October 5th
8:00 PM
Robert Tofflemire walked alongside Director Weiss and Katherine Sinclair down a long, dark, disrepaired hallway that he was sure never existed within the site. Sinclair was talking, the hall illuminated by her flashlight.
"Sloth's Pit has enough secrets to fill up the archives of Site-87, and then some. Just last month, we found out that there were bootlegging tunnels running from under the Black Garden across the state border." Sinclair tapped her flashlight with the palm of her hand as it flickered. "Site-87's only been here for forty-two years, and Sloth's Pit has had one-hundred and twenty-seven to generate all sorts of anomalies and oddities."
Weiss nodded. "That's why we need to get a leg up. So, we formed an… agreement. Not one that we're particularly happy about."
"Not one either side is happy about." Sinclair's flashlight sputtered, and went out. "Ah, nuts."
The sound of someone whistling the opening chords of When Johnny Comes Marching Home echoed through the tunnel, along with the sound of something rapidly spinning, and the rattle of hooves against the floor.
Sinclair fiddled with her light, whistling the next part of the song in response. Then, keeping to the tune, a voice rasped out of the darkness.
"The boys will scream, the men will shout
"The ladies guts will lay out
"And you'll all be dead…
The flashlight blasted on, illuminating the matted, yellowed fur of a figure with the head of a goat. His mouth was foaming, his left eye was missing, only a massive scar in its place. He was wearing a tattered uniform belonging to the Union Army, and had a bayonet over his head, ready to plunge down.
"When Johnny comes marching home!"
The Goatman swung the bayonet down. Sinclair didn't even flinch as the blade stopped so close to her face that she could feel her hair getting sliced.
Robert had drawn his pistol, eyes wide. The cartridges clicked in the barrel, dead. "What the—"
"Still got that Civil War story going on?" Sinclair asked this in the same tone one would ask where their friend got their hair cut.
"Blame the History Channel. 'Demons of Gettysburg' indeed." The Goatman leaned against the dilapidated wall of the hallway, looking at Robert. "…so, I'm guessing he's why you're calling in the favor?"
"He's the instigator of this phenomenon," Weiss confirmed, "But not intentionally so."
"'Phenomenon'?" The Goatman snorted, storing its bayonet where its left eye should be, wiping the foam from his mouth. "No, no. The green lights in the sky every Perseid shower is a phenomenon. This is… well, something else."
Robert fell back against the wall at the sight of the bayonet entering the Goatman's skull, hand over heart, a pounding in his chest.
"How little warning did you give him?" The Goatman shook his head.
"We had to make this a rush job," Weiss admitted, looking back at Robert. "Agent Tofflemire, the Goatman will be… explaining the finer details of this phenomenon to you."
"We're going to let you get to know each other," Sinclair turned about with the director.
The Goatman offered a hand up to Robert, a grin on his face. Robert just stared at the bayonet though its eye.
"We have work to do."

"We have an understanding, the Plastics People and I." The Goatman led Robert further down the tunnel, a lantern in his hand that he pulled from seemingly nowhere. "We owe each other a boon. I owe you for helping get rid of the Black Autumn, and in return, you will owe me. Anything I want."
"So, this is for entirely selfish reasons," Robert said, keeping his pistol out. "Why doesn't my gun work?"
"Part of my fiction at the moment. Guns don't work around me, supposedly because my 'vengeful aura' dampens the powder."
"That was on the Used-To-Be-About-History-Channel? Seriously?"
The Goatman stopped, let out a loud snort, and then a bleating laugh. "Used-To-Be-About… that's a good one. I'm saving that."
Robert responded with a nervous chuckle. "Where does this lead, anyway?"
"Somewhere cursed."
A few minutes of silence later, they came upon a hatch in the ceiling, with a short set of stairs leading up to it. "This is pretty well stuck so give me a bit…" The Goatman took the bayonet from his face and wedged between the edge of the hatch and the ceiling. It burst open, and sunlight came through.
"The hell?" Robert ran forward. "It was 8:00 at night when we left. How can it— I'm not—"
"Like I said." The Goatman climbed out. "Cursed."
Tofflemire followed after, finding himself in a wrecked room. Old reel-to-reel computers had claw marks in them, the floor looked like it had been ripped up, and a portable containment cell was in the middle of the room, torn to pieces. "This is a Foundation bunker…"
"And your lot decided to stick a werewolf in here on Christmas two years ago."
"Three years," Robert said. "I remember because Alice and I were ambushed by—"
"Well, it feels like two years. Let's not argue." The Goatman put his lantern down, and headed out the door of the bunker, which was off of its hinges. "Know why this is cursed?"
"Yeah. It's by the camp." Robert scratched the back of his head.
"Not just that. The camp… it was a place where nightmares manifested. Too many kids being away from home for a week or two, missing their mom and dad, starting stories about the boogeyman in the woods… adds up overtime."
"Probably doesn't help that the boogeyman actually exists."
The Goatman laughed. "True enough. But when they put the guardian totem in place, it quieted down. And then…"
"I know how the story ends." Robert adjusted his body armor and started leaning on his legs, preparing for the trek ahead. "Where are we going?"
"It's time you got a history lesson." The Goatman walked deeper into the forest.

"1918. The year of the Spanish Flu pandemic." The Goatman trudged along a section of the forest that Robert had never seen or heard of. The ground had turned swampy, the air foggy. Frogs croaked in the near distance. "You know why it's called that?"
"I was busy being proselytized to about how Germany was the root of all evil during history class." Robert lifted his boot from the muck. "Then again, the teacher was Polish, so I can't blame her too much."
"Hmm." The Goatman produced another lantern as the fog grew thicker. "It was called that because there was still a World War. No country wanted to report that their own forces were getting sick, but everyone was free to say that Spain was getting hit hard by it, since it was neutral. So, Spanish Flu."
"I think I saw a video about that." Robert had to force his feet out of the muck again. "Crap. What is this place?"
"I'm getting to that." The Goatman held his lantern higher. "Sometimes, naming a thing gives it power— people thought it came from Spain, so from Spain it was supposed to come. But it didn't. It was an American-born disease, and it remained that way."
"Sometimes, try as you might to give something power or weight with a story, reality rejects it. You can call it the Spanish Flu all you want."
The Goatman stopped suddenly, hanging his lantern from a metal hook on the end of a wooden pole. He adjusted the pole slightly, and stepped away from the hook, revealing a wooden cross sticking out of the muck.
"It kills everyone just the same."
Robert stepped forward to inspect the cross.

Here Lies
CAROLINE SLOTH
Sister, Daughter, Mother to Never Be
Laid with her Child, Quinn
1877-1918

"Jackson Sloth's daughter."
"Only survivor of the family," The Goatman confirmed, wiping under his eye.
"Forty-one. Bit old to have a kid. But why is she—"
"Buried out here? She's not the only one." The Goatman kicked at the muck. "You're standing on top of the largest mass grave in Wisconsin."
Robert's looked at the ground. "You mean—"
"Every one of them died of the flu. There were so many from the town, and neighboring counties that they just… dumped them in here, like they were plague victims. Ran out of coffins. They kept a registry, of course— they weren't barbarians."
"How many?" Robert carefully backed away from the grave, as if it would get him off of the land faster.
"Four-hundred or so. Carol was one of the first to succumb. She was with child." He muttered something beneath his breath, something Robert barely picked up on. "Nephew."
He pretended to not hear this, but his heart rate picked up. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Like I said, stories only have so much power before facts take over. The Spanish Flu didn't just kill the Spanish, the Queen isn't a lizard, the Earth is round, and North will always be North." The Goatman sighed. "My stories are obscure and scattered enough that I'm still just that: a story. Nothing concrete, nothing constant."
The Goatman pulled out his bayonet— no longer a Bayonet, but an axe. His army uniform had turned into an old, ruined, blood-and-muck covered suit with an undone bowtie, the kind of suit one might find in a funeral parlor circa the 1890s. He looked at Robert with a pair of intact eyes, four horns on his head.
"Case in point." The Goatman stowed his axe. "The… Pit Sloth, it calls itself. Right now, it's not even a Legend or a Story, it's a Lie. A living Contradiction, and it wants to… reconcile that Contradiction. Make itself consistent, and from that, make itself a Legend."
Robert frowned. "The film. The movie, I mean. Black Autumn II. I… can't be sure, but it almost looked like a found-footage film."
The Goatman snapped his hoofed fingers. "There we go. Some shoddy camera work, a few tortured actors, a few hundred missing persons posters… it worked well enough for Blair Witch."
"So, the movie's a way to make it…. Legendary?"
"From what I heard, it was already bursting out of the screen. Play that film in a room full of hundreds of people…"
Robert shook his head. "But someone had to make that film, hire the actors, write a script, use the camera. It didn't happen by itself."
"Then, Bob, the question becomes… who is making the film?"

Dr. Jacob Weaver frowned at what he was presented via teleconference. The film analyst, and his hastily-assembled team, were fidgeting as they looked over the data printed out. "It's not much to go on."
"I realize that, Dr. Weaver." Director Weiss sat on the other end of the call, in Site-87. "But we can't risk showing you all of the details of the film, or the anomaly associated with it. It had… deleterious effects on our staff that viewed it."
Forensic Computer Scientist Peter Dickson cleared his throat. "We appreciate you at least sending the metadata from the video file. Not that it's a lot to go on." Dickson adjusted his glasses. "We know that it was edited on a Windows 7 OS somewhere in the United States, and that the footage was largely recorded on hand-held cameras. This suggests the film was Found Footage in genre. The length of the film is approximately two hours and seven minutes."
"But?"
"But we can't find out whose computer it was edited on." Dickson took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. "All metadata related to the user, beyond the OS used, is gone. And there are still several million people in the US who use Windows 7. Hell, most Foundation computers still use 7 or SCP-OS. Someone knew what they were doing. They don't want us to trace it."
"No opening or closing credits? Nothing about actors?"
"The NLP was able to tell us that the cast included John Doe, Jane Doe, Johanthan Doe, Janet Doe, and was directed by Alan Smithee." Dickson sighed. "Other than that…"
A smug look crossed Weaver's face. "Peter, some of the only safe frames to view are the credits. And they were edited— sloppily, as well. We're looking over the frames to see if they can recover any of the original—" Weaver's phone buzzed, and he laid it on the tabletop. "That's it now. Transmitting data…"
The opening credits rolled.

STARRING
ROBERT TOFFLEMIRE
ALISON CAROL
JASPER PHINEAS SLOTH
THE ENTIRE STAFF AT S & C PLASTICS AS THEMSELVES
AND THE ENTIRE TOWN OF SLOTH'S PIT AS THEMSELVES
WRITTEN BY THE PIT SLOTH
DIRECTED BY THE PIT SLOTH
ALSO STARRING THE PIT SLOTH
CASTING BY THE PIT SLOTH

"Well." Weiss sucked in air through her teeth. "Shit."
Dickson leaned forward."Carol and Tofflemire are the agents involved in the incident… but who the hell is Jasper Phineas Sloth?"

Robert climbed out of the muck of the mass grave with the Goatman, kicking mud off of his boots. "This is all pretty trippy, I gotta admit."
"You're just starting to comprehend the fact that this universe works by the rules of fiction. I don't blame you for finding it hard to wrap your head around."
Robert looked down at his soaked-through pants and started kicking moisture off of them. "So, the Pit Sloth wants to be made… not real, but at least solid. Concrete."
The Goatman nodded. "It happens every now and again— a story tries to force itself to become more than a tall tale. It barely ever works. The last time something tried that…" He turned away and began walking off.
"What?" Robert asked, wiping some muck off of his fingers. "You're just gonna leave that hanging?"
"…the last time something in this town tried to force itself into reality…" The Goatman stopped, turning to face him, eyes illuminated by lantern light. "It became the Hidebehind."

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Gracefully carved pillars lined the narrow onyx corridor. Few knew, even within the King's court, that this place existed. Fewer still came willingly. The petitioner walked the hallway, accompanied only by the taps of his footfalls and the depths of his mind. The horror that had brought him here, it seemed, did not accompany those within this hidden passage of the Anguished Lord. Perhaps it was little more than a metaphor to begin with. He shook the thought from his mind and continued on. Still, the scant lucidity yet within him would not relent.
Away for the first time in what seemed an eternity from the writhing and chatter of the city, he found himself terrifyingly alone with his thoughts. The robe of black feathers, these claws, this skull… Clawtips touched the ridges of his skull with a muted clack. Have I always worn this mask? He set off down the hallway again, quickly. Why doesn't walking ever seem to get me anywhere?
"BEGONE, DISEASED VOICE" The tortured thing screamed, but he heard only his pained caws. Doubling over, he frantically clawed at his unfamiliar visage, desperate to tear apart the thoughts behind it.
This hurts.
"SICK!!"
Why can't I ever get it to come off?
"DIE AND LEAVE ME BE!"
Confused, pained wails and screeches echoed throughout the hallway; A symphony for the Anguished Lord. Trembling, wet with blood as red as midnight, it despaired that it did not die. It languished, terrified, knowing it was alone.
And then it wasn't.
The Cracked Man approached, in that queer way that the natives of this nightmare city did, such that he was not there until he appeared, looking down at the tortured beast. If he weren't dying, he might have felt bad for it.
"Have you come here, too, to escape death? Or are you just some mad beast caught in a trap?" The man's porcelain cheeks fractured and snapped, tiny cracks adding to his crumbling form with each motion. His face had mostly fallen away already, exposing the hollow form within. His single remaining eye looked out from precipitously close to the chasm that had swallowed its companion.
"Death… death is no matter." The creature's pupils contracted slowly at the noise, until this newcomer was focused in his vision. "But there is a sickness in you. I should know - I should know - how to cure you!" Its body rose as it spoke, and it stared at one bony talon, outstretched towards the Cracked Man. His other talon tried, now lamely, to rip himself free of the body he wore. "Yet I have worn this nightmare mask in this damned city for…" He paused, contemplating the very passage of time in this world of four lords. His breath grew swift and ragged, his thoughts emerging as a small, fearful whimper at the enormity of the eternities he had been lost in the city of strife and sin.
The black beast staggered a few steps down the corridor, which drew a derisive stare from the Alagaddan native's artificially cyclopean orb. He appeared once again next to the staggering creature, his posture and position changed in the time that passed unseen between the seconds that elapsed.
"Speak for yourself, wretch, you seem every bit as sick as I am." It wasn't wrong though. His condition had progressed to the point where he had to be judicious with his words, lest he lose his mouth.
"I am not sick, no, no, never sick. You! Sick and Crack-ed — Crack-ed" it cawed at him in distress. He ached, a man trying to remember a pleasant dream in a waking nightmare. "But my book, I have been here without it for — for so long I have forgotten the procedure!" The raven-quilled healer took another dozen, staggering steps before turning again to face the man, who was watching his strides with contempt. "You. You never told me your name, Crack-ed man."
"It seems you already know it. What bitter irony, that I cross paths with a doctor that can prescribe my name, but not my cure. What, then, do you seek this book of yours in this shadow of a shadow?" He appeared again, hands folded behind his back, eye-to-eye with the beast, or at least as near as its beak would allow. "If you had it, then could you free me from this pain and sickness?" Porcelain shards fell from his splintering lips as he spoke.
The yellow iris constricted the black of the beast's eye to a pinprick. "I could, and there is no doubt of it." The avian skull, covered with a hood of midnight plumes, turned slowly back to the direction he had been travelling in. "Still… it is as though this place is without end. What resides here?"
"That's simple. What brought you here?"
The sight of the terror that had lead him to this corridor filled his mind again. Only in his memory, it seemed, could he see it clearly, and he had only one word for it. "Anguish."
"Anguish." agreed the other.
"Anguish!" confirmed the walls as they melted away, seeming to turn all at once from black marble to inky acid.
The Anguished Lord made his countenance to shine down upon them. From the void of pitch above emerged, as though from an immense distance, an alabaster mask. It glared down at them, impossibly large, twisted at once with sadistic glee and unimaginable agony. The Lord's gaze stripped their thoughts, their egos, their very selves away, and twisted them like puppets.
They both watched in horror as one of the beast's bony talons extended slowly out and tore open the Cracked man's chest, fracturing porcelain with his touch like knives. It crushed the fragments of his body, and reached into the man's very core, where the Anguished Lord had hidden his memory, an eternity ago. His clawtips touched lightly against the familiar, comforting shape of his journal.
The Cracked man fell, twisted and, he hoped, dying to the ground. He felt his back crunch and splinter apart painfully as he struck whatever imperceptible force suspended them in the black void surrounding them.
The doctor's mind sat there, in his hand. Almost afraid to believe it, his other talon reached up, pulling the covers of the book apart. The pages, the writing, the procedure. It all came rushing back, almost as though it had never left, as his hand turned frantically from page to page, needing no more than an instant for each to sear itself back into view from the long-lost pits of his memory.
His purpose returned, he fell to his knees, withdrawing his tools from his bag, working fast to apply the cure he had spent so, so long unable to. His actions blurred the line between earthen-work and medicine, piecing the broken and dying patient back together with a calm and determined claw. He didn't look up when the Anguished Lord drew so near overhead that its ink-black hate dripped into the fractured lines of the Cracked Man; indeed he had been wondering where he was to procure such a rare reagent. He wasted no time filling the beaker he had—
the beaker he had made long ago?

By the time the Doctor's mind found its way from the labyrinth into which it had stumbled, his body had finished the surgery without him.
The Cracked Man stood, his sickness gone, though the black resin of the cursed Lord's hate lingered between the repaired fragments of his form. Judging by the vigor with which gesticulated, his pain was gone as well. He was holding the sneering mask, arguing with it.
"You think what, that I would be so overjoyed at my treatment that I will offer you my very body in recompense? You tyrant, you demon, I will have no part of your schemes. I have my health, and you have my thanks, and those are all the gifts that will be exchanged between us." He flung the mask from his right hand.
It reappeared in his left. He glared at it, icily. It laughed at him, mockingly. When it spoke, its voice dripped with venom. "You act as though you ever had a choice in the matter." Ebony tendrils snaked from its mouth as the lord of Black expressed his only act of loyalty to his Hanged King: "None shall walk Alagadda without a mask!"

Pestilence in the Court of the Hanged King

The Hanged King's Comedy

Everyone Wears a Mask


Two colleagues sat in the mansion's study, one man cradling a snifter of brandy, while the other drew on an ornate pipe. When his voice broke the silence, it was accompanied by a cloud of smoke. "Rare of you to have your servants leave the room, Rydell. What fey mood has come over you?"
Pausing for several moments to down his brandy, Rydell produced a leather bound journal from the breast of his suit. "I have just this morning received, by way of courier, my newest purchase. An account penned by an inhabitant of the realm beyond the Janus Door." His guest's eyes widened at that. It had been several long years since another clue to the arcane gate had been uncovered.
"Where did you find such a thing?" Erasmus leaned forward and reached out his hand for the book, obviously eager to read its contents.
The host extended his prize, and his guest took it. "Blind auction, by a Mr. Darke. It merely cost my summer estate."
"A small price to pay." Erasmus agreed, carefully opening the journal. "And from what manner of creature did this account come?"
"A gentleman, cracked and fractured, if the merchant is to be believed. The man sought to open the doors from the other side, and traded away this journal for the reagents he needed to activate his door." Rydell refilled his snifter with brandy from a decanter on the table next to his chair, then continued. "Who's to say if the man found what he's after."
Erasmus turned through the pages, desperate to read a firsthand description of this mysterious Alagadda. Finally, he found what he was looking for.

The ever twisting golden maze of endless facade and orgy was alight again with the joyous screams of lust and sharp sadism. Beautiful scarlet flowers atop such wondrous garments, danced doggedly with their hosts in an unholy display; and the dapper of a gentleman being lost in a impulsive fit of irony. These paved streets are a blessing to those who follow its vulgar dogma, and by the damned Lords they do. The thirst of these delinquents on the streets has such a profound affect, that even I; in a chosen existence of celibacy, have almost succumbed to the tainted pursuit of that abominable intoxicant.

One would think, with the mongrels of the street being so entangled with the social heights of degeneracy, they would have the skill of excellent banter; but to the dismay of I, they even fail in that regard. Most of them are not able to hold a civil conversation for little more than a cluster of words, before they stumble off from a drunken concoction of poor ales and the drowsiness of reality.

Lost in their twisted lusts, it takes little more than a blink of the eye to find one's inquiries either forgotten or ignored; lost to the back of the mind, along with other interactions to fester in a sea of madness. These memories would never to enter the thoughts of that simple brain again, oft replying merely, "Does thou know I?"

To lack verbose on the resolution that both parties come to: "Aye! But, neither know if that is true." For, time is convoluted in its goal of passing, and does not follow a simple path. It's twisting and contorting throughout our existence in this city realm, so events are not unique to one 'time', and instead the correct question to events is not 'when' but 'where'. Waiting at one point for a lengthy period, one may find an old event. But not that this matters at all, as one's experience of this repeat is of that of one's first time. An extended stroll will find one with many memories of events they were not there to perceive.

I walked past a clock tower near my abode, it towering above all below on the street in a golden excellence displaying crooked hands aiming towards ciphers and digits. Each blink or passing moment displays a face on the clock, vastly different to the one a moment before, legitimizing its entire existence in a sea of disjointed instants.

Yet despite all this, my condition worsens; my hatred turns to poison within me. Anguish tempts me to plunge yet deeper into forbidden lore to find the remedy. Even now I am drawing up preparations to make mine invasion to the Library of Cosmic Speculation, wherein, it is said, knowledge from all worlds are cataloged for the purview of the twisted court of sin.

He read on for hours, consuming the thin book with his eyes as his host slowly consumed his brandy. Erasmus's eyes were wide when he looked up, but soon narrowed as his mind moved onward to the next hurdle. "What guarantee have we his methods will open the Gate?"
"None."
The scholar's tongue moistened his lips as he held the open book in his hands, slightly shaking from the tension with which he sat. "Still, it is too grand of a chance to pass up. A library wherein one might uncover even a lost portion of the holy literature is worth any cost."
Rydell nodded his agreement, his mind hid well its secret desires to search for texts more profane and powerful. "I'm glad you agree, as I hope to leave to you the procurement of his required reagents."
Erasmus nodded, a fair deal. Only the crackle of the flames broke the silence as he pondered the magnificence of the journey before them. Rydell was merely glad his guest had been so amenable to supplying payment. In truth, he had made the journey alone, once before, in secret, and at tremendous cost. He had spent months there, by his reckoning, before his rations had given out and he'd been forced to retreat through the door. How bitterly he had cursed when it slammed shut behind him! He never did uncover the knowledge he sought, though what he had found enticed him all the more.
Rumors of men who had cast aside their mortality and overcome the great specter of death filled Rydell's mind. At last he would have his second chance at uncovering the truth of those secrets, within the court of the Hanged King.

The beginning.

The Hanged King's Comedy

Pestilence in the Court of the Hanged King


Euclid-Level Containment Wing B4, Site-42, Seabreeze, North Carolina
10:15 ██/██/22

Euclid-Level Containment Wing B4 is a square-edged figure eight. There are 45 white bulbs on each long hallway and 30 on each of the three short ones; a light every two meters, and they're recessed halogen at that. The Foundation can afford to make things a little nicer sometimes, it would seem.
It takes Agent Trauss about four minutes to walk the full perimeter and the middle hallway if he checks each containment chamber's security room as he passes. Four minutes: also the maximum amount of time he can be alone with a human SCP object in its room before the security system automatically freezes his access card and sends an email to Site Director Radford. There have been some stiff changes to interaction protocol recently, and Trauss knows who he has to thank for that.
Still, that's enough time to make this work. He hurries past the shuttered surveillance room and knocks on the steel door at the end of the hall.

"You have three minutes and fifty seconds," Trauss announces as he enters Room 35 to greet SCP-4427-B. He starts a timer on his watch and removes a bulky plastic box from his belt as he walks further in. He stops at the table beside the entrance, where 4427-B has already laid out two rubber mats.
"Yes, I knew you'd do it," the anomaly says, rolling off their bed and scrambling over to the table. They comb their hair with their fingers and throw it over their shoulder as they sit across from him.
He removes his gloves and opens the box. "Good morning, Jasper. And no, I don't see any issue with it, because I double-checked the regulations and-"
"Don't make it boring," they whine.
Trauss scoffs and starts shuffling his cards, avoiding eye contact.
"Shiny card sleeves," Jasper comments. "I like the matte ones."
Trauss draws seven cards as they do the same. "After you," he offers.
Jasper selects a Mountain from their hand and places it on the mat. "Pass."
He draws an Island and sets it down. "Pass."
They place a Swamp on their mat and rotate the Mountain to the side. "I tap one red land to cast Goblin Guide and attack you for two with Haste. Should've done that to begin with. Pass."
Trauss rotates his D20 to 18 and places a Plains on the mat. He taps the Island. "I'm putting down a Shore Keeper to put an end to that shit. Should've done that to begin with," he counters.
"You-"
His watch beeps. He bolts up out of the chair. "Pause, back in four minutes," he says, rushing out. Jasper groans and taps their fingernails on the table.
Clack. Clack. Clump. The hallway is dead silent save for the sound of his boots pounding down it. He makes an effort to walk in a manner that produces more clumps than clacks, but it's difficult. He checks the camera feeds of six humans and ten other sapient entities sleeping or similar as he walks the perimeter before stopping back into Room 35 for another three minutes and fifty seconds. The next three hours repeat much the same.
"I attack you for four with Vexing Devil."
"Block with Shore Keeper."
"Rip."
Four minutes of walking again. This time he sees two other employees, one of whom is wearing a green tutu and faux antennae over her clothing. He watches them over his shoulder for a moment, but he can feel several people's eyes on him through the little red lenses dotted along the ceiling. He tries to figure out what that's for as he paces.
"I'm putting down Bloodghast. It's a vampire." They stare at him as if that's supposed to mean something. "I also have… some zombies. But not in this deck."
A dull pain thuds in his skull. What are they referencing? He plays a card. "Edifice of Authority; target creature can't attack this turn."
"Oh my god."
Four minutes. Shoes on concrete. Eyes on cameras. Back to the room.
Jasper has their hands flat on the table. "Scourge of the Throne," they tell him excitedly as he reenters. "I attack you for five-"
"Not if I play an Instant. Aethertow; put that shit back on top of your library."
They glance up at him. "For some reason, I didn't expect a control deck from you."
"It's the only deck I have. And how else would I make a round of three games last three or more hours?" He checks his watch: 15 seconds left. He looks into Jasper's eyes, which meet his with a contempt, semi-vacant stare.
"What?"
"Do you feel okay?"
"You think I look pale too?"
"Yeah, I do."
"I'm lightheaded and out of it as usual, I guess. I just feel like sleeping, but I don't want to. God I wish you'd let me have caffeine-"
His watch beeps. He stands and pushes the chair under the table, rubber stoppers squeaking on the painted concrete. "Back in ten minutes or fewer."
This time, he detours into the first auxiliary room outside of the chamber's inner door, teeth gritted as he snaps the bolt out of the lock and rolls up the shutter, soft blue light washing over his face. He shuts it behind him and approaches the panel on the wall, removing his red outer glove and reaching for the leftmost dial.
"C-51174, what are you doing in there?"
He jolts and turns his radio volume down. "I'm playing Magic: The Gathering. You can see the feeds." This must be the wing's security supervisor, probably B-class and sitting on his ass in some office two or three stories above his head; that would be the type to address him by his designation for kicks.
"Actually, I can't see inside its chamber unless I am watching in real-time with the guard on duty in the monitoring office, or I get permission to access those records. I'm sure you know this."
"If you're not happy with my performance despite the fact that I am acting within regulations, you know how to report it." He turns all five of the leftmost dials down by two notches and touches the console's center monitor. "I'm not even from this department, I'm just covering some of Jacobson's missing shifts."

Enter ID# (numerical only)

51174

…
…
…
51174 Agent Cyrus Trauss
Offsite_Response (primary)
Field_Operations (secondary)
Security (tertiary)
MTF_λ12 (former)
Class C
L4/Temporary Provisional 4/4427 (expires in 45 DAYS)
…
…
ENTER PASSWORD OR USE RETINAL SCANNER

The supervisor laughs, the radio spurting it out as a disjointed three seconds of static. "You're not doing anything wrong, per se. But should you really be taking half your time away from patrolling?"
"I'm supposed to make one round every 10 minutes and allocate time to check on 4427-B specifically. That's what my orders said."
"But there's still no good reason to play cards with it, even if its containment procedures permits physical access and your personnel class permits physical contact."

…
…
…
RETINAL SCAN ACCEPTED
…
Connected to B4.35.A (Mk. XII Localized Static Scranton Reality Anchor)
Connected to B4.35.B (Mk. XIII Localized Static Scranton Field Stabilizer)
…
Connected to B4.35.C (Mk. VII Aetheric Resonance Imaging Indicator)
…
INPUT PROMPT

"In your opinion, sir. You could ask the Ethics Committee."
"What are you doing?"
"I'm changing these settings a little because this thing is draining the life out of-"
"Hey, uh-uh. Don't do that."

SHOW SETTINGS B4.35.A

ELECTRICAL INPUT
5500 WATTS 320000 VOLTS AC LOCAL GENERATOR
FLUID LEVELS
SCRANTON 98%
S-56 (COOLANT) 45%
S-85 (LUBRICANT) 90%
REFILL COOLANT BEFORE 40%
PERFORM FULL LUBRICANT CHANGE WITHIN 72 HOURS

"I read the ConProcs thrice this morning. I am changing it because the documents I was provided explicitly state that I am permitted to do so, and because it is in the anomaly's best interests." He can already imagine himself citing his phrasing in Radford's office to explain himself to this guy; whatever. People like this are all bark. The two people watching him in real-time would have called him through his headset by this point if they had an issue.

HUME LEVELS
SURROUNDING 25
INDIVIDUAL 193 (READING SYNCHRONIZED FROM PII ██/██/22 07:46)
ANCHOR OUTPUT 60
ADJUSTED SURROUNDING 85

"Agent, just because you are authorized to do that doesn't mean you should. The containment specialist does not spend two hours a week on calculations alone just so you can-"

CLEAR ANCHOR OUTPUT

CLEARED FIELD ANCHOR OUTPUT

"-and beyond that, you'd better watch it with your card games, because you know how sensitive that position is, especially after Jacobson's shitfest, and-"

SET ANCHOR OUTPUT 45

SET FIELD ANCHOR OUTPUT 45 HUMES

SET EDIT LOCK 48

SET FIELD EDIT LOCK 48 HOURS

"-even listening to me right now? Your shift's over in fifteen. If you want to make yourself useful in that room before you leave, you can climb in that compartment under that panel and replace the goddamn oil."
"Sure."
"Did you catch any of that?"
"Yep. I'll do it."
The supervisor huffs. "Thank you."
"Mmm-hmm."

51174 SIGN OUT

"That was five minutes," Jasper tells him as he reenters.
"I have to switch shifts now, after I do a little maintenance in there. But I changed the settings on that equipment, and I think your headache should go away now. And you can keep my cards in here for next time if you want. I kind of threw them together in a hurry anyway."
"Oh. Thank you."
"I'll see you later."
"Can you- hang on a second?" They wait a beat to say it and stand with their arms crossed but shoulders hunched. "I'm, uh- I don't know if you know that I recognize you, and this is five years late, but I'm sorry I punched you in the jaw." They wait for recognition to show on his face. "In May. 2019. You know, the day everything first- yeah."
He smiles and looks at his feet. "It's fine. That kind of stuff comes with the job description. You were scared."
They nod and brush their hair back with a sniff. "You looked way different then."
"Yep. I did." He waits for any number of several predictable questions.
"You know, I- I wouldn't have known if I hadn't seen you then and then compared. How long have you been on testosterone?"
"Six years." He feels like he's not supposed to be disclosing this.
"Does the Foundation cover it?"
"Yes."
"Would they cover estrogen for me?"
"I would expect so. Have you ever brought it up to medical personnel?"
"Nope."
He doesn't pry. "Well, you can. You're safe and your information is safe."
"I haven't waited to talk about that sort of thing. Personal things. With people. Since, uh, since Reggie."
"Understandable."
"Do you know what happened to him? Can you tell me?"
"I don't know." It's true.
They lick their lips and move their hands to their pockets. "We didn't love each other, you know," they mutter. "We were just fucking around. I don't know which you think is worse. I hate thinking about it. I already think we were being stupid as fuck."
He feels his spine tense and checks his watch. "I'm not going to speak on that topic, and time is almost up in here. Please let me fix some things in the other room for you."
"Okay." They turn around and walk into the bathroom in a few hurried motions.
He ducks back into the equipment room and removes his portable SRA from his belt, placing it on the counter and taking one of the 50-milliliter bottles of Scranton fluid from the drawer. He justifies using the B4 wing's materials to maintain his own equipment with the fact that its supervisor seems to be an asshole.
After a few swift motions, the old fluid is down the drain and replaced. He slides the funnel back out of the tube and screws the cap back onto the bottle, the device now back at his hip. Setting his jaw, he pulls his gloves all the way up around his forearms and hefts one of the five-gallon drums of odorless transparent slime out from inside the cabinet and over to the maintenance panel.
"Hate this part," he whispers to no one as he reaches under the bulk of tubing and wires to unscrew the rightmost of three valve caps. He yanks it off the last few threads as quickly as he can, managing to miss the stream of viscous, brown-and-blue-tinted sludge gushing out into the pan. He refastens the cap after the last globs have dropped out and stands up to pour in the replacement.
With materials back in their respective places and his hands washed, he turns the interior's thermostat two degrees warmer before he shuts the outer chamber lock and clumps down the hallway toward the elevators.
His earpiece beeps. "You switching shifts?" Kenton Lookingbill says.
"Yes sir."
"I need you to meet Shaw and Rogers in Carolina Beach. They're at the boardwalk, said you can't miss it."
"Multiple anomalies?"
"Yes. And multiple humanoids."
"Consider me there."
"Thank you."
"Always." He steps on the elevator and presses the third floor button. When the doors open, two researchers are chatting and wearing rubber masks. "Excuse us," the scarecrow says. She ushers the pumpkin into the elevator after he steps out.
"He looked so confused," the pumpkin whispers, chuckling.
The scarecrow calls out as her coworker presses one of the buttons. "Hey, happy-"
The doors shut. Trauss shrugs and keeps walking.

Carolina Beach Boardwalk, Carolina Beach, North Carolina
16:40 ██/██/22

The boardwalk is packed, especially for a Monday night. Trauss reaches down to make sure his name tag is straight on his vest before he steps out of the car. He presses the lower button on the side of his earpiece, wincing at the pressure; he'd changed out the socket recently and found that the piercing had become somewhat dry and irritated. "I'm here," he says aloud once it beeps to signify a local device connection.
"Come onto the boardwalk itself. We're standing above the restrooms."
"Gotcha." He strides past the Ferris wheel line and down the sidewalk, trying not to push past people.
"Hi!" a little boy says as his mom carries him past. She looks annoyed.
"Hi there," he says. The boy beams. He keeps walking.
"Out here to have fun tonight, I hope," a middle-aged man in a Salt Life shirt tells him with a smile.
"I could just be down here to get some fresh air," he jokes back, not understanding what the original comment was meant to imply. The man laughs in response, so he smiles and keeps moving. He jogs up the ramp to where Rogers and Shaw are standing, both wearing only the default white polo and black slacks uniform. "What's going on here? Am I overdressed?"
"That," Rogers says. He points toward the bar Trauss just passed. "Take a good look in the windows."
He squints. Some sort of bipedal, furred creature is sitting in the window with its back against the glass. "Odd. Why haven't you gone in there?"
Rogers looks nervous. "There are a lot of them. Look."
He watches the windows over the next few minutes, frowning. "Yeah. There are a lot of issues going on here. Do you feel anything weird when you look at them? Like you're looking at something you can't recognize?"
"In a memetic hazard way?"
"Sorta."
"Yeah."
He thinks, which starts to hurt. "I'm just going to go down there and head straight for the manager."
"Wait, you're talking about just the furred things, right? In the window closest to us?"
"No, I'm talking about all of them. You see the others?" Trauss points to the entrance, where a man with some sort of glowing green skin condition is entering the bar.
"God, how did I not see that? It's like I forget about them as soon as I look at them. Let's get in there." The two of them trail after him.
The interior is a mess of loud talking, screaming, laughing, and people and monsters talking to each other in English and Spanish. Trauss doesn't know what word to use other than 'monster' — the entities he's seeing are grotesque caricatures of creatures from media or similar, and nearly every one of them is humanoid. He'll sometimes feel like he recognizes one from somewhere, but a stabbing pain in his head always kills the thought shortly afterward.
Trauss weaves through to the counter, already feeling multiple eyes on him. He makes a beeline for the less crowded end and sits down to wait for the bartender, trying to convey urgency without attracting attention.

"Hi. Hi, sir? Can I talk to you real quick?" He reaches into his pocket and removes his badge and ID card, flipping it open. "I'm Agent Trauss, SCP Foundation Offsite Response."
The man walks over, splashes of liquor on his dress shirt. He smiles. "I, uh, can see that."
Trauss feigns a laugh. "Is your manager here tonight?"
"I'm the manager. How are you doing?"
"Oh I'm well, thank you, and yourself?"
"Just swell."
"Great." He scratches his ear and leans forward on his elbows. "Listen, uh, while we at the Foundation respect North Carolina Anomalous Persons Privacy Law 4-C6-NC and cannot prevent persons with an anomalous appearance from congregating in public, for the sake of preserving normalcy we still cannot allow them to spread anomalous contaminants or otherwise expose people to any uncontrollable effects…"
He looks to his left. There are two people in green Information Breach Publications T-shirts hunched over at the bar, camera now aimed at him as they laugh to each other. He groans internally and picks back up. "…Because that would violate NC-APP and thus require us to step in. I see a few individuals in here who are most definitely shedding contaminants, such as that humanoid, doglike entity in the window-"
He guffaws, waving his hand. Another bartender comes up beside him. "You here to contain the furries?" she asks.
"What?"
"Well, are you allowed to joke with people or not?" the manager interjects.
"I mean, sure, but there's a lot going on here so I'd rather stay on-topic."
"Just let him, man, just play along," the bartender murmurs, laughing to herself.
"Sir, there are clearly multiple anomalous entities in your establishment right now, some of whom are contaminating the environment, as I said before. Would you please take us to your office or the kitchen so that I can interview you while they get started?" He gestures over his shoulder to Rogers, who is approaching a decayed-looking humanoid in tattered clothing with a copy of NC-APP already on his clipboard.
The man stares, fingers stroking his mustache. "Can I just check with you real quick, man? Because you didn't seem to get my joke earlier. Are you being serious?"
"Yes, of course I'm being serious."
The man leans in over the counter, his voice lowered. "Then what the hell is wrong with you guys? These people are wearing costumes and makeup. Don't you know what day it is?"
Trauss does feel like he's forgotten what day it is. His earpiece beeps, interrupting the onset of a headache. He gestures for Shaw to take his place and walks away to take the call. "Call from: space alien space alien clipboard not sign eyeball," it says. He withholds a snort as he remembers that he had it paired to his phone instead of on the Foundation satellite network when he left the Site. He's about to decline the call when he remembers who he'd saved as that string of emojis.
"Answer call. Uh, hi Elaine, currently in the field right now, is it an emergency?"
"I'm afraid you got me, son."
He winces. "Oh, hi Doctor Blanchard."
"Oh, hi Agent Trauss," he mocks. "Listen, Elaine and the psych were pretty fond of your attempt to engage with 4427-B in a recreational but appropriate manner, but the containment specialist was not. And you're going to have some trouble getting in the gate with a playing card, so once the boys wave you through, you can go straight to Wing B4 to assist with recontainment efforts."
His muscles contract as he reaches into his pants pocket and withdraws his plastic ID holder, its cord still attached to his belt. His 4/4427 access card is missing, and in its place is a foil copy of Memory Jar. How had they even done that? "…I understand what has happened, I apologize for my incompetence, and I will head straight there." Blanchard hangs up. He curses under his breath and jogs out the door. He passes more and more anomalies as he walks back; most of them look almost fake somehow, but thinking about them in detail is becoming more and more painful, and more and more of them are coming out as the sun sets. He's almost thankful that he's being called back to the Site as he gets into the car and locks the doors.

Euclid-Level Containment Wing B4, Site-42, Seabreeze, North Carolina
17:00 ██/██/22

The breach alarm is yowling out of the elevator speakers as Trauss descends, sweat forming under his clothes. The still-nameless wing supervisor from earlier will be grilling him for this.
He exits and rounds the corner, short of breath. Several meters in front of him, the hallway is more than three quarters of the way obscured by a jagged, unmoving shape, the contents of it switching between a view of the hallway behind it and a swirling mass of gray static in-between bright flashes of light. Two figures clad in gray-and-blue engineering department polo shirts are crouched in front of it, the taller of them removing a different size of metal component from a plastic case and replacing one of the cylinders in the directional reality anchor he's placed on the floor.
"Hello Trauss," the man adjusting the anchor says. He doesn't introduce himself, and has his ID tucked into his chest pocket. "Good timing. This thing just showed up about two minutes ago. The supervisor said he walked in on 4427-B taking off that way before it caused this anomaly to appear and disappeared into it. So take this here and go on the other side of that to set it up. All you need to do is plug it in; I've already got the dials set and the refractor calibrated, so just face it directly mirrored from this one and plug it in and this thing should stabilize."
He doesn't argue; there's barely any clearance between the wall and the anomaly and they don't want to risk themselves because it's his fault it's there. Trauss nods and picks up the directional SRA with a low groan, never remembering how heavy they are until he holds one. He grits his teeth and tries to approach the narrow path between the wall and the flashing edges with it held against his chest, but it's apparent he won't have room. He holds it in his left hand by the tripod legs, arm trembling as he shimmies along the wall, chest sucked in. He scrapes by one of the pointed extrusions, light flashing around it and bouncing off the edges and vertices. He closes his eyes and keeps moving, swearing he can feel something burning the end of his nose.
When he's sure he's past it, he hurries over to the flat side facing the rest of the hall and arranges the anchor on the floor, trying to catch a glimpse of the other one in-between the flashes and murkiness. His vision is obscured by five security officers storming in on the other side, tranquilizer rifles pointed at the floor. He aligns the markers on the cone as closely as he can and plugs it in, shielding his eyes from the blue glare. The air crackles with static as the anomaly's edges wither and shrink back into its vertices. To Trauss' surprise, it disappears within several seconds, leaving no trace.
"Oh, shit," the shorter technician says. "That doesn't help."
"Let's go, then," one of the men says, flipping his rifle's flashlight on and powering up the reality anchor at his hip. His team follows behind him, doing the same.
"The lights are on," Trauss can't help but say. He shakes his head and runs after them as they storm down the hall, splitting up at the middle fork. He darts past Jasper's room, the door wide open and the interior a blur.
"Um, hey?"
He stops, stumbling forward, and spins around. Jasper is standing in their doorway, hands clasped around the frame and holding his access card. He motions for the other men to stop.
"…So you didn't do that on purpose?" they ask.
He feels like he's in a dream. "I- what? What stunt are you pulling right now?"
Their fingers clench. "I- I thought you said that if someone ever intentionally leaves my access card in there that it means an emergency is happening and I need to use it to get out and find the nearest guard or Onsite Response personnel." They twist a finger in their hair. "So that's what I was doing."
He tries to process information faster, temple pounding. "Y- That is a thing, yes, but I left like 30 minutes ago and I never removed my card from my person in the first place."
"But you left it on the table."
"No I didn't-" He checks his tone. "We can figure out what happened later. Get back in there right now."
"Yes sir," they groan, sinking back behind the wall. Trauss trails after them, hand extended. "Wait. Give me that card." The other five men linger at the outer entrance as he walks down the hall, relieved to see that the surveillance room's lock says it was last opened five hours ago. That would probably have guaranteed him a worse demotion than whatever he'd be getting for this.
They turn around and give it to him, fingers bumping into his glove. "I'm sorry. I guess I just thought too hard about it and extrapolated. Like, I didn't even notice it was there until a while after you'd left, so I panicked. What would I even do if there was a fire down here or something? And now I know that I can't even get down the hallway without some fucking- thing like that thing happening. I hope it goes without saying that I didn't make that on purpose."
"And you didn't mess with the SRAs? With the- with all that shit in that room there?" He points past them.
"No. I was just trying to follow procedure because, again, when I turned around, you had left it on the table."
"You didn't replace it with-" He pulls his lanyard out of his pocket. "Memory Jar?"
"I don't have any copies of Memory Jar. Especially not foil. How rich are you?"
He frowns. It isn't his either.
He glances over his shoulder, the others' eyes meeting his. The technician in the back sucks his teeth, a confused gaze on him. He faces Jasper again. "Okay. Well, let's get back to normal then." He gestures for them to walk back into their room. "Someone's going to be here within the next few hours to ask you what happened here."
"Fine. I'll tell them what I told you. And you forgot something, you know. Don't you know what day it is?"
His head throbs. "I think I do." He doesn't want to think about it.
"It's in my file, isn't it? It's my birthday. I hope you don't remember how old I am."
"I'm sorry. I would have acknowledged it if I had noticed the date. I just haven't been able to pay attention all day. Isn't something else happening today?"
They frown and shake their head. "Not that I know of." They press their fingers against their temple and walk back into their room, shutting the door behind them. The lock shuts itself and flashes a red LED on the scanner.
"You know where to go," the technician tells Trauss as he walks toward the exit.
"Yep." He makes his way to Director Radford's office.

.

.

…

Nobody had replaced C-51174's Level 4 access card earlier today. It was in his pocket the entire time. He definitely would have felt someone taking it. There was a second while standing that he thought he did, but when he glanced down, nobody was there. Nobody had left it on the table, as SCP-4427-B claims occurred; nobody had replaced it with an expensive foil Magic: The Gathering colorless artifact card as C-51174 claims occurred.
Nobody had done any of that, and nobody knows how to erase footage from live transmission; it's impossible.
Nobody glances twice as an empty car rises up from B4; nobody can get in or out of Site-42 without the appropriate clearance. Nobody walks past all of the confused researchers pointing at each other's costumes and questioning their appearances as personnel from outside the Site's limits storm in, unaffected by the chaos induced by nobody in particular. Nobody is around to watch the sun rise over the Atlantic that morning and read Information Breach's seasonal special as C-51174 is ushered into the no-longer-nameless Euclid Security Supervisor's office 30 meters below the sand.
Nobody will remember today, because Nobody took care of it.

Log Added: 07:30 ██/██/22
Date of Occurrence: ██/██/22
Location Affected: Site-42, Seabreeze, North Carolina, USA
Number of Civilians Affected: 0
Number of Foundation Personnel Affected: Approx. 2,300
Number of Sapient Anomalies Affected: 16
Description of Concept Affected: The existence of [SENSITIVE INFORMATION REMOVED; SITE-42 IP ADDRESS DETECTED] as well as conceptually related celebrations and attire.
Events Transpired: [SENSITIVE INFORMATION REMOVED; SITE-42 IP ADDRESS DETECTED] This did not occur at the same time for all personnel; however, over the course of 12 hours, all personnel in Site-42 were affected.
Results and Impact: Confusion among staff and public [SENSITIVE INFORMATION REMOVED; SITE-42 IP ADDRESS DETECTED] resulting in brief but significant local media attention.


October 5th
Alison Carol slept fitfully in the infirmary. A collar was around her neck to paralyze her vocal chords— even while unconscious, she was muttering the same phrase. "The Pit Sloth is real". It was a memeti-pata— cognit— some kind of hazard. One that the director pointedly wanted to ignore.
Robert Tofflemire sat by her bed, head in his hands. Dr. Merrick Palmer, the site's shrink, had told him that it wasn't his fault that this had happened to her, that there was nothing he could have done.
Palmer meant well, but Robert might as well have been the one to place her in this hospital bed.
"Agent Tofflemire?" Gwen Liao, one of the nurses, came into the room. "Visiting hours are over."
"All right." He stood up and rubbed his face. "See you tomorrow, Liao."
"See you."
Robert put his hands in his pockets and slumped from the infirmary.
Site-87 was still largely awake at this point in time. It was movie night, and they were screening things that were meant for the annual horror film festival. The screening was already halfway over, but he needed to take his mind off of things.
He stopped at a set of vending machines, grabbed a bag of pre-popped popcorn and a bottle of Coke, and made his way to the main auditorium where they were screening it.

Before he put his hands on the door, he could tell something was wrong.
From the other side, there was complete silence. No hum of the projector, no unwrapping of candy or muted conversations, no laughter at a bad scare. Even the film itself seemed silent. No music, no crack of leaves from a forest, no running of a co-ed through the hallways of an abandoned sorority building.
Robert got on his radio. "This is Sigma-10 agent Tofflemire calling all available personnel."
«Pryce here.»
«Ewell here.»
«Grey here.»
"Get your asses down to the theater. Something's wrong."
«Bad film?» Grey asked, a hint of snark in his voice.
"I don't know what the fuck it is. All I know is that— well, I'm not hearing any sounds from inside, and they're meant to be showing some films from the horror fest in there."
«I'm two levels above you with Grey. On the way down now. Ewell out.»
Robert checked the sodium content on his popcorn— it was high enough. He opened the bag, sampling one kernel, and then scattering the rest in front of the door. Not as good as a line of pure salt, but it would suffice. Thank god the doors opened inward.

The four agents carefully stepped over the line of popcorn, and into the amphitheater.
Fearing a biological agent, Grey has brought a set of respirators from the armory. All of them were on edge, their rifles out, sweeping the area in all directions.
In the seats, Site-87 personnel sat, slumped, eyes on the screen. Robert went forward to where Dr. Claude Mattings was sitting, arm-in-arm with his wife Cassandra, and pressed two fingers to his neck. "I got a pulse, but it's… like he's asleep."
Pryce put her thermal scope up to her eyes, scanning the room. "They're all alive, or at the very least, they're warm."
A soft whispering was carried over the speakers high above the theater. They trained their eyes up on the blank, white screen that was over the front of the room. The film was frozen on a scene of a dark forest, with a bottomless pit in the center of the screen.
"That's— that's the pit," Robert stuttered.
"The— The Pit? The bottomless pit?" Grey asked. "What the hell? Is this footage from you and Carol?"
"No. I've never seen it from this angle." Robert stepped closer to the flickering screen. It shouldn't have been doing that— they had digital projectors at this site, and only film flickered in that manner. It could have been an effect, but…
"I'm gonna try to disable the projector," Pryce said. "It'll give me a better vantage point."
"Good thinking," Ewell nodded. "Joe, go with her?"
"Right." Agent Grey adjusted his rifle and followed after Pryce into the projectionist's booth.
There was a silence throughout the room, except for the whispering from the speakers hanging from the ceiling. Robert could hear words in it, words he didn't want to hear.
The film isn't real, but you'll still have a good scare
The monster isn't real, but you'll still beware.
Eyes widening, Robert took fire at all of the speakers, shooting them one by one. They died in a shower of sparks and metal.
Ewell jumped. "Christ, Tofflemire! What the hell?!"
"I— there was something piping through them. Couldn't you hear it?"
«The hell was that?» Pryce called over comms. «Do you have contact?»
"Negative," Ewell sighed, "Bob just shot out the speakers."
«He does know they're non-functional, right? The ones that work are installed in the seats.»
Robert groaned and leaned against the theater's stage. He was hearing things, then.
«We're in the booth.» Grey came through on the comms. «It's empty. Just the projector and a laptop hooked up to it, playing the film.»
"Which film is this?" Ewell asked. "Doesn't look like anything on the festival's lineup."
Grey's comms rang with the sound of clacking keys. «Fuck me sideways.»
"What?" Robert asked.
«The film is called Black Autumn II.»
The screen flickered, and the film resumed playing. "Did you touch something?" Ewell asked.
«That's a negative. It started up on its—» Pryce cut off with a scream. «There's something in the booth! It's coming out of the laptop!»
Robert looked up at the screen. From the pit, a pair of claws connected to a long, furry arm emerged, climbing out of the bottomless aperture. Then, with a tearing of the screen, the arm started breaking the fourth wall, and coming into reality.
There was gunfire from the other side of the comms. «The projector— it's like it's bulletproof!»
«I can't shut down the laptop!» Grey called. «What is that?!»
The other arm began climbing from the pit. A low growl issued forth from the speakers, a command of sorts.
From their seats, every member of Site-87 personnel who was watching the film stood, and started to shamble their way towards Tofflemire and Ewell.
Robert drew his sidearm and fired into the air. They didn't stop coming, not even a pause. Any intelligence that had been in the eyes of these men and women had vanished. "Christ on a bike."
"Shoot to wound!" Ewell yelled. "Shut this movie down!"
«I'm trying!» Pryce protested. There was a gunshot, and a yelp of pain.
"Pryce?" Ewell kept his rifle trained on the mass approaching them. "Grey? Report!"
«Tried shooting the laptop, and it ricocheted off the screen!» Pryce's voice came through, pained. «Fuck— I'm hit!»
The head of the thing emerging from the bottomless pit began to crest over its edge. By this point, Robert and Ewell weren't able to see it clearly— Ewell only caught a glance of it before their colleagues began chanting in unison.
"The script isn't real, but you feel fear,
"The cold isn't real, but I draw ever near.
"The hole is real, the darkness is too,
With a snarl, they all yelled, before lunging forward,
"THE PIT SLOTH IS REAL, AND HIS MEAL IS YOU!"
Robert fled— it was already too late for Ewell. He was subsumed under the mass of rabid Foundation personnel with a scream and a gunshot.
«NICK!» Grey called. «Holy shit, is he—.»
"Don't know!" Robert yelled.
The claws of the beast were grazing the stage. Robert started climbing the curtains around it— he only had one shot.
"Pryce, do you have your dragon rounds?"
«My incendiaries? Yeah, but—»
"Shoot the screen!"
«Understood.» There were grunts and groans of pain from the other end, and the clacking of gunmetal against plastic— she was setting up her rifle on the projector. «What the fuck is—»
"Don't look at it too long!" Robert pleaded. "Just shoot it!"
Seren Pryce was one of the deadliest markswomen in the world. Three times, she had shot a pilot through the window of their cockpit from the ground. She had managed to shoot wires off of a suicide bomber's vest in Podlogistan, rendering his bomb inert. Shooting a target the size of a semi's cab was trivial for her.
She loaded her rifle with incendiary rounds, and shot at the top of the screen, then at the middle, then at the bottom.
The effect was immediate— the screen burned from the fold along the center. With it, the shape emerging from the pit was consumed by flames with a low bellow of pain. Its body burned, leaving behind scraps of flammable film cells in its wake. Then, the projector died.
Katherine Sinclair was climbing up the curtain behind Robert when her eyes turned back to normal. She blinked, looked up, and then down. "What just—"
"Climb down and I'll explain."
There was a scream from among the clump of researchers, and cries of "Get off of him!" "Where's his finger?!" and "Medic!"
The bloodied form of Nicholas Ewell, sans six of his fingers, laid on the ground underneath all of the researchers. On each hand, only his index finger and thumb remained. Near him, Tristan Bailey turned away and vomited.
Robert fell to his knees once he reached the ground. There was a swirl of motion around him, as various doctors collected what parts of Ewell they could find, bandaged him up, and rushed him to the infirmary.

"One-hundred and fifty-six."
"What?" Robert looked up from his seat. He had a blanket wrapped around him, and was sitting in Director Weiss's office.
"Your team saved one-hundred and fifty-six Foundation personnel tonight, Agent Tofflemire." Weiss had her hands folded. "Ewell's among them. I've been informed he's going to pull through."
He shook his head. "I didn't save them. They saw the… thing coming off the screen? It came out of the pit, I'm sure of it. It's what dragged me and Alison under."
"Hmm." Weiss pursed her lips and put her hands together. "Agent, you've got an allergy to amnestics, don't you?"
"Yeah. Some compound in Class-A's makes me swell up. That's… that's why I remember. Oh god." He put his head in his hands. "Alice, Nick… they're hurt because I can remember it."
"Agent…" Weiss sighed. "I can assure you that this isn't your fault. This film has existed for months." Weiss turned her computer screen to face him. On the monitor was the title card for the movie that had nearly killed Ewell.
"Black Autumn II: Rise of the Pit Sloth? Holy shit."
"We've been cautious about watching it. We're seeing if we can get an NLP modified to view it without any ill effects."
"How'd it even get into the site?"
"We don't know."
"Who made it?"
"…we don't know." Weiss sighed. "You've got the most experience with this… entity. I think it'd be pertinent if I let you in on a project that we've been working on for the past several months, since before you discovered 4040."
"What project?"
"How familiar are you with the Goatman?"

Across town, a room was filled with applause.
"That was one hell of a ride!" Jack Rollins, head of the selection committee for the Sloth's Pit Horror Film Fest, shuddered as the credits started rolling and the lights came up. "Like, wow!"
"Ingenious!" Edgar Allwood agreed, stepping forward to shake the director's hand. "We're going to make this the centerpiece of the festival. Uh, sorry for asking, but… what was your name again?"
The woman smiled and shook the hand in return, a bright grin across her face. Her hair was a bright blonde, and her shirt advertised her film company, No 4th Productions. A new studio, one she had clawed out of the ground to build. "Imogen," She introduced herself. "Imogen Folivora."

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Four mobile task force field agents sat around a table, enjoying their drinks as they waited in plain clothes for their food to arrive. Its not every day that a new restaurant opens on a high street, nevermind one that has reportedly also opened in Backdoor Soho, Three Portlands, and numerous other extradimensional cities over the last two weeks. The place had opened to celebrate the season, with orange banners proclaiming that everything was on sale for the grand opening.
Agent Ryans swirled his lukewarm coffee in its cup, and ran through his mission in his head. His order of a tomato and orange pepper risotto was to be inspected for anomalous properties, and then turned over to the foundation for any further actions. If nothing was found, then he would have a satisfying lunch.
Specialist Watson poured her third cup of tea, having arrived first of the group. She had chosen the 'Fuming Mushroom Stew' from the thematically spooky menu, and would be watching for evidence of thaumaturgy in her and her colleagues meals as she ate.
Tactical Agents Price and Stewart took turns dealing cards for each other, betting from a bowl of chips that Price knew he would win the majority of. They had the easiest job of all, protecting two undercover agents over the period of a lunch that would almost certainly result in no issues at all.
After another few minutes (and a fourth cup of tea on Watson's part) an overworked waiter finally brought their meals to them, each lavishly decorated with unidentifiable- but probably mundane -chopped green herbs, and an experimental bite of Stewart's pizza confirmed that it was well made, but not unusually so. Price lost the last handful of chips, and focused on observing the other patrons of the restaurant to distract himself.
"Anything amiss?" He asked his charges, momentarily distracting both Ryans and Watson from their covert scans.
"Not as far as I can tell." Ryans looked up from his risotto, anomaly scan left half finished. He smiled wryly. "Everything's a hit so far."
Agent Nathan Ryans was summarily murdered by his meal.
The restaurant fell silent, its numerous patrons unable to comprehend the situation as pieces of brain tomato scattered about the walls, ceiling, and most of their meals. The three remaining agents of MTF Lambda-14 stood to attention, two of whom immediately reached for their hidden radios.
"Confirmed presence of uncontained ess-see-pee objects-" Stewart started, spitting out half eaten pepperoni and cheese.
"-Requesting additional support," Price finished for him, drawing his gun and making his way towards the kitchen. Thick steel shutters descended over the windows and external door, sealing off the escape of the now panicking customers, and the salvation of support that was descending on the building.
Specialist Watson had been pushed under the table, and was busy plucking chunks of her coworker's head from her clothes. Once relatively cleaned, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the traces of magical aura surrounding them, trails of waiters and diners alike. She opened her eyes in a flash, something in the back of the kitchen catching her eye, and made to stand up just as the front door was blown in, and the One Star Reviewers of Lambda-14 flooded into the restaurant proper.
They were met with a hail of teeth and cooking implements as they joined Price at the kitchen door. The rabid staff inside hurled themselves into the waiting bullets of the task force, seeming to hardly notice as they were ripped to shreds, caring only that they took as many with them as they could.
"Get us in there!" Watson instructed the nearest agent, dragging Stewart with her towards the diminishing throng of fighting. Together, they broke through the breach, and into the disorganised chaos of the kitchen proper, armed companions taking the lead and capturing any who they saw, and killing any who resisted.
The kitchen surfaces were covered in jars and pots of all sizes, a brass jar filled with some orange liquid, a sack of malformed potatoes, a bowl of pink bonbons and colourful gumballs, and unidentifiable vegetables that had grown in shapes and colours not thought to be possible. Watson dragged Stewart past these, and the mangled corpse of agent Richard Price.
Against the advice of the containment team securing the restaurant floor, the two agents followed the faint trail of energy through a thick oak door, and into a dusty back room of identical doors.
"These are Ways," Watson informed her partner, grasping the handle of the door in front of her. "I can't tell where they lead."
She turned the handle, and allowed Stewart to carefully inspect its interior.
"Identical to this room. Check the other doors." He closed the Way, and turned to the others. Each one held the same interior, even though Stewart was positive that they lead far beyond the exterior walls.
Eventually, they had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that all of the doors lead to identical rooms, and were now stood before the original door, debating if they should proceed through. Stewart passed through the door, feeling the unfamiliar chill of briefly leaving reality. He stood in wait for Watson, and listened carefully for any other sounds.
"We're definitely not in Kansas anymore," Watson muttered as she joined him, immediately regretting her choice of words as she recalled the event that started this whole mess. No red fruit came for her however, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she gestured for Stewart to continue with the search.
The door cracked open, dust billowing behind it, as Stewart stepped onto black and white tiling once again. Chefs and their assistants turned with surprise and anger upon their faces, their seasonal cooking well and truly disturbed by these interlopers. They soon had weapons in their hands, and were soon upon the two agents with guttural shouts. Watson cried out as Stewart shoved her back towards their entrance.
"Get back, I'll keep 'em busy. Tell the others what we've found!" Stewart called back without looking, his gun thundering again and again, until it clicked empty. He threw it aside, and replaced it with a fallen oversized tenderiser. He was still cracking heads when Watson slammed the door between worlds shut, and broke its frame with a kick. Energy whipped and cracked through the room as the Way was forcefully shut forever. Hopefully forever.
She left the back room in a stumbling run, finding the first people she could to tell them that Kiaran Stewart was most likely dead. If nothing else, he was trapped in an unknown reality with a very angry restaurant. Watson solemnly made a haphazard path to her table, and took her things to leave.

INCIDENT REPORT LAMBDA-14 A1
On 31/10/20██ four agents of MTF Lambda-14 ("One Star Reviewers") were dispatched to a newly opened restaurant in ████████ city, which was suspected of anomalous activity.
These agents were:

Agent Nathan Ryans (DECEASED)
Agent Richard Price (DECEASED)
Agent Kiaran Stewart (DECEASED)
Specialist Rhianne Watson, Thaumaturgy expert

Of these four agents, only Specialist Watson survived, having followed a thaumic energy trace to multiple inter-planar doorways (which have since ceased function) with Agent Stewart.
Agents were successful in identifying multiple anomalies, including uncontained instances of SCP-504, SCP-1176, SCP-1200, SCP-1600, SCP-████ and frozen eggs of SCP-1325
Containment teams secured the location ("The Ambrose Restaurant") suffering █ fatalities and ██ injuries.
Involvement of further SCP objects is under investigation, notably SCP-1921, as behavior of encountered opposition mirrored that of those affected by this SCP.
Registration of Ambrose Restaurant chain as a Group of Interest is pending approval.
MTF Lambda-14 has been reassigned to investigate and contain all Ambrose Restaurant establishments and associated Persons of Interest.


The sky above Vulture's Gulch was dark with thunderstorms. The streets below reeked of gasoline and cigarettes. The houses were decorated with twisted junk and the joyful laughter of its zombie residents echoed in the wind.
In the middle of the heavy metal chaos were two cool dudes. One of them was named Mohawk, because he had a sick mohawk (he didn't want to wait for the hair to grow, so he just shoved extra large nails into his skull). The other one was called Chainsaw (he could just barely cut a tree with his namesake item, he just really liked to rev it up and chase others with it).
They had trouble deciding on what was something scary enough to dress up as for Halloween, because they weren't scared of anything. So they just switched shirts and told everyone they were dressing up as each other. Going around the neighborhoods, they filled their over-sized pumpkins with all sorts of crazy things they treated as candy1. The two zombies stopped to chow down on their treats, when one of their typical conversations started.
"Chainsaw, are you thinking what I am thinking?"
"I don't know, Mohawk. Are you thinking about putting all the candy into a blender and then putting the blender into a car engine to see if it goes faster?"
"No, but that is a cool idea. What I'm actually thinking about is the fact we've gone to every house in these neighborhoods…except that one."
Mohawk choked on his candy in shock, and Chainsaw had to perform his own version of the Heimlich maneuver on his friend (which was just revving up his chainsaw so loudly that the other zombie screamed out the candy in fear).
"You m-m-mean…the house of Doctor Teeth?" said Mohawk.
"What other house, dumbass? Everyone who has tried trick or treating in there has come out crying with no candy and their teeth all nice and shiny. That is reason enough for us to go there and be the first ones to defeat him!"
"But…I'm scared of him! He talks weird, smiles too big and has stabby bits everywhere! And what if he steals my mohawk?"
"Come the fuck on, bro! I'll be there with my chainsaw to protect you if he tries anything funny. And no one would want to steal your mohawk anyway, you're the only one who can pull it off with so much style!"
Mohawk nodded, his fear slowly giving way to courage. "I'll bring my shotgun! And if we win, I'm gonna give us some sick tattoos to show everyone how badass we are!"
"That's the spirit! Now to the mansion of Doctor Teeth!"

It is at this point that one might expect an elaborate plan for breaking and entering from our cool dudes. They had actually fried their putrefied brains trying to come up with such a plan, before agreeing that lock-picks and such were for pussies. Simply driving their car straight through the front door was a much better idea. Due to their utter disregard for speed limits and safety in general, they had crashed violently and fused into a single zombie. After some friendly ribbing, they managed to separate and grabbed their respective weapons.
They looked around the mansion, and were soon very disappointed. There were no brains in jars or killer robots to be seen, not even blood stains and screams of agony.2 Exchanging confused glances and shrugging their shoulders, they called out Doctor Teeth's name and demanded that he show up. They were answered by a scared looking secretary who stuttered something about appointments and property damage.
"We're here to defeat Doctor Teeth and we're not going away until he faces us!" proclaimed Chainsaw, revving up his weapon.
"Yeah! We've got a sweet-tooth tonight and there's nothing sweeter than VENGEANCE!" roared Mohawk, cocking his shotgun.
The secretary sighed and shook his head in disbelief. "Defeat him? Vengeance? What are you two even talking about? I mean, if you really have something against him, I can try and get him to answer your concerns. You didn't have to destroy the goddamn door!"
"Hey, you close some doors, you open others," said Chainsaw in his best impression of a wise philosopher, finger and chin pointed upward.
"The door isn't closed though. It's completely ripped open," corrected Mohawk.
"Don't question the wisdom of Blasto3." replied Chainsaw.
"Well, the two of you are gonna have to wait for a bit, he's currently treating a lot of patients. You would not believe how many people show up here at this time of the year."
The two cool dudes looked at each other and decided it would be most uncool to fight their foe while he was distracted and incapable of providing a real challenge. And so they sat on a sofa and played with the board games and coloring books the secretary offered to them. They mostly ignored the official rules of the board games and made up their own, and drew a big goofy monster which was supposed to represent how they imagined Doctor Teeth.
Both of them were so absorbed in their games and giggling that they did not notice the enormous dentist sneaking up behind them. Doctor Teeth turned on a loud drill, which startled the cool dudes into screaming in a really uncool way. They quickly regained their composure and grabbed their weapons again, doing a back-to-back badasses pose.
But before they could unleash a single one-liner, Doctor Teeth held up his finger to his mouth to demand silence. He paced around them with his arms behind his back, occasionally scoffing and going tsk, tsk, tsk. The invaders looked confused for a while and were unsure of what to do. Eventually the dentist spoke up.
"What is it with everyone acting like fools and madmen on this accursed holiday? Do you have any idea of how busy I am?"
"We don't know, and we don't care! We're here to get candy from you and stop your reign of terror!" said Chainsaw.
"Yeah! Give us treats or you're in for a trick!" said Mohawk.
Doctor Teeth simply smiled. His mouth spread until it almost split his skull open. His jaw unhinged like a snake to reveal his perfectly white and sharp teeth. He proceeded to take Mohawk's shotgun and bend it into a pretzel with his bare hands. Chainsaw's weapon was chewed up and spat out as a hail of shrapnel. The cool dudes just barely managed to dodge the blast, which spelled out the words "GET OUT" on the wall behind them.
"I believe I made myself clear. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work." Doctor Teeth then walked back to his office, complaining of being extremely tired and full of back pain.
Completely dumbfounded but refusing to accept defeat, Chainsaw and Mohawk whispered into each other's ears to come up with a plan B. They went after the dentist and tried to look as sorry as possible. But Doctor Teeth did not want to listen.
"Look, doc, we apologize. But we won't take no for an answer." said Chainsaw.
Mohawk gestured to his friend to let him do the talking for now. "Hey man, you are probably feeling like shit from all the work you're doing. And not getting a thank you from your patients must suck."
"How do you know no one thanks me?" replied Doctor Teeth in surprise.
"Well, every other person that comes out of this place complains that you sing about how fun it is to torment them. I think your job is super important, don't get me wrong. I know I'd be sad if I couldn't chew scrapburgers. But you're going about it the wrong way," said Mohawk.
"Yeah. And Halloween just makes you feel worse, right? Everyone is having fun except you, and they don't appreciate the work you do," said Chainsaw.
"Where are you two going with this?" asked Doctor Teeth with a hint of curiosity.
"How about this. My friend and I will make a costume for you so you can celebrate Halloween and see for yourself if you like it. If you don't like it, we'll never bother you again. But if you do like it, you'll give us candy and be less of an asshole to your patients. Deal?"
"I'll make you a better deal." Doctor Teeth went toward their car, bit off several chunks and threw the vehicle into the distance. It exploded upon landing, and one tire eventually arrived at their feet and dropped with a lame thud.
The cool dudes stared in pure shock at the destruction of their sweet ride.
They exchanged glances and nodded in agreement. Uncool measures were in order.

It is at this point that one might expect them to just blow up Doctor Teeth's house. But even when they lost their cool, Chainsaw and Mohawk were not cruel. There was only one way to make this dentist stop making Halloween a painful experience for people. And luckily for them, their plan B was beyond brilliant. They gathered some of their neighborhood friends, and used their vehicle pieces to build a ramshackle booby trap for Doctor Teeth. With their contraption set in place, they rang his doorbell and hid.
Doctor Teeth appeared and was immediately swept up from his feet by a length of rope. Through a series of mechanical movements that not even the zombies who built the trap understood, Doctor Teeth was covered in a Willy Wonka costume. He then chewed his way out of the trap and fell face first into the ground, screaming bloody murder and demanding to know who was responsible for this. The zombies of the neighborhood revealed themselves, with our cool dudes leading them.
"Come on, Doctor Teeth. Give Halloween a chance. You'll never have to go through anything like this again if you don't have fun," said Chainsaw.
"We're very sorry to do it like this, but you just wouldn't fucking budge," said Mohawk.
"FIIIIINE! I'll do it! But I swear that if you don't keep your word, I'm telling the Boss about this!"
The cool dudes nodded and gave Doctor Teeth time to calm down before offering him some candy. The dentist munched on it with hesitation, but his expression improved ever so slightly.
"Hey, this is pretty good. I can see why people like it so much."
"Well, if you like it, let's do some trick or treating!" said Chainsaw.
"Yeah, man! We'll make sure no one gives you shit for trying to have fun for once," said Mohawk.
For the rest of the night, they went on an adventure in the city like no other. Whenever someone tried to refuse the dentist candy due to his reputation, Chainsaw and Mohawk would help him play tricks. The houses would be covered in eggs, toilet paper and motor oil. The three of them would jury-rig their candy into bigger piles of candy and attach them into a rocket to launch them into the sky. Doctor Teeth got a lot more candy than he expected, and gave away some to those who had none. He even found the inspiration to invent a makeshift anesthetic for his patients. But most importantly, Chainsaw and Mohawk showed all the friendship the dentist had denied himself for so long. As Halloween approached its end, Doctor Teeth received a special offer.
"We want you to become an official member of the Cool Dudes Club!" congratulated Chainsaw.
"You have showed that you not only love to have fun, but are also very generous," complimented Mohawk.
"OK, how do I join? Is there a secret handshake I have to learn or something?"
The cool dudes chuckled and did indeed show him a secret handshake. There was spit on the hands, headbutts and a recital of the Cool Dude Creed.4 They rebuilt the car Doctor Teeth had destroyed, and drove like jolly madmen as the sunrise of All Saints' Day stretched on the horizon.

Footnotes
1. Jawbreakers (active grenades), lollipops (claymores), caramel drops (bullet shells), and tootsie rolls (they were actually just tootsie rolls. Vulture Gulch's residents love those!)
2. Chainsaw and Mohawk didn't really know that dentists didn't do these things, because their notion of doctors was based on pulp comic books.
3. He means Plato.
4. It was just Abraham Lincoln's best quote from Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure, but with the addition of "die in an explosion".


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Tale: It's all coming back, you understand? I don't like it!
Thanks to: Dr Aers does not match any existing user name and Rounderhouse

The tale can only have one survivor; how you define that is up to you.
The piece must start on Halloween and end during All Saints' Day sunrise.

The forghetti spaghetti has had it with Halloween.
More from this author

Can we ever begin to remember
The thought of what we've been forced to forget?
What had happened before that November?
Our memories now like a silhouette
This world, frozen like a twisted vignette
Alone we have become, mindless and scared
Our brains and their thoughts, forever impaired.
The source of all our pain traced back to it
That terrifying and massive sea beast
Its origin first written in Sanskrit.
The ancient eel once thought to be deceased
Has returned today for a final feast.
The creature's fury felt around the world
As its massive body slowly uncurled.
Little by little and day after day
It excreted that substance from each pore
As we sat ignorant, ourselves astray,
It observed us deep from the ocean floor
While its deadly excretions washed ashore.
And on that fabled eve, the thirty-first
Its forgetfulness spread, leaving us cursed.
It had arrived, we had not suspected
In costume, we stood, out there on the street
We forgot who we were, now affected
The eel's power had spread, far from discrete.
And so we were there, standing in defeat
Not any clue of what we had lost to
All we knew was what we saw in our view
We knew naught of our pasts, but what we wore.
Demons, goblins, and monsters in costume.
Out of fear, into each other, we tore.
No hope of memories we could exhume
Chaos ensuing, a nation of gloom.
We were torn apart by our lack of thought
A deadly costumed Halloween onslaught.
Soon the night came and darkness made it worse
Primal urges taking over our minds
Here we were, alone in the universe
Our population had passed, folks of all kinds
So the great reign had passed, that of mankind's.
Now reduced to mindless and costumed freaks
Though we would be gone in the coming weeks.
As the dust settled, we became silent.
The fear we held for ourselves had died down
And our population, once violent
Felt the waters of doom in which they'd drown,
With the coming emptiness of each town.
As before, the world has taken over,
That eel's excretion and its once-over.
And on November first, when the day broke,
When we tried to remember who we were
The remaining survivors who awoke
Felt our extinction go by in a blur
Shouting our fears, which we did not prefer
All trying to think, not wanting to go,
"No no no no no no no no no no."