay for a little bit, aren't you?" She sat down by her own bowl of macaroni, across the table from mine.
"I…" These were not the words I was expecting to share with my stepmom at our first meeting. To an outside observer, it would have appeared that we had known each other for ages. That this was another conversation. But I was still experiencing a kind of whiplash from the lack of introductions, of small-talk, of getting to know each other. "How did my mom leave?"
Alice finished a bite before speaking. "You can leave. You just need to sign the papers first. And stay a while. Two weeks I think."
"They said I couldn't leave with… my memories."
"They're intimidating you. You think I've never left this town? I've gone on vacations. You know what they're doing right now? I guarantee you that there are men inside your home in San Diego at this very moment, planting bugs and casing the joint."
"You think so?"
"They've done the same to this house, honey."
"How? How can they do that?"
Alice shrugged. "They supervise, I guess. I wouldn't worry about it. You have more freedom than you think, and, if we're being honest, just as much privacy as you've ever had. You're just aware of it, now."
"What do I do?" The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Alice didn't respond for a moment, instead giving direct eye contact for a second and then eating several more bites of her pasta. "What do you mean what do you do? You stay for a visit, pretend like everything's fine, bond with your dad, and go back to your normal life."
"What if I don't have a life to go back to."
Alice looked up from her dish. She finished chewing a bite already in her mouth, straightened in her seat, and swallowed. "Well, in that case, I guess you could stay."
"Stay?"
"Why not?"
I looked out the open arch and into the entryway, just beyond Alice's head. On the wall was an image of Tim, with Anders and Robin on a little kayak in the middle of some lake. It was a deep, pure blue. Robin, soaked from top to bottom, was on Tim's back, hands in the air and mouth open wide, yelling into the surrounding nature. Tim was laughing and looking towards the camera. Anders' head was slightly turned outward, towards the opposite beach of the lake, looking into the hills and woods. Alice, then, must have been the photographer, on a nearby kayak of her own. I started seeing the scene as a living being; that Tim and Anders were in one boat, Robin and Alice in the other, and Robin had dove out and swum to the their boat, caused a ruckus, climbed on Tim's back, shouted to the heavens. And it was all too silly, all too picturesque, for Alice not to document it forevermore. To put it up in the family hallway, where each member of the household would walk by it on their way out. Maybe sometimes, they would stop in front of it and reminisce. Sometimes, sighing, wishing that every day could be that day. Hoping that such days might happen again; that the golden age is still upon us, that happiness is available under every rock and in every bush.
"Why not," I repeated. "I guess I will."

* * * * *

"I dug up all our financial information that we still have on file — it's years of numbers to me, but if you want it, it's yours." Old Albert placed a plastic file holder on top of my desk.
"Years?" Al nodded. "And it's never been put into the system?"
Al chuckled, hand placed firmly on the lid of the box. "Nope! Lots of stuff like that around here."
For how rich the facilities were, some of the internal mechanisms reminded me that it truly is a non-profit. But it still takes me by surprise, from time to time. "I guess I have my work cut out for me, then."
"You're living the Wilson's Wildlife life, now. Having our work cut out for us is a constant state of being, I'd say."
I took the box out from under him, opened it, and paged through. Sure enough, there were tax forms dating all the way back to 1997, back when the place was technically Wilson's Wildlife Shelter. There were also records of all received donations, of all monthly expenditures, of all fundraisers, of all salaries paid, and, starting in 2008, of all under-the-table transactions with the Supervisors. It was a complete data set. Despite its paper form, I was impressed at their not throwing anything away. I was afraid things would be missing. Well, alright, there was one thing.
"Around 2002, it looks like some of the typical forms that you can now get over email are missing. You have any idea where those went, Al?"
"I'm sure your dad has them somewhere."
"Alright, I'll ask when I can. Oh, and Al," I stopped him as he was about to leave, "thank you for helping me move in."
He smiled, though I saw it more in his cheeks than his mouth due to a large, billowy beard. "Thank you for joining us. We're glad to have you on board."
And with that, he was off to do some other large, demanding project. I turned, and beheld my new office.
It wasn't an extravagant thing. It looked a lot like one would expect — it had shelves, a cheap desk, some filing cabinets beneath the desk, a clock, a nice seashell-looking fixture in the ceiling which made me wonder if I should put my collection here or keep it at home, a cup full of pens and pencils and flash drives, a Rubik's cube (I learned that fidgets are a staple in each office), a desktop computer, and, of course, my name on a little plaque. Faeowynn Wilson, with the subtitle, Chief Financial Officer. Given that this was not a company, and did not have stockholders, the title wasn't truly accurate, but Tim felt bad that I had left my previous job for this one, and was caught on the idea that I had been on the path to become a CFO at some point in time, over ten years ago. I think he thought that by naming me as such, he was fulfilling some silent dream of mine. In all honesty, it felt slightly too formal, but I wasn't going to bring that up to him.
In any case, the first thought I had, after surveying everything, was that I would have to change the color. This green and brown did not do it for me. It might be a long while before I could get it repainted though. I was thinking something more along the lines of mauve. In fact, mauve might be my favorite color, along with one of my favorite words. I'd google my options once I got home. For now, there was filing to do.
"Hey," a familiar voice broke me out of my contemplation, and I turned around to see my half-brother Anders standing in the doorway. Of the two brothers, Anders looks significantly more like Tim than did Robin. He has the same round face, the same rosy cheeks, and the same contagious smile — whenever he decides to wear it. He'd shaved it by the time that I arrived, but pictures in the Wilson family home show that a bearded Anders can look almost indistinguishable to a taller, thinner Tim. (I certainly wondered, when I first saw those pictures, whether or not Tim had decided to become fit, and then subsequently wondered how that would have to work.)
"Hey," I responded, "I see we're finally coworkers."
We hugged, as we had become in the habit of doing.
"Here, I brought you something." He gave me a small box with a shiny purple exterior and yellow trim. "Tim said you like white chocolate, so I thought it would be a good welcoming present."
I smiled so wide I had to fight to keep from showing teeth. "Thank you, that's wonderful."
He smiled back at me. "Well, see you around, officer." He saluted, and was off. I sighed and sat at my desk. Alright, I thought, I'll have one before I start in earnest. I rotated the box and found that it was wrapped like a present. I would have to tear into it to get to the chocolates. With a smirk at the effort that went into its presentation, I began to rip a hole, then open the lid of the brown box inside, and then grab a small truffle from the revealed bounty. I popped it into my mouth, and widened my eyes.
These were the same chocolates that Tim had sent me one October — the leftovers from an unfinished box of Valentine's Day sweets that Tim must have rediscovered months later and sent my way. The taste was unmistakable, though without a deep knowledge of foods I lack the vocabulary to describe it. It bordered just on the edge of sickly sweet without passing over. It was creamy like no other chocolate I'd ever had. It was the most perfect confection I had ever consumed. I decided that I would have to ask where Anders got them, and I would also have to save the rest for only very special occasions.
I stowed them in a drawer and made a note not to forget about them. Any anxiety I had coming through the door to my new office had been washed away. Thank you, Anders, I thought to myself. I think I needed that.

* * * * *

"Here!" Anders shouted over the noisy morning birds and the trickling, streaming water. "I found another one!"
I clumsily danced over jutting rocks and the occasional bush or shrub, once catching a wet rock at an odd angle and nearly slipping into the river.
"Be careful there!"
I didn't respond, all my focus centering on the placement of my feet. The dim blue tint of everything at sunrise was just beginning to cover the surrounding hills and trees. Once I reached him, I turned off the flashlight that had accompanied us for the past two-and-a-half hours. It was finally bright enough to see without it.
"Here," he pointed to a leaf. I crouched down, and looked underneath, and sure enough, there was a gleam — little dots of light reflecting off of a thousand tiny black orbs.
"Alright," I said, standing back up and unhooking the clipboard from my belt, "that's another cluster."
"And the last of them."
"Oh?"
"Yeah," he motioned up the stream, "our jurisdiction stops here, really. There are probably more frog eggs up the way, but we've got enough data for an estimate."
"Headed back, then?"
Anders looked around, trying to see if there was an easier way up to the trail than all the way back from where we came. He surveyed the rocky hillsides, where the stone turns to dirt and the trees begin to grow. "Mmm," he grunted, turning a full circle, "yep. Headed back."
"Alright."
We began the treacherous path back among leaves and mosses and crags and boulders and dirt and creek and squirrels and birds and frogs. The air was cool, the sun was rising, though it could not be seen between the trees and hills. Our jackets were thick, our boots were muddy, and our eyes were just a little bit tired from waking up so very early that morning. Much of the journey back to the trail was silent; we simply breathed in the aromas and took in the sights. It was… odd, in all honesty. I had been in cities for thirty years or more. The world around me was one I always knew existed, but not one in which I partook. Not since I was very young.
"I think we're going to get back a little later than expected," Anders called from behind.
"That's alright," I stopped to say back, "this was nice."
"It was?"
"It was."
The responses were spaced out, as each of us had to breathe deep to keep the pace. "Robin loves doing this stuff. The rivers are sort of his space. Kind of a shame he didn't get to come this time. The sun rising, like this, is just about his favorite part."
"I understand why. It's pleasant. Or, it would be, if it weren't for the bugs."
"Aha," Anders paused. "You're right about that much."
"Oh hey, Anders."
"Yeah?"
"Do you remember those white chocolates you gave me, a few months ago?"
"Mhmm?"
"Where did you get them?"
"What?"
"I said, where'd you get them?"
"Oh, Dad gave them to me. But there's only one chocolate shop in town. It's gotta be from there."
"Dad got them?"
Anders took a moment to breathe. "Yeah, he said you'd like them, said I could give them to you. Sorry if that ruins a bit of the magic of gift-giving."
"Oh, no, the gesture still counts."
"I've also been meaning to ask," I breathed.
"Yeah?"
"Sorry, I've been meaning to ask, are you and Robin ever planning on moving out of the house?"
"Moving out?"
"Yeah."
"No, not really."
A particularly difficult descent required me to practically sit down and slide onto the rock below. I waited for Anders to come to the same drop, and helped him down. "Why not?"
"I don't know. We've just never thought of moving out. The house is big enough for all of us, we all work at the Shelter, minus Mom. It's convenience. Why move out?"
I paused, but for a new reason. "Huh, alright. I moved out as soon as I possibly could."
"Why'd you do that?"
"Because… I don't know. Change of pace, I think. San Diego was full of a lot. A lot of good, but a lot of bad. I just wanted to start again."
"Makes sense."
The rest of the hike passed in a comfortable silence.

* * * * *

I cracked my eyes open, at first unsure of what I was awoken by. The beams of light coming through my shuttered window told of a bright moon out that night. Then, a hum stopped, the existence of which I hadn't noticed until it was gone. A door opened, a door shut, silence, and then another, fainter door. Anders, Robin, and Alice were all at dinner that evening… it must have been Tim. I almost fell back asleep, but before I did, I turned on my side, and into focus came my alarm clock, with its dim red glow staring straight into my face.
11:00 PM
It was almost midnight. Really? I had noticed that Tim was rarely home before dinner, but 11:00 PM?
I would have worried longer, but before I knew it, I had slipped back into sleep, and by morning it had all but left my mind.

* * * * *

Eventually, Halloween rolled around. My favorite holiday, if it must be said. And every Halloween, Wilson's Wildlife Solutions puts on a fundraiser party that tends to bring the entire Boring community together — in a town of its size, there are really no good "trick-or-treating" neighborhoods, and someone at some point decided that the lack of Halloween spirit was simply not right and told the Shelter that they're basically the community center, and that they should put something on themselves. No one remembers who exactly brought it up, but whoever they are, I try to meet their spirit every 31st of October.
In preparation, roughly two weeks prior, I had already covered my office in a couple dozen pumpkins, and I had decided to paint the office orange, to keep Autumn year-round. Among the uncarved pumpkins, I had found several other gourds that I felt would be fun additions. During my break, I was turning cannonball pumpkins — a very small, spherical variety — into bats by painting them black and attaching googly-eyes and wings. I do not consider myself a silly person, but Halloween is a silly time, and when in Rome, you must do as the Romans do. I, for my part, had donned my metaphorical toga and sandals and was drinking deep of the reddest wine I could get my hands on.
100% of my focus was boring down on cutting small black wings out of foam paper, which I would then combo with both glue and tape onto toothpicks, which would eventually be stuck into the little pumpkins I was putting around my room. Tomorrow, I was thinking of making "sleeping" bats, and discovering some method by which to paste them to the ceiling. It was when I looked up to find the ideal spots on the ceiling for my vampire babies that I noticed Robin in the doorway.
If Anders is a copy of Tim, Robin is a copy of Alice. His pointed chin, rounded nose, brown hair, green eyes… the only real difference was that his skin tone was a bit browner, and was missing all but a couple freckles.
"Oh! Hello, Robin."
"Hey, Fae. Hard at work?"
"Heh, it's my break, I'm just spending it making decorations instead of socializing. Sorry." My own apology took me by surprise.
"No worries. Have you got your paper on the cost of the fundraiser ready or…?"
"Oh, yes, it's out by the printer, I hadn't picked it up yet."
"Uh-huh. Alright."
Robin began to leave, but: "Hey!"
He walked back in the door at my call.
"Do you guys ever… worry about T-uh, Tim?"
"Worry about him? No."
And before I could question further, Robin was gone. I'd never had him brush me off like that before. Maybe he's busy, I told myself. Oh well. More time to make my bats.

* * * * *

It was a pitch black night. I had set my alarm for 3:15, so I could meet a coworker, Alex, at 4:00, and watch the sunrise with him. It was his idea and I liked it. Getting up early had never been an issue for me; it has always been falling asleep in the first place. If my eyes even crack open, staying awake is as easy as counting. I flicked on my light, turned of the beeping clock, and walked into my bathroom to freshen up. After brushing my teeth, flossing, rinsing with mouth wash, and combing my hair, I hopped into the shower. It was while I was rubbing a soapy washcloth over my face that I thought I heard the starting of a truck. I stilled, turned off the shower, and listened. Yes, there it was. Someone pulled out of the driveway, and took off, that much I could tell.
I cut my routine short, dried off, clothed myself, and walked outside. Sure enough, Tim's car was gone. At 3:30 in the morning? I knew he was sometimes not around for breakfast, but that hour was simply unhealthy. What could possibly be pulling him out of the house this early?
I thought I'd ask him about it, but he wasn't home that night either.

* * * * *

The summer sun is even warmer without buildings or trees to get in the way. It heats the ground of all the farms around, and is accompanied by sprinklers and hoses and tractors. Well, more on other days than that day. That day, it was Easter. All of us, minus Tim, had stayed home and made colored eggs, a tradition that I was glad hadn't died as soon as Robin and Anders became too "old" for it. Though I rarely found myself reaching for it in my free time, my splurging at Halloween is a dead giveaway that arts and crafts have been a part of my life as long as reading and writing have, and I am glad to have come into a family that seems to carry the same torch. Alice and Robin are especially artistic in their egg-making; I have been witness to an "egg-off" where they tried to make the most high-quality eggs within thirty minutes. Without knowing who made what, Anders judged each egg individually, on a scale from one to five. Whoever got the highest total won.
But this Easter was not that Easter. This Easter was the Easter that Tim said he would come home early. We were all eating chocolates (some of which had come from my saved stash of white), enjoying the sun in the front yard and sharing homemade drinks. This year, our "activity" was to concoct our own drinks (we had a week ahead of time), and then guess who made which (the family has a propensity for guessing-games). There was the classic pink lemonade, but also a sweet green tea, a classic iced chai, and my own Thai iced tea which I'd learned to make from a friend in New York.
"Hey!" Anders yelled from the grill. "There's Dad!"
His red truck pulled into the driveway, and Alice came forward to hug him. They shared some conversation that I couldn't hear while I tried some of the iced chai. I then noticed that something was moving in the back of his truck, and as soon as he had kissed Alice and pulled away from the hug, he was standing on the back tire to reach into the bed and pull it out. To the surprise of very few, it was a rabbit. An Easter Rabbit, actually, named Fern.
He was brought into the yard and set loose, allowed to explore a bit. There was nothing really special about him except that he laid eggs — he was definitely going to go back into the wild, but we had been waiting to see what his eggs hatched into. (It turned out later that they were completely unfertilized, and unfertilizable, so nothing really became of it.) In the meantime, he was a fun and sociable oddity, and I guess Tim had pulled his trump card and got him for our own little holiday, because here he was, bouncing around and being happy. It seemed everyone had congregated around the grill, but I was enjoying sitting by the outdoor glass table, and staring out over the golden field across the street.
After some time of spacing out, I felt fur under my hand, and began to scratch Fern behind the ears. Then, Tim sat in the chair next to me.
"How's it going, kiddo?"
"It's going. Yourself?"
"Ohh, the same." He breathed in deep. "Did you make the uhh, the Thai one?"
I nodded.
"It's really good," he said. "So, so sweet, but good, heheheh."
We both sipped in silence as the brothers conversed by the grill and Alice searched the house for something.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you remember?"

I paused. The fan of my laptop was all that was audible. I stewed. My face was barely visible in the reflection of my computer screen. My hair was distraught, my eyes were baggy, my lips were cracked and dry. I couldn't bring myself to write anymore. I had hit the wall. I had reached the plateau. There is no higher, no further point. I had been writing for a while without one. There was just myself and the document, myself and Tim in writing. What I had been avoiding, of course, was this. The conversation I could not write. The conversation I did not have.
All those years ago — how quick they seemed to pass on paper — I had driven to Oregon with purpose. With one, single purpose. And it wasn't to stay. And it wasn't to visit. And yet I did both. For seven years, I did both. Should I have written of my slow warming up to my brothers? The awkward first dinners, when it wasn't clear how I was to interact and connect with the family. The feeling of being that odd one out? I was getting an awful headache, and so I reached over to take a big swig of water. My stomach cried out for food, but I wasn't going to get any. Here it was. That Easter, I remember sitting next to Tim. He looked much like I did — he looked haggard. He was laughing, he was smiling, but he was not the dad I had and didn't have. Here was the same man who left for Oregon when I was three, and failed to reenter my life for decades. Here was the same man who seemed to be making it a point to get my name and pronouns wrong — should I have written of all those times in the house, when a "Felix" would slip out of his mouth? Am I supposed to laud him for getting better at saying my real name, when I am from head to toe a woman?
Here was the same man who only decided to visit Mom once she'd already died of cancer, who didn't stay to help sort through her belongings, who didn't give a father to the daughter who was now motherless as well. What was I supposed to feel towards him? Where did my thoughts lay? And at that moment, I remembered that conversation I meant to have with him. What I had been rehearsing over and over on my way north. Had he made it up to me? Was there something I now understood that I didn't at first? Did magical animals excuse the behavior — did giving me a home make up for the adulthood I spent without one?
But in that moment, I couldn't bring myself to say anything. Could I feel it? My head was so full of questions, I just wanted it to shut up. What was I supposed to do? There was another. When would it end? Questions begot questions. My mind was crowded like Woodstock, but none of the music was worth listening to. I was tired. I knew that much. Was this project complete? What was I doing?
Shut up, I said to myself again. I closed the laptop, and I was at once in darkness. There was no alarm clock. There were no windows. There was no light. I sat on top of my blankets, and heard the buzz of a phone across the room. I wasn't willing to answer all my missed calls yet. I wasn't willing to answer any texts, either. I wanted to be alone, though I didn't know what it meant to me. What purpose it served. More questions.
The next memory came unbidden. It was nearing Thanksgiving, and I was helping Alice put up decorations at the library. We were talking in that way you have to talk with Alice, we were making little paper turkeys, we were talking about books we had read recently. We were talking about just what you would expect a mom and a daughter to be talking about, when the mom is in her 60's and the daughter in her 40's. And our talking was cut short by the phone, and I just went on, making those turkeys, while Alice went to pick it up.
And something in her voice caught my attention. And I looked up. And all I saw was Alice crying. And she put down the phone, and it sounded like she'd cut someone off in the process, and she was just standing there, supporting herself with one arm on the desk, and the other hand brought to her face, just wiping her eyes, and I couldn't move, and I couldn't speak, because all I could think was that I'd never seen Alice cry before. I'd never, never, seen Alice cry before.

« Fae Goes to the Shelter | Stories My Dad Told Me | Tim Wilson »


Calibold

Mission: Decommission

Calibold's Mega Cool Author Page

Memo Regarding SCP-4456 and the Intentional Destruction of Anomalies.
As I have expressed previously, SCP-4456 has been causing myself and other members of its research team serious concern. In the past two weeks alone, we have lost two million dollars to this anomaly, all of which was sent straight to the Spanish government.
The following shows the particular difficulties in the containment of SCP-4456 over its two months in containment:

Expense: SCP-4456 has cost the Foundation eight million dollars thus far.
Legality: All of the money lost to SCP-4456 is sent straight to the Spanish treasury some five hundred years ago. Alterations to the general time-stream aside, this violates the laws set forth in the Foundation International Relations (FIR) convention against the Foundation giving aid to nations without appropriate cause relating to our mission.
Containment Difficulty: As resourceful as the Foundation is, we cannot possibly hope to provide it with silver forever. Eventually, it will become impossible to keep providing for it, and the Spanish Armada will literally encompass the planet.
Causal Danger: Should we keep providing the 1500s Spanish government with silver, there would almost certainly arise drastic changes in the course of history, primarily caused by the increased influence and power of 1500s Spain.

All of these factors present a quandary: we can't keep giving SCP-4456 resources, but at the same time we can't just stop. And SCP-4456 is only the face of another, more looming issue.
Over the past few years, more and more anomalies have been popping up which require a great deal of expense to keep containing, or are excessively dangerous or difficult to contain. At the same time, we have no plans to research or experiment many of them. They are hardly more than dead weight upon us. I understand that the Foundation's mission is to Secure, Contain, and Protect, but we have to accept that not everything can or should be contained.
As a result of these issues, I am proposing to reinstate the Decommissioned class.
I understand that this may sound concerning, and for good reason. The Decommissioned class carries a lot of memories from its age, many of them being embarrassing or even shameful for the Foundation. Allow me to make myself clear: I do not intend to bring back the old Decommissioning system, but the Decommissioned class, as misused as it was, was based on sound principles, and rightly addressed the need to destroy or deanomalize particular objects.
I understand the concerns behind harking back to such a dark age in the Foundation, which is why this would need to be done right. The following represents my full proposal and my recommendations for enacting it properly:

The restoration of the Decommissioned object class, used to refer to anomalies which are deliberately neutralized by the Foundation. The Neutralized class would hereby refer to anomalies that are neutralized due to accident, third-party forces, or other reasons.
The creation of a Decommissioning committee. The previous Decommissioned class was absolutely unstructured, and was used by high-ranking Foundation personnel almost solely to see who could come up with the funniest way to destroy an SCP object. The new Decommissioned class would require a bureaucratic system to ensure that anomalies are Decommissioned properly with minimal risk.
Restrictions upon which anomalies will be Decommissioned, and the use of Decommissioning as an emergency response to anomalies. I do not wish to go the route of the Coalition, where we destroy any anomaly that could be remotely considered dangerous. Decommissioning, under this new system, would only take place upon anomalies deemed absolutely necessary to destroy. Just because something is dangerous does not mean that it needs to be destroyed.

Again I know how controversial this is; indeed, I would not propose this motion unless I was absolutely certain this was a necessity. Once again, allow me to make this clear: I am not bringing back the past. The Decommissioned class is both necessary and useful, but only if it's used properly.
We need to be willing to make risks. We need to know that we can't contain everything.
If we don't, we won't be able to contain anything.

— Dr. Calvin Bold

The hot sun above her, Eight sat at a table, sipping an herbal tea and watching the waves crash on the beach. For every wave, she clicked the small black pen in her hand. A gentle breeze blew in, rocking the café's sign above her head: Mercy's Cottage.
Considering the Council's next vote, the name could be either prophetic or ironic.
She heard the grind of a metal seat being pulled back. "May I?" asked a male Kentucky drawl. She didn't need to see Six to know it was him. She nodded.
Six took his seat, and almost immediately slouched into a deceptively relaxed posture. Eight remembered her first time meeting him, and how hard it was to take him seriously; the man truly looked the part of "The Cowboy". But while he certainly lived up to his name, he was as dangerous and intelligent as any other O5.
She wondered how the other members of the Council saw her.
A waitress walked up to them. "Welcome to the Cottage, sir. Anything I can do for you? And anything else I can do for you, ma'am?" she asked Eight.
Eight shook her head, but Six spoke up. "I'll take some coffee. Just black, thank you, nothing fancy." The waitress nodded and left to get his drink.
Six took off his Stetson and fanned it in front of his face. "I'm assuming this ain't a date?" he asked.
Eight scoffed. "I wanted to talk about a different proposal."
The waitress returned with Six's coffee. He took a sip and chuckled. "The Decommissioned Class." He stretched his arms. "You know, I was on the Council when we first did away with that. Bit after the last Eight let Konnie do his thing."
Eight nodded and sipped her tea. "Do you think-?"
"They'll give you a hard time about it? Nah. A number's just a number, kid. You're Eight now, and for all we care, you always have been."
"We both know that last part's not true."
Six laughed. "Fair 'nuff. But you still ain't the last Eight."
The two of them sat in silence for a few moments. Eight noticed how much her dark, black-and-deep-red outfit contrasted with Six's all-white cowboy getup. She couldn't help but think about her high school days, and wondered if Six had simply graduated out of the edgy phase she was currently in.
"Why did you want to talk to me, Eight?"
Six's tone surprised her. It was a sudden shift from his laid-back attitude, like he'd just finished a long debate. "I wanted to talk about the proposal. You're one of the two abstainers, so I thought you'd be more safe to talk to."
"But why? What about the proposal?"
Eight set her pen down and sighed. "I'm new. I wasn't around when all of that was still going on. A proposal like this is gonna be a big change, and might dredge up some old feelings."
"And you're the deciding vote."
Eight nodded. All the other Overseers had made it clear where they stood - except her. "I'm on a council with some of the most powerful people on the planet. And no matter how I vote, five of them will hold that against me."
Six sat silently for a moment. He took a few sips of his coffee, and then, finally, "With all due respect, that is the stupidest thing to be worrying about."
Eight blinked. "Excuse me?"
Six rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll bite. What exactly is Bold proposing here?"
"The restoration of-"
"And don't use the word 'Decommissioned'."
Eight paused for a moment. "Well, the proposal is to authorize an object class, denoting an SCP object which was deliberately neutralized by the Foundation, as well as a new department devoted to authorizing the Decom- the neutralization of said anomalies as well as researching how to do so."
Six snapped his fingers. "Bingo." He took the final sip of his coffee and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Now, let me tell you what the old Decommissioned class was. It was a joke. Bunch of the senior staff, killing anomalies they said were dangerous and needed to be destroyed. We put it all in their hands and let it all go nuts."
"What's your point?" asked Eight.
"My point is that you're thinking that this proposal is some daring, controversial idea. Kid, it's just a name and a vague theme they have in common. Hell, it ain't exactly a new idea, we've taken out our fair share of skips for a while now."
Eight furrowed her brow. "The proposal's not special, you're saying."
Six shrugged. "I mean, it's all important. But you're right, the Decommissioned class ain't special. You need to focus on the actual variable here."
"Bold?"
"Attagirl. We have one guy, in line for promotion, requesting a new department. Is he the guy we want in charge of this? That's gonna be what matters in the end." Six stood up. "You need to start asking the right questions. Do some research on everything, not just the what, but the who and why. But there's one more thing you need."
Eight glanced at him. "And what would that be?"
Six smirked. "Confidence. You're a member of the the most powerful council in the world. Start acting like it, don't come to me for answers. And don't give two craps what the rest of the Council thinks. This is your vote. Make it count."
Six walked away, leaving Eight with two empty cups - and two tabs.

O5 Vote Regarding the Restoration of the Decommissioned Class.

Y
N
Abstain

O5-1

O5-2

O5-3

O5-4

O5-5

O5-6

O5-7

O5-8

O5-9

O5-10

O5-11

O5-12

O5-13

Status

Motion Passed

O5 Vote Regarding the Organization of a Decommissioning Department, With Dr. Bold as Its Director.

Y
N
Abstain

O5-1

O5-2

O5-3

O5-4

O5-5

O5-6

O5-7

O5-8

O5-9

O5-10

O5-11

O5-12

O5-13

Status

Motion Passed

+ More by Calibold +

- More by Calibold -

Calibold's Mega Cool Author Page
— SCP Articles —

SCP-7178 — A Thief In The Night
SCP-7179 — E is for Eternity
SCP-6469-D — A BABY?????
SCP-2082 — Elephas cryophilus
SCP-6156 — Oh, Doug!
SCP-6579-D — The Detective Killer
SCP-6900-D — The House of Stars
SCP-5277 — What Can Go Wrong
SCP-5363-D — Controlled Containment
SCP-3482 — fine mayor posters campaign by dado
SCP-5156 — monke
Director Bold's Proposal-J — "Guys, please don't read our SCPs 🥺"
SCP-2693 — Fell Into The Well, Fell Into The Well, Fell Into The Deep Dark Well
SCP-5559-D — The Great Ambrose Bake-Off!
SCP-3448-J — Should Have Taken Him Sleeping
SCP-4456-D — No One Expects The Spanish Decommission!
SCP-4745 — Spooky Scary Snowman
SCP-4645 — Blackmailing Computer

— Tales —

OpusConfidant Wiki - SCP-4645 - Threatini
Diary Of An Existential Kid
Responsible Promotion
Friends Of Us Never Die
Truth Lies
A Team You Can (Maybe) Trust
Happy Father's Day
Mission: Decommission
A Bold Choice
I Am Become Death
Ulysses B. Donkman and the Heinous Hitman
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Eldritch (Sung to the tune of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas")
Chapter One - The End

— GoI Formats —

Manifest 476: Vanishing Galleon
The Book Of Mathisi, Chapter 1: The Parable Of The Three Princes
LTE-8686-Yellow-Kewpie
UIU File: 2001-023

— Other —

Mega Cool Customizable ACS Add-On Ver. 1.8.0 Guide
Decommissioning Department Hub
Fortune Favors
Decommissioning Dept. Theme
Mega Cool Customizable ACS Add-On Ver. 1.8.0
Mega Cool Author Page Tool Ver. 1.4.0
Calibold's Mega Cool Alternate SCP Logos Page
Calibold's Mega Cool Art Page (It's Mostly Just Icons, But Whatever, It's Still Mega Cool)

— Co-Authored —

Abraka David's Proposal — A Peak Behind the Curtain (feat. Ralliston, Placeholder McD, Guaire, Guezma, Jack Ike, Sherf, Yossipossi, Dr Balthazaar, Grigori Karpin, LORDXVNV, Lt Flops, Uncle Nicolini, Metaphysician)
SCP-7400 — Your Honor, League of Legends (feat. Sherf)
I, Hub (feat. many other authors)
Resurrection: New Faces (feat. Grigori Karpin, Nagiros, and redredred)
SCP-5545 — 𝙰 𝙱 𝙽 𝙾 𝚁 𝙼 𝙰 𝙻 𝙸 𝚃 𝚈 (feat. Yossipossi)
SCP-194 — Thank You For Your Cooperation (feat. CityToast)

— Foreign —
Director Bold's Proposal — Language
SCP-LA-II — Fruit

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Slice of Forum Life
Parawatch format tale (not a creepypasta)
~~ More Alan Stuff ~~

admartin 03/03/10 (Thu) 00:13:21 #87564256

Odd question: can food be paranormal? Because I think that recently I've experienced some of it first-hand.
Me and a group of friends have a habit of gathering every week at one dude's place to… basically do nothing productive. Our meetings usually consisted of drinking, playing console games, occasionally watching movies, drinking again, you get the point. Then some of my friends got into cooking. It was simple dishes at first, but the list of recipes grew, and eventually cooking was added to our list of activities. We thought it'd be fun to try ourselves at making something eatable, even if most of the time we failed.
That's when it all began. For the past several weeks, every time, they'd cook the same meal: chocolate brownies. Not ordinary ones though. They won't let me to the kitchen while they cook for some reason, and weird stuff starts to happen right after they start eating. The guys' faces become uncanny grimaces with unfocused eyes and mouths that barely move when they talk. They move clumsily, can't think straight… It just seems like they aren't themselves, you know? Like something invaded their bodies and took control.
The guys suggested I taste one, and while I'd rather refuse, I also didn't feel like making them angry in that state. I bit into it, and in a couple of minutes, it took me: my mind became clouded, anxiety kicked in, paranoid thoughts started appearing outta nowhere. Nearly got a panic attack right there. A minute later I grabbed my coat and left, I don't think they even noticed.
Honestly, I'm not sure I even want to continue meeting with them. Well, maybe only to investigate those weird brownies further. Are there any experiences similar to mine?

graysnake 03/03/10 (Thu) 01:14:59 #17685748

Brownies are fucking paranormal and that's a fact. The same goes for the people who can cook them without turning the whole thing into a disgusting, hard to chew mess. So yeah, quickly barricade yourself and report your friends to the FBI.

notanundercoveragent 03/03/10 (Thu) 06:42:23 #87544822

What. @admartin you're not serious about this, right? Your friends are just adding some weird shit into those brownies to get stoned, it's not paranormal.
Seriously, we went from the terrifying deep-sea horrors and series of unsolved murders to this? I knew all those Reddit posts and creepypasta channels will do this forum more harm than good.

professionalclown 03/03/10 (Thu) 22:14:11 #48265728

That story is a big mood. I have a similar one, it's a lot worse tho. To be fair I still wake up in cold sweat due to nightmares I have of that night.
Basically, I came over to my friend's house when his family was out of town. He promised that he'll have booze, some meals and plenty of fun things to do. Everything went well enough, but then I went to the kitchen and saw what he was going to eat. Honestly, I'm still not sure what it was all about, maybe my so-called friend was secretly a member of satanic cult, or he just decided to explore some dark fetishes… But when I saw that meal, I nearly threw up. We've never talked after that, I ran away from that place, deleted his phone number and tried my best to forget what I witnessed.
I'll attach an image of that thing here if any of you feel brave enough.

+ horribleperversion.jpg

- horribleperversion.jpg

admartin 03/04/10 (Fri) 09:13:21 #76584726

Guys please, I really wanted to know your opinion.
It's important, maybe my friends discovered something they shouldn't have. Who really knows what's out there, waiting to take control and make us suffer just for fun? There are so many threads about mysterious murders, disappearances and other horrible things happening to regular people. I wouldn't like any of my close ones to be the next protagonists of those posts.

underwater_unicorn 03/04/10 (Fri) 20:44:59 #22765849

Yeah can we take OP a bit more seriously? Food that can fuck up your mind really exists. Once I was out of town and visited some shitty cafe near a road for a burger. I was practically starving back then and didn't have much choice. The meat itself wasn't anything special, but it had this odd aftertaste that I can't forget. I want more of it so badly, sometimes it becomes hard to control myself. I literally ate a plate of ground beef once, but this wasn't that meat, so it didn't help.
I started seeing dreams and visions about the meat, its greasy red chunks moving around me, calling me to devour them whole. My mouth was so full of saliva it dripped on the floor, and I just tore into the meat with my teeth, nearly biting my fingers off. It felt amazing, like I was becoming one with the divine red substance I was consuming.
Seriously, I can't tell anyone I know IRL about this, it's too weird. Can someone help me? Please.

crilasxove 03/04/10 (Fri) 22:05:22 #17564758

@underwater_unicorn: hot.

🗿lord_benedict 03/05/10 (Sat) 23:03:32 #67578475

Ugh. Okay guys, I get that y'all still on your toes after the April fools, and we got a couple of laughs here, but let's wrap up this whole conversation. You're posting in the forum section dedicated to real paranormal sightings and serious discussions.
Additionally, @professionalclown: stop posting that image in every topic you go to. This was funny the first time, but the joke is long since overdone by now. Consider this an official warning.
I'll be locking this thread shortly.

underwater_unicorn 03/05/10 (Sat) 23:42:11 #57462857

No mod please you don't understand. I need help. My dreams are all saliva and grease and red chunks, it's pulsating constantly luring me in calling MY NAME.
 [USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST]

admartin 03/06/10 (Sun) 08:11:25 #87564256

So uh, hello again. I'm a bit surprised that this thread got so much attention, and would like to apologize to the mod for the trouble it might've caused. I just wanted to tell that I've finished my investigation. Well, yes, you were right, it was just weed.
It's not illegal in where I live, but the guys didn't know how I'd react. They agree that the situation was a bit of an overkill, so we're going to be more careful from now on. I probably overreacted a bit in my original post. My body just didn't react well to this stuff the first time and coupled with my general anxiety in that situation, it made for an unpleasant experience. So nothing paranormal here, I just got high.

🗿lord_benedict 03/06/10 (Sun) 11:03:32 #12734582

> admartin: I just got high
If only I had a nickel for every time paranormal sightings were explained by that sentence.
 [THREAD LOCKED]

…welcome to the Foundation database, please input your security credentials.

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Surveillance report
Subject: Data concerning GoI-1109 "Parawatch"
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Greetings. I'm glad to inform you that I've finished my initial observation period over GoI-1109 and can draw certain conclusions. First of all, let me say that I completely understand why this forum was given such a high priority upon its initial discovery. After all, they're interested in the same things we try to keep secret, and the intelligence was right to theorize that it might lead to a serious information leak or even a partial broken masquerade scenario.
However, after my stay here, I can surely say: it cannot. Those people aren't very elaborate truth-seekers, to put it lightly. I don't think they'd figure something out even if we provided them with direct access to the entire SCP database. I'll continue being active there, mainly to prevent some accidental data leakage and to trip them up if they somehow find the right track (even though I find this scenario extremely unlikely). In the meantime, I'd suggest lowering the GoI's priority and refraining from taking further actions.
Let's just let Parawatch exist in its own echo chamber for now.


It was spring and Jack Kenta was busy idly stirring a pot of coffee with his left hand. His biological hand, that was. He did so to avoid the suspicious, watchful eyes of the rather mundane civilians milling about the diner as the sun broke the horizon, casting down haphazard rays of morning light.
Kenta was tall but not massive, with a calm demeanor and cool blue eyes. His right hand was resting in his lap, his mechanical fingers brushing against cool steel, which he could just barely feel through his 4th Gen Sensory Receptors. His index finger was wound tight around the trigger, whilst his thumbs flicked the safety off and then on again. That was his nervous tick, a dangerous thing for a former soldier-turned-private security-turned mercenary to have.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
He slowly turned his face to the window, gazing idly out of the glass pane, covered in filth, dirt, and grime. His eyes whirred in their sockets, the 200 megapixel compound image sensor focusing on the Chevrolet that was parked roughly thirty feet away from him. His eyes searched for the target within the vehicle, panning from right to left as it entered thermal vision.
Kenta could make out two targets sitting within the vehicle. The outlines suggested a man and woman, roughly thirty years of age, possibly younger. He swiped his biological hand across the table, scattering crumbs of wafer across the floor, and motioned for the waitress.
"Yes, sir?" The girl asked, her voice rife with impatience and disdain, her fingers rapping against a clipboard. Why the hell a twenty-first century diner was still using manual clipboards in the current climate was beyond Kenta.
"Another one, black." He uttered, turning his attention back to the vehicle from which a man and woman had emerged.
The man was dressed in a black suit, sunglasses, and a pair of Oxford brogues. Kenta suppressed a smile. The woman, meanwhile, was wearing a grey pantsuit with a similar pair of sunglasses perched atop her head. The pair couldn't have stuck out more, even if they had tried.
Kenta abruptly remembered a similar couple, but from a lifetime ago. He remembered the pair, wrapped in one another's arms as they tossed and turned, laughing and smiling on a beach, so full of life. Remembered taking aim at the pair, his rifle cocked and ready. Remembered the weight of the trigger as he shut his finger tight around it. Remembered the sudden crack of a .50 BMG round over-penetrating them both, sending bone, viscera and God only knows what else through the both of them and exiting with a dull thud on the sand.
He readjusted his position and pushed his empty cup of coffee away, awaiting the second round.
The man and woman entered the diner and briskly walked over to where Kenta was sat, neither smiled. The woman spoke first.
"Good Morning, former Agent Jack Kenta." She said, pulling out her stainless steel briefcase and laying it on the table, slowly spinning the combination lock as she stared at him. Her hair was a long, mousy brown and her eyes were pools of green, murky water, that betrayed zero emotion.
"It's just Jack Kenta, these days, thank you very much, Agent Caroline Bridges." Kenta thumbed the safety off whilst carelessly stroking the steel body of the SIG Sauer P226 laying in his lap.
"Oh, you don't go by Typhoon, anymore, eh, Jack?" asked the man, removing his sunglasses and gently wiping them with a cloth that he produced from his suit jacket.
"I haven't gone by that name since I quit the Agency, and your dossier covered in red fucking tape will have told you that one." Kenta spat.
"Jack, we just want to know if you're doing okay.." Caroline smiled. "We know some Agents had some real difficulties after retiring with indignitas.
"See, Jack, we're just making sure that you've been keeping to the promises laid out in the PAID Act."
"Oh, that glorified Official Secrets Act that you had forced through the UN after Korea went to hell in a handbasket?" Kenta grimaced, his fingers tracing the barrel of his pistol. "I haven't told a single soul about the shit I dealt with."
"We could always take you in and have you amnesticised, of course." The man said, with a shit-eating grin as he rapped his fingers against the table, clearly amused by the air of "official power" that his job description carried.
"No, you really couldn't." Kenta said as he shook his head, raising his biological hand to take the coffee from the waitress, who then turned her direction to the two Agents.
"Would you two like anything?" She asked, her tone indicating that this was her best attempt to feign interest.
"Oh no, we're just about done here, aren't we, Thomas?" Caroline asked, smiling with her teeth clenched tightly, her eyes a blank canvas.
"Oh yes, we've got plenty more work to do, lots of people to catch up on." Thomas replied, getting to his feet and opening the briefcase, tossing a large coin towards Kenta, who caught it in his mechanical hand.
"See you this time next month, Kenta."
"Not if I see you first." He muttered, his mechanical teeth grinding against one another. He ran his fingers over the coin and tucked it away in his holster, just beneath his P226.

"Sir, I need to lock up, so I'm gonna have to ask you to leave." The waitress said to Kenta, who was idly staring at the coin that had been tossed at him an hour ago.
"Yeah, I'll leave, no worries." He laid a fifty dollar bill on the table and gathered his coat around him, walking out of the diner and into the warm Californian air.
Kenta gazed about idly. The ground was covered in a fine layer of red dust and the sky was full of stars. His eyes turned about him, as he noticed a man sat down outside the diner wearing a stetson, a faded duster jacket, and a guitar. "What a freak." Kenta thought as he glanced down at his wrist.
Midnight. He probably had six hours to put as much distance between himself and Agent Caroline Bridges as he possibly could.
Kenta smiled to himself and strode toward the freaky man in a moth-eaten stetson.

The Tales of Jedidah Springs, the roaming preacher of the Western Seaboard Fifthists.
<< Part 1 - Disillusionment | Part 2 - Indignitas | »


The following text reproduces the last several pages of a journal found buried in the abandoned village of Gargill, Ireland, and may serve as context to a phenomenon recorded by The Royal Foundation, a precursor organization to the Foundation.

Friday 16 July
They've come back.
We thought them dead in Ypres. They said they found my Malcolm's ear in a man's coffee mug. But they're back. Not whole, but they're alive. Malcolm, Irwin, Patrick. They came down the road, delivered by a wagon.
They had tried to send letters, they said, but the army intercepted them. They wanted us to know they were all right, but they couldn't. My Malcolm's missing his ear, but he's still my Malcolm. I couldn't stop weeping, for the grace that God Almighty has returned him to me. My knees are bruised from prayer.
Thank you, god. For another chance. Thank you.
Saturday
Malcolm's gorging himself. They're sending us extra rations with his pension, but he's eaten the entire kitchen. I can hardly blame him— the horrid things they called dessert over there made him crave anything remotely sweet. We've been growing apples, though the climate isn't quite right, and he ate half a bushel.
He and Irwin just give each other uneasy looks. I've not seen Patrick, but I passed by his and Mary's house, and they are making quite a racket.
Sunday
Malcolm didn't come to mass.
He was frightened by the organ music, stopped in front of the church. Started shaking, refused to even come into the building. I didn't want to drag him in. Irwin vomited when getting communion.
I… did something I wasn't proud of after I got back from mass. I took cold iron, a poker from the fireplace, and put it against his seat. He kicked it off without picking it up— why wouldn't he pick it up?
He didn't say anything when I picked up the poker. Just sat in his chair, read, and drank.
Monday
I awoke this morning to see him standing up and looking outside the window, to the hill. I roused him, and he came back to bed. The hill… it's got the little folk beneath it, they say. There's a ring around the top. I aim to go there tomorrow.
Malcolm flinched away from me when I went to cut bread. I pretended not to notice. Iron doesn't burn him, but he flinches away from it— I saw him bump against the poker today, and scream as it clattered to the ground.
At the same time… I know he's my Malcolm. He still calls me his Sweet Gin, and says how deep he'd like to drink of me. He knows the village, speaks with the priest. Still takes the same road through the village to the grocer. But… it's like he's not even there. Like there's a shell. A wooden man where my Malcolm should be.
I don't know what to make of it.
Tuesday
The hill has a ring of toadstools upon it. I saw queer lights there when I was a child, but no longer. I hear music from beneath, a droning sound, queer and… I don't know how to describe it. Like horns being played by the Earth itself.
Malcolm left me flowers on my bed. Said he was going to the pub with his friends. Asked me to come along to make merry. He knew I was scared, so… I feel silly now. He was tending the fire place with the same poker I had put on his chair.
I had talked with Mary about it some after mass. She put the idea that he was a changeling in my head. I'll give her a good scolding come tomorrow.
Later
We tried to make merry, and failed.
Everyone was giving Malcolm and Irwin strange looks. Irwin flinched at the sight of a bread knife. Malcolm managed to hold fast. Someone whispered that they were not truly our husbands, our friends. Malcolm took up the entire bowl of salt on the table and upended it on his person, and remained silent. Apologies were given, and he was bought some drinks.
Irwin left shortly after, complaining of nerves. Patrick didn't show up at all, and I am having Malcolm sleep out of our bed. He still has salt on him.
Wednesday
The next portion has been deciphered as best as can be managed, given the state of the writing.
Patrick and Mary are dead.
Mary had [illegible]. An iron knife, one that's been in her family for generations. Used [illegible]changelings.
Malcolm didn't even react. He stood there while they wheeled his body out. He said something about how Patrick 'wanted to die a hero'. And then he laughed.
Oh god.
Oh god.
Oh god.
Save my Malcolm, please.
Thursday
They buried Mary, but they burned Patrick. Said that he wasn't human, that he hadn't started to rot right, that he still looked flush.
THAT IS HOW CORPSES LOOK YOU [the rest of this page has been torn out]
Friday
Whenever Patrick is brought up, Malcolm starts laughing. Not like it's funny, like he's gone mad.
They're spreading stories about how Patrick used his Sidhe ways to compel Mary into slitting her throat with his dying breath. They see men returned from Ypres, talk of how there were six-hundred and sixty-six in the Blue Caps, and they speak that they are changed.
Malcolm won't stop laughing now. He keeps the poker on him at all times, as if he is afraid I will strike him. I will not.
Saturday
Nails. They put nails on my doorstep. Nails. Damn this village. We need to leave soon.
Sunday
Malcolm was absent. I think the noise scares him.
Irwin was dragged into the church by his wife and sister. They begged the priest to anoint him, drive out the foul spirit that had overtook him. Irwin just screamed about how he could smell the gas and how it was choking him. He tried to bring a candlestick down on Father McCormick, yelling about he was 'kraut filth'.
They choked him.
He died.
He shan't be burned.
Monday
More nails, and an iron rod through the window. I asked Father McCormick if he could help— he refused to talk to me, said I was enchanted, that he could see it in my eyes. He offered to disenchant me.
I told him to burn in Hell.
Tuesday
I found him sobbing this morning.
Malcolm was looking at the old hunting rifle we had in the closet. He wanted to pick it up, but every time his hands got within an inch of it, they shook and curled in on themselves, and he screamed.
A boy was watching through the window. The closet had iron locks. What will they think?
Malcolm, my Malcolm. He hates the thing. He picked it up after I sat by him for an hour, and said that he would not let himself be taken. He told me to run. I refused. I knew this was the man I had loved for twenty years.
I shall stand with him, even if Heaven shall fall on the Earth.
Wednesday
They came for my Malcolm
He did not let them take him
Saturday 1st October
Damn them all.
Two months. Two months I was strapped to a chair while they attempted to disenchant me. My Malcolm had something wrong with him— they're calling it 'shellshock' now. They remain convinced he was a changeling, a false man.
A man kept coming in to talk to me. He was dressed like a scholar, asked me how my life with him was. He thought that Malcolm was a changeling, said he was from some Royal Society. I told them all. Over and over, until my lips and tongue were numb.
My.
Malcolm.
Died.
My.
Malcolm.
My Malcolm survived the mud and the shit and the blood. This war isn't glorious. It's fought by children and men who should have never set foot on the continent. We are being lied to, and the first thought of people who see a man returned from war, changed, maimed in both body and soul, is that there is something wrong with them.
As I slept last night, a Sidhe in the form of a woman with gossamer hair, on the back of a great bird, alighted outside my window. She had heard and felt my pain, and would give me a method of doing unto them what they had done unto my Malcolm. In trade, I would live with her for the rest of time.
This is the last part of the rite— burying an account of my sorrows before the chapel. When they attend mass tomorrow, it will be complete.